The Emerald Swan

Chapter Nineteen

Lady Dufort staggered up the stairs to her own bedchamber, almost blinded by her headache, and if she was aware of Miranda's steadying hand on her elbow she gave no sign of it.

Miranda saw her into her bedchamber and into the hands of the rat-faced maid, then made her way to Maude's bedchamber. Chip greeted her with his usual passion, as if welcoming her back from the dead. However many times she left him with Maude and returned, he could not get used to it, and each time his welcome was one of ecstatic relief.

"So, tell me all." Maude put aside her embroidery needle with an air of expectancy. She was in her usual place on the settle, but these days she had largely abandoned the shawls and rugs, and instead of lying back with lavender-soaked handkerchiefs and burned feathers to hand, she tended to sit upright, busy with some employment. Reading, sketching, or as in this case, working on a large tapestry.

"You're really getting on with that," Miranda observed, teasing Maude with the delay. She peered at the canvas on the frame. It was of a pastoral scene, with shepherds and shepherdesses gamboling beside a broad green river among the lambs.

“I’ve been working on it for five years," Maude said with a grimace. "But I do believe I've done more in the last weeks than in the whole previous time."

"It's a very boring scene."

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" Maude's small nose wrinkled. "Perhaps I should start another. A battle or a hunt or something a bit more exciting."

Miranda shook her head. "It's always better to finish what you start, otherwise you get into the habit of leaving things half-done, I find. It's not at all tidy."

Maude shrugged, accepting this piece of wisdom as she did most of Miranda's pronouncements. Anyone who had lived Miranda's life had to know what she was talking about. Which reminded her. She reached to the end of the settle. "See the clothes I have for Robbie. Do you think he'll like them? They'll fit him, I believe." She held up for Miranda's inspection nankeen britches, a linen shirt, holland drawers, and a pair of striped socks. "I didn't know what to do about boots. Because of his poor foot."

"I'm going to have a special pair of boots made for him as soon as milord pays me my fifty rose nobles," Miranda said, examining the garments. "These are wonderful."

"Oh, and best of all, there's a jerkin. It'll keep him warm." Maude proudly displayed the dark woolen jerkin. "It's practically new. They're the cook's nephew's Sunday clothes, but she was very pleased to take five shillings for them."

"I'll pay you back as soon as I have money." Miranda folded the clothes neatly.

"No, they're my gift to Robbie," Maude said. "I only wish I could do more for him." She leaned back against the cushions again with the air of one settling in for a chat. "So, tell me about the duke. Is he personable?"

Miranda hooked a stool over and sat facing Maude at a reasonable distance from the fire's blaze. "Yes, very. I think you would like him very much. He's not elegant, the way milord is. He's rather rough in his ways, I think. He says so himself. It comes from having been a soldier all his life." She paused, frowning, tickling Chip's neck so that he rolled his head in bliss.

"I have the feeling, though, that he's not a man one would want to cross."

"But you liked him?"

"Mmm." Miranda nodded, a slight flush mantling her cheeks. "Most of the time I found him very pleasant."

"Why only most of the time?" Maude's eyes sharpened and she leaned forward.

"He tried to kiss me," Miranda said candidly. "And I didn't care for it. I'll have to find a way to persuade him to keep his distance."

"But I believe kissing and suchlike is part of courtship," Maude said with a little frown. "When you read the lays of the minstrels they're very detailed about the little games of courtship. There's always kissing and sweet words."

"Mmm, maybe so," Miranda agreed vaguely. "But then it's not really me he's courting. Perhaps it would be different for you. You might find it quite pleasant. I'm sure you'll like him-"

"Miranda, I am not going to marry him!" Maude interrupted, leaping up with an agitated shake of her head. "I don't know what Lord Harcourt's intentions are, but I will not marry the duke. I will not marry anyone!" She began to pace the room in increased agitation. "I am going into a convent with Berthe." But even as she made this declaration something felt wrong with the words. She'd spoken them many, many times before, so why didn't they sound right now?

Maude flung herself onto the settee again and stared fiercely into the fire. Everything seemed muddled suddenly. She knew she didn't want to get married. She knew she couldn't marry a Protestant. She knew she wanted to enter a convent, to give her life to Christ. She did know that, didn't she?

"What's bothering you?" Miranda asked.

"I'm not sure," Maude replied. "Everything seems so confused since you arrived."

"Your pardon, madam," Miranda said dryly.

Maude shook her head. "1 didn't mean it as a bad thing necessarily. Maybe I'm too young to have settled my future so completely. What do you think?"

"You mean you don't want to go into a convent?"

"I don't know what I mean," Maude said on a note of despair. "But I do know that I'm not going to marry the duke of Roissy."

"You don't think it would be a good idea just to meet him before you make up your mind?" Miranda suggested.

"What possible good would that do anyone?" Maude reached out to a side table for a chased silver basket of sweetmeats. She settled the basket on her stomach and selected a marzipan comfit, popping it into her mouth.

"I think you're afraid to," Miranda stated. "And your teeth will go black if you eat so many sweets." Nevertheless she reached for the basket herself, her fingertips trawling the contents until she found a honeyed raisin. Chip chattered, extended his palm. Miranda gave him the sweet.

"Why would I be afraid to meet the duke?" Maude demanded crossly.

"Because you might like him." Miranda jumped up.

"Isn't there anything else to eat? I'm hungry for more than sweetmeats. There's never anything at court." She went to the door. "I'll go to the kitchen and fetch something. What would you like?"

"You can't go to the kitchen. Ring the bell." Maude was scandalized.

Miranda just chuckled and whisked herself out of the room, Chip bounding at her side.

Maude leaned back again, idly popping sugared almonds into her mouth as she stared into the fire. Was Miranda right? Was she afraid to meet the duke? Afraid to put her convictions to the test? What if she did like him? What would it be like to be duchess of Roissy? Her own household; her own place at court; no one to interfere with her or tell her what to do. She'd be subject to her husband's authority, of course, but as long as he wasn't a tyrant, it needn't be too much of an imposition.

"See what I have." Miranda bounced into the room, breaking a train of thought that wasn't going anywhere anyway. Maude glanced idly at the tray Miranda hefted aloft on the palm of her hand.

" There's venison pasty, larks' tongues in aspic, and a mushroom compote. Oh, and I took the liberty of borrowing a bottle of milord's canary wine from the butler's pantry."

Miranda set her booty on the table, expertly drew the cork on the bottle, and filled two pewter cups. "1 couldn't find the Venetian crystal, so I hope you don't mind lowly pewter, madam."

Maude laughed. Miranda's high spirits were so infectious it wasn't possible to brood for long in her company. Indeed, Maude had almost forgotten what it was to be melancholy. In fact, on occasion, she even forgot what it was to be pious. She confessed these lapses to Father Damian, of course, but he didn't seem to regard them as any great matter and handed down paltry penance.

It was the sound of their laughter that, half an hour later, brought Henry of France to a halt in the passage outside. "That sounds like the Lady Maude."

"I daresay it is," Gareth said truthfully. He could distinguish Maude's laughter from Miranda's and she certainly seemed to be as merry as her twin.

"She seems to be amusing herself. I had not thought she would be so late abed. Does she have a female companion?"

"Yes, a distant relative my sister brought into the household to provide companionship for Maude and to share her education," Gareth said carelessly. "Your chamber is this way, sir." He gestured that they should continue down the corridor. Henry, with an accepting shrug, followed his host.

Behind him, the door to Maude's chamber opened a fraction and a pair of bright blue eyes peeped around. Feeling something at his back, Henry turned. The eyes met his and then abruptly were withdrawn and the door closed ratherless quietly than it had opened.

"I believe he saw me." Maude leaned against the closed door, her hand at her throat. "He turned around just as I was looking."

"Well, did you like what you saw?" Miranda mumbled through a mouthful of venison pasty.

"I didn't have long enough to judge," Maude replied. "Anyway, I'm not really interested one way or the other."

"No, of course not," Miranda agreed equably. "I'm sure you had some other perfectly good reason for wanting to spy on him."

Miranda left the house at dawn, to walk into the city, Robbie's new clothes tucked into a bundle beneath her arm. Chip, expressing his approval at being out and about in the wide world on such a fresh, sunny morning, danced ahead of her, tipping his hat to their fellow travelers, maintaining a nonstop cheerful chatter.

Miranda was wearing her old orange dress, a shawl tied over her head, wooden pattens on her feet. She was once more a gypsy vagabond and mingled with the crowd of folk going into London for the day's business without drawing so much as a sidelong glance.

She had slept badly and it hadn't taken much insight to know the reason. For a very long time, she'd lain awake hoping for, expecting, the sound of the door latch lifting. But nothing had disturbed her night. The earl had remained in his own chamber and she had tossed and turned at the mercy of unresolved longings that left her body taut and stretched like a violin string, waiting for someone to wield the bow.

She told herself that with the duke sleeping under the same roof, Gareth would have to be particularly careful. But she also knew that she could have crept undetected into his chamber and out again if she'd had the faintest hint of an invitation. But they'd had no contact since he'd turned and walked away from her so abruptly when she'd emerged from the arras with the duke.

She turned into the street where the troupe had their lodgings. Chip bounced up to the cobbler's shop ahead of her. He hadn't needed to be told where they were going.

"Good morning." Miranda greeted the cobbler, who was unbarring the shutters.

He yawned and looked at her sleepily and with some suspicion, but quite without recognition.

"I have business with your lodgers," Miranda explained, moving past him into the interior of the shop.

"They've up an' left," the man said, following her in. He picked at his teeth with a grimy fingernail, trying to dislodge a stringy strand of bacon from between his front teeth.

"But they can't have." It was so absurd, Miranda laughed. She made for the stairs.

"Eh, I tell yer, they ain't there no more."

And Miranda now knew it. The silence from the chamber at the head of the stairs was deafening. Her heart beating fast, she raced upward, lifted the latch, and flung open the door. The small chamber was deserted, the window still shuttered. Chip leaped in and then jumped into her arms with a distressful cluttering, covering his face with his hands and peering through his fingers at the empty space.

"They can't have gone," Miranda whispered, still unable to believe the evidence of her eyes. She opened the shutters, flooding the room with sunlight. Something caught her eye in the corner and she picked it up. It was a scratched wooden top that Robbie played with. Jebediah had fashioned it for him in an unusually mellow mood.

Tears started in her eyes. Tears of betrayal, of disbelief, of loss. She turned to the cobbler, who had followed her up and was now standing in the door.

"Why did they go?"

" 'Ow should I know?" He shrugged. "Paid up and left yesterday mornin'. "

"But they didn't say anything to me. They couldn't go without saying anything to me." She realized she was almost shouting, as if trying to convince the cobbler of something she knew for a fact but that he persisted stubbornly in denying.

"Don't take on so, lassie," he said, softening at her obvious distress. "Per'aps the gentleman what came to see 'em 'ad summat to do wi' it. Mebbe he drove 'em away in an 'urry."

"Gentleman!" Miranda stepped closer to him. "What gentleman?"

"Dunno 'is name, but a right proper lord, 'e was. Come straight up 'ere as if 'e knew 'em right well. Then 'e went out wi' two of 'em. The big woman and one of the men… That's the last I saw of 'im. T'others come back after a while, an' they pays me an' off they goes. The littl'un was wailin' summat awful."

"Robbie," Miranda whispered. She had a dreadful pain in her chest and she was finding it hard to breathe properly." This gentleman. Did he have black hair? No beard? Brown eyes?" She knew the answer but it was still impossible to believe.

The cobbler frowned and sucked his front teeth. "Can't say as I remember 'im. Tall, 'e was. Aye, black 'air, an' no beard."

Why?

Miranda pushed past the cobbler and stumbled down the stairs, Chip still clutched in the crook of her arm. Why would Gareth send her family away? He knew how important they were to her. He'd heard her telling them she was coming back with clothes for Robbie. Why? And where had they gone?

She ran back through the streets to Ludgate. The pain in her chest was growing fiercer, tighter, as if she'd been stabbed; and it was like a stab wound, this dreadful knowledge of betrayal. So unfair, so unjust, so without reason.

She raced through the gates and down the road to the Strand, heedless of the startled glances she drew. She was sobbing for breath, sobbing with anger, sobbing with pain.

The gates of the house stood open to admit a drayman's cart laden with wine barrels for Lord Harcourt's cellars. Miranda darted into the courtyard, heedless of the watchman's shout behind her, up the stairs, and into the house. She ran up the great staircase, along the corridor, and flung open the door to Lord Harcourt's chamber.

Gareth was barefoot, dressed only in his britches. He spun from the washstand, razor in hand, lather smothering his face. "God's blood! What are you doing in here? What are you doing in those clothes?" He grabbed a towel and wiped his face. "Get out of here, Miranda."

"Why?" she demanded. "Why did you send them away? It was you, wasn't it? You sent them away!"

Gareth glanced over her shoulder at the door she'd left open. He strode past her and slammed it. He spoke softly, yet with fierce intensity. "Now, listen, you are about to ruin everything. Go back to your chamber. Get dressed properly. Then we'll talk about this."

Miranda shook her head, her eyes glistening with angry tears. "I don't care what I ruin. I want to know what you said… what you did… why you sent them away. I demand to know."

Her usually melodious voice was harsh with pain and she made no attempt to speak quietly. Gareth, with a sense of desperation, took her by the shoulders and shook her. "Hush. For Christ's sake, be quiet a minute! Hen… the duke is in the next-door chamber. The entire household is up and about and you'll have them around our ears like a swarm of hornets in a minute."

"I don't care," Miranda said, trying to twitch away from his hands. "I don't care, damn you!" A tear finally broke loose and rolled down her cheek. He had betrayed her. She loved him and he had stabbed her in the back and now his only concern was that in her un-happiness she'd ruin his plans.

Angrily, she grabbed the towel from his hand and swiped at the tears that were now falling as if a dam had broken. The towel was damp and fragrant with the soap he'd been using to shave and for some reason this made her cry all the harder.

Gareth was stunned by her tears. Anger he could have dealt with, but this bitter distress was so unlike Miranda, so painful to watch that he forgot all the urgency of the moment. Gathering her into his arms, he sat on the bed with her, rocking her as if she were a hurt child.

"Hush, sweeting. Don't weep so. Please, don't weep so." He took the towel from her and mopped at her drenched face, brushing her hair back from her forehead, with his palm.

"They're my family," Miranda gasped, pushing against his bare chest, struggling to sit up. "What did you say to them to make them leave me?"

"They knew it was for the best. They did it for you." He heard the note of desperation now in his voice and knew immediately that it would achieve nothing. He had to take back the situation, had to prove to Miranda that he was in control, that he was in the right. He drew her back against him and when she twisted in his hold, trying to free herself, he tightened his grip, enclosing her in a fierce embrace that was as much a vise as a hug. "Stop struggling and listen to me. How can I explain anything when you won’t be still?"

Miranda ceased a struggle that for all her sinuous strength was clearly futile. She found she was breathless, that her chest ached, that her throat was scratchy and her eyes stung. But she no longer felt like weeping. She remained very still, but her body was taut as a bowstring in his arms.

Gareth ran the pad of his thumb over her mouth, moving his open hand upward to caress the curve of her cheek against his chest. She didn't move or respond in any way. Her eyes remained open, but they were not looking at him.

"All I said to your friends was that I didn't believe you could substitute for Maude with proper conviction while they remained in London and you were likely to run off and join them whenever the mood took you." He spoke firmly. "I explained that it was difficult for you to have divided loyalties, and while you felt that you could help them, then you would want to be doing that and would find it hard to concentrate on playing the very different part you play here."

Miranda listened to the quiet, level tones, feeling his breath rustling across the top of her head. His hand continued to caress her mouth and cheek. The bare skin of his chest pressed warm through the thin material of her dress.

"Mama Gertrude and Bertrand both agreed that it would be easier for you if they left town."

"They decided that for themselves?" She spoke and looked up at him for the first time.

Gareth nodded and moved his caressing thumb to her eyelids, stroking delicately. "After I'd pointed the situation out to them."

"But why didn't they say goodbye? Where are they going? Where will I find them again?"

"Everything will be all right," he whispered, tilting her face further. His mouth hovered over hers, and when her lips parted on another question, he closed them with his own.

His hand moved down her throat and he raised his mouth from hers just long enough to murmur," Trust me, little one. That's all you have to do."

Miranda's eyes closed involuntarily as she tried to fight her body's insidious yielding to the practiced caresses. Her mind told her that his explanation was logical, but the less rational part of her brain screamed that something still wasn't right. She wanted to trust him, wanted to believe in him, wanted to surrender to the deft fingers unlacing her bodice, the hard assertion of his mouth on hers. But deep inside her the darkness of hurt still stirred.

She tried to push away, to turn her jaw against the fingers that held her face to his, but his free hand now globed one bared breast and its crown rose hard, totally independent of wish or will, against his palm. Prickles of arousal jumped across her skin and her belly jolted with the now-familiar current of lust. But still she struggled to resist, holding her mouth closed against him as if somehow it would protect her from this slow, sensuous assault on her hurt and her anger and her mistrust. But he explored the curve of her mouth with the tip of his tongue, not forcing entrance, but simply tasting the sweetness of her lips, even while his fingers on her jaw held her immobile.

Throughout the long, lonely reaches of the night she had ached for just this and now slowly her body was betraying her, refusing to acknowledge anything but its own hungry need. Her mind's protests grew ever fainter until they were little more than a vague and incoherent echo.

As he sensed this, the gentleness of his kiss changed, became a searing, insistent invasion that forced her lips apart. Her breasts were flattened against his chest and she could feel his heart beating hard almost in rhythm with her own. He lifted her, turned her sideways on his lap, and now she could feel the hard shaft of flesh pressing against her hip. With one last effort, she tried to push away again, but his hand had slid up beneath her skirt and now gripped her bottom tightly, clamping her against him as his tongue continued to plunder her mouth.

And Miranda was aware of a glorious sweetness in this captivity. The deep, instinctive knowledge that the very force that was battering against her defenses would bring her peace and the dark hurt would die in the light.

Gareth felt her surrender, her overpowering need for his strength and his loving. Her skin was hot to his touch, almost feverish, and her eyes were huge, luminous with desire, as they rested on his face. He released his hold on her jaw but his other hand remained firm and warm on her bottom. He pushed the unlaced gown from her shoulders, moving his mouth to the hollow of her throat, pressing his lips against the beating pulse before they burned a tantalizing path to her breasts. His tongue painted the soft curves, teased the small, hard nipples, and a soft moan escaped her.

He let her fall backward on his lap, the orange gown twisted beneath her, her body open and still in offering. He drew the gown away from her, tossing it to the floor, then spanned the slender indentation of her waist with his hands.

"Do you trust me, little one?"

For answer, she reached up to touch his face, cupping his cheek as he had done hers, tracing the taut angle of his jaw, the strong column of his neck. The urgency of his own passion was clear in the dark pools of his eyes, in the tendons that stood out in his neck, and yet she knew he was in complete control… in control of both of them. And Miranda knew she could yield her own defenses and he would not take advantage of her surrender. She could trust him to bring her joy and peace. In this, she could trust him.

He began to move over her body with delicate, sweeping caresses, whispering softly his delight in the sensuous glories he unfolded. He drew from her the murmured responses he required, obliging her to reveal for him the places and caresses that gave her greatest pleasure. She was adrift in enchantment, no longer alone with her hurt and her confusion, and she embraced the glorious obliteration of her body, her soul, her mind, with a cry of joy.

She was still lost on the shores of delight when Gareth lifted her and laid her on the bed. He stripped off his britches with rough haste and came down on the bed. He knelt between her widespread thighs, drawing her legs onto his shoulders, slipping his hands beneath her bottom to lift her to meet the slow, sure thrust of his entry. She was penetrated to her very core, filled with a sweet anguish that she could barely contain yet couldn't bear to lose.

This time they shared the wild, escalating spiral of glory, the tornado that caught them and swept them into the void, and when it was over Miranda lay awash in languor, limbs sprawled around his body just as they had fallen, aware of nothing but the ephemeral bliss of that joining. Gareth's head was on her shoulder, his body heavy on hers, pressing her into the feather mattress.

Sun fell in a dust-laden arc across Gareth's back and he came to his senses with a groan. "Christ and his saints!" he muttered, rolling away from her. His hand rested on her damp belly as he looked down at her, shaking his head with a rueful little smile. "You're keeping me from my guests, wicked one." He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, one hand massaging the back of his neck. "How are we going to get you out of here without being seen?" He stood up and began to dress swiftly.

Miranda sat up. The magic was over, shattered by his words. And with it went her peace. After that wondrous loving, all Gareth could think about was how to ensure that she wasn't seen leaving his chamber. He had healed her… «he had believed he could heal her hurt… but he hadn't. Nothing had really changed. Nothing mattered to him but his ambition. And why had she ever thought it could be otherwise?

She remembered so clearly the moment on the barge when he'd confessed to the driving power of his ambition. His mouth had taken the cynical, bitter curve that she always shrank from. She was a fool not to have taken heed then. He had made no promises, he had freely admitted that he wanted to use her. And she had surrendered her soul in exchange for a few moments of physical pleasure.

She had only herself to blame for the hurt. "Don't worry, no one will see me leave." She picked up her orange dress, hauling it over her head, and went to the window.

"Hey! Where are you going?" He stepped quickly toward her, reaching for her.

"Out… this a-way." She gestured to the window.

"Don't be ridiculous, sweeting." He laughed at her, gently tipped her chin to kiss her, but his eyes were distracted. "Leave by the door. I'll check that the coast is clear."

"This is safer," she said stubbornly.

Gareth stared in half-laughing disbelief as Miranda flung her leg over the sill. Chip, with an eager jabber, leaped onto the sill beside her.

"Miranda, get back in here!" But she had gone, swinging herself over the sill. Gareth lunged for the window, knowing he was too late. Chip was already clambering sideways along the wall in the ivy, heading for Miranda's bedchamber window. Miranda, clinging to the wall like a fly, edged her way along until she could hook her fingers over her own windowsill. The bright orange splash against the lush green ivy disappeared.

Gareth drew his head back into the chamber. He finished dressing, reflecting that he would never have expected such an extreme reaction from Miranda to the troupe's departure. She was such a rational, pragmatic soul. So ready to flow with the tide, to laugh at inconveniences; so quick to search out the benefit to be found in apparent setbacks. He had expected her to be a little hurt when she found her friends had gone, just as she'd been in Dover. But he'd assumed she would decide that they had good and sufficient reason. Of course, he hadn't expected her to discover that he'd had a hand in it. Stupid of him not to expect the cobbler to let something slip.

It was to be hoped he'd settled the business now. Reassured her, regained her trust. He couldn't bear her distress. And even more, he couldn't bear her accusations of betrayal.

But he didn't have time now to pursue this train of thought. He was playing host to Henry of France. He looped the sheath of his dagger over his belt, settled it on his hip, and went downstairs, composing his expression to one of genial hospitality.

Imogen was in the dining room with their guests, looking much restored, and playing the attentive hostess to perfection.

"I give you good day, Lord Harcourt." Henry waved a mutton chop in greeting. "Did you promise me a stag hunt in Richmond forest today?"

"Most certainly, if you wish it, my lord duke." Gareth bowed before helping himself to the covered dishes on the sideboard. He was ravenous. Lovemaking did much to stimulate the appetite. He brought his filled platter to the table. "When do you wish to ride out, sir?"

"Oh, at your command, Harcourt," Henry said affably, gnawing contentedly on his chop. "Does your ward hunt?"

"Maude is not a comfortable horsewoman." Gareth filled his tankard from the ale pitcher.

"And she does not partake of breakfast, either?" "She should be here," Imogen said. "Perhaps she overslept. If you'll excuse me, my lord, I'll go and summon her."

Miranda was dressing in her borrowed plumage because she couldn't think what else to do. Her mind whirled in confusion. She thought she had accepted the earl's assurances that she could trust him, that all would be well. But now she knew she hadn't… or did she mean, couldn’t. She needed to know where her family had gone. She needed to know that she could find them again. Gareth hadn't seemed to understand that. Maybe it was expecting too much to think he would understand it. After all, they came from such very different spheres, and family feeling wasn't too obvious around the Harcourt mansion.

It should be easy enough to track down the troupe while their trail was still fresh. They would be making for one of the Channel ports: if not Dover, then Folkestone. Once she discovered their destination, then she would send a messenger, asking them to wait for her. She would be bringing fifty rose nobles with her so any expenses incurred in a prolonged wait could be settled when she arrived.

When Imogen entered the green bedchamber, as usual without knocking, Miranda looked at her as if she didn't recognize her for a minute, she was so absorbed in her planning.

"You must come down to breakfast," Imogen announced. " The duke is asking for you."

"Very well." Miranda adjusted the kerchief in the neck of her gown and tucked her hair into the jeweled cap. She was a performer and the show must go on regardless of personal dilemmas. "Let us go, madam."

She descended the stairs, crossed the hall, and entered the dining room. Her smile was gracious, her voice soft as she greeted the gentlemen. She had no appetite and toyed with a piece of bread and butter, trying to make it look as if she were eating it.

"No appetite, Lady Maude?" Henry boomed. His dark eyes were shrewdly assessing as he helped himself liberally to a dish of stewed eels. "Your guardian keeps a splendid table."

Miranda smiled faintly. The duke's mouth was glistening with mutton fat. Oddly enough, it wasn't repellent. It seemed in keeping with the powerful physicality of his presence. His doublet was tight over his shoulders, seemed to strain across his chest, as if his clothes couldn't contain him. He was not a man with the nice habits of a courtier; he was, as he'd said, a rough-hewn soldier, happier on a battlefield than making pleasant conversation in an elegant dining hall.

"I have little appetite in the morning, my lord duke," she said.

"We're riding out to Richmond to hunt stag. Will you not accompany us?"

Miranda shook her head. "I do not care to hunt, sir."

Henry frowned and his gentlemen read the flash of displeasure in his eyes. The king couldn't endure to pass a day idly in and around the house, but he had come to woo the Lady Maude, and riding to hounds in Richmond forest without her wouldn't advance that cause.

"We shall return well before dinner, sir," Gareth said.

"But we're bidden to the queen's table," Henry muttered, stabbing at a heel of bread with his knife, bringing it to his mouth.

"I had it in mind to request the Queen's Majesty to accept an invitation to my house instead," Gareth said.

"And Her Majesty will accept?" Henry looked rather less put out.

"I believe so," Gareth said with one of his sardonic smiles. The queen was never loath to accept invitations that would save her the expense of entertaining her own guests. "I will send my herald with the invitation straightaway." He rose, bowed, and strode from the hall.

Henry looked rather more cheerful. He considered the Lady Maude. She could be taught the arts of a horsewoman, she didn't strike him as a fainthearted maiden. She looked up as if aware of his gaze and her eyes stunned him with their beauty. Her long hands rested on the table, the serpentine bracelet glistening around her wrist. With a faint smile, she turned her head to answer a question from Lord Magret, and the pure white column of her swan's neck stirred Henry with the urge to kiss her nape, to plant his lips against the pulse at her throat.

Lord Harcourt's ward was everything her portrait promised. And an impeccable alliance for the king of France. He remembered hearing her laughter through the door the previous night. A lusty, joyful sound. And one filled with promise for a hungry man.

He took up his tankard of honeyed mead, a smile now flitting across his glistening lips. "I have a better idea, my lady, than hunting at Richmond. We shall go on the river, you and I. The sun's shining, the river is sparkling. And we shall have time to get to know each other a little better. What say you, Harcourt?" He waved expansively at the earl, who had just returned to the chamber. "A river excursion with your ward. Do we have your permission?"

"Willingly, my lord duke," Gareth replied.