by Darcy Burke
“Go on, and I’ll see you in the great hall.”
She turned and left, and he took a moment to organize his thoughts. They hadn’t settled how they would travel to Septon’s. It was only a day’s ride away. He could leave on horseback after the meal in the great hall and be back tomorrow afternoon. He’d miss the falconry exhibition and most of the jousting tournament, which would likely annoy Foliot, but Gideon could make it work somehow. And he didn’t need the poem—he could simply tell Septon about it. What they needed was the rest of it.
What if he found it at Septon’s or learned where to go in pursuit? If he had to track down the rest of the poem, would he come back here to fetch Miss Foliot first? If so, he’d face the same issue of how to travel with a woman who wasn’t his wife. Which brought him back to his primary dilemma: He liked Miss Foliot, but he didn’t want to marry her.
He wanted to find the treasures and keep them away from Foliot. He’d already given the man two and didn’t really want to give him any more. Better to work out how to keep them from him and get on with that. That was something else he’d have to talk with Septon about. It grated him for certain, but he’d do whatever was necessary to protect his family’s legacy.
Will I marry her to do it?
The tiny voice in the back of his mind fought to be heard, but he refused to answer it. Feeling no more settled than he had when Miss Foliot had left, he stalked from the library and went to the great hall where he lingered near the fireplace, which was more than large enough for Gideon to stand inside without crouching. If he wanted to catch on fire.
Guests had gathered, and more filtered in. The banquet tables were set for a fine feast, and retainers bustled about. They too were garbed in medieval costume made from ivory and dark green linen. Gideon glanced down at himself. He was rather conspicuous, but he didn’t care in the slightest.
A footman approached him and held out a letter. “This arrived for you, Lord Stratton.”
“Thank you.” Gideon recognized Rhys Bowen’s handwriting as he opened the letter. Scanning it, he tensed. The writ of summons had arrived at Stratton Hall. He could go to London and claim his title.
Penn’s argument came back to him—it would be hard for the vicar, if he ever turned up, to try to dislodge a sitting earl. Gideon should go. And yet he could be on the verge of finding information that would lead him to the cloak. Never mind the pressure from Foliot to marry his daughter.
Why did everything have to bloody happen at once?
Conversation diminished, and Gideon looked toward the great staircase that led into the hall. Miss Foliot and her father were descending, and they both looked quite pleased. For some reason, that alarmed Gideon.
He shook out his shoulders in an effort to relax. He was just tense with so many things crashing around in his brain.
Except looking at her didn’t relax him. He was torn between wanting to replicate last night’s dream and running as far away from her as he could. He should do the latter, Foliot’s anger be damned, and find the cloak. Then he could use it to sneak into the vault and take back the heart and the sword. But if anything went wrong and he needed Foliot to trust him, he’d be out of luck. Better to continue with his current plan of staying on Foliot’s good side. Which likely meant marrying his daughter.
Christ, he needed an ale.
Gideon tucked Rhys’s letter into his coat and made his way to a table where a footman was offering ale to the guests. Suddenly, the sound of a utensil hitting glass filled the hall, and the conversation, which had picked back up again, fell off entirely. Everyone turned toward the stairs, where Foliot stood on about the fifth step.
A footman handed him a tankard of ale as Foliot addressed the assembly. “I’m pleased to announce that the jousting tournament will have a special meaning tomorrow. It will be a celebration of my daughter’s marriage to the Earl of Stratton. Please join me in congratulating them!” He lifted his tankard as Gideon’s stomach fell completely through the floor.
He belatedly realized Miss Foliot had approached him. She tucked her arm through his as she pressed against his side. This was not a surprise to her as it was to him.
Gideon looked down at her. “You arranged this,” he murmured.
“I did what was necessary. Just smile and look happy,” she said through her wide grin.
The trap closed around him, and he wanted to lash out, to wipe the joyous, satisfied smiles from the woman beside him and her father.
He turned toward her and snaked his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. With his other hand, he cupped her neck and held her while he lowered his mouth to hers. If they wanted a goddamned marriage, he’d show them what it would be like for her to marry him.
He was Gideon Kersey, notorious rake and wastrel, wife killer, and thief.
Chapter 6
Daphne barely had time to understand what Stratton was about before his mouth crashed down on hers. She’d shared a kiss or two before, but never one such as this. As if a storm was unleashing upon her.
His lips moved over hers with heat and urgency, and before she could adapt, his tongue dove into her mouth, surprising her completely. She clutched at him, lest the tumult sweep her away. Which was impossible, really, because he held her close and fast. She couldn’t move away from him if she wanted to.
She didn’t want to.
As shocking as this was, it was also divine. The slide of his tongue against hers was an unexpected delight, sending pulses of awareness through her and settling in the region of her sex.
But it was over as abruptly as it had begun.
He pulled back and retreated to her side. He didn’t smile, as she’d instructed, but he looked over the crowd with an air of arrogant superiority, as if he dared them to find fault with what he’d just done.
Instead, they all lifted their ale—those that had some—and cheered.
Heat rose up Daphne’s neck as her gaze found her father on the stairs. He was not drinking. He stared at Stratton, his mouth compressed into what she recognized as an irritated line. He hadn’t appreciated that public display.
Well, it didn’t matter. It was done, as was their betrothal. At least publicly, if not officially.
She could feel the tension, and likely anger, roiling through the man beside her. Hopefully, he would understand.
They took their seats, again next to her father at the head of the table. Her father clapped a hand on Stratton’s shoulder before sitting. “Congratulations, my boy. You’re gaining the finest wife in the realm.” He bent his head between her and Stratton and whispered, “Come to my study after the feast.”
She watched the muscles in Stratton’s neck tighten as her father sat at the head of the table and the retainers began to serve the food.
She leaned close to him and murmured, “I had no choice.”
He sent her a frosty stare that was completely at odds with the fiery kiss he’d just given her. She decided to focus on eating, which didn’t sound particularly good due to the somersaults her stomach was doing.
Thankfully, this meal was not as drawn-out as the banquet the night before because of the impending falconry exhibition. As soon as her father dismissed the guests, she rose from her chair. Stratton moved to help her and then offered his arm so they could go up to her father’s study.
They didn’t wait for him because he was busy speaking with a few of the guests. When they reached the top of the stairs, she looked down and confirmed that her father was still engaged before saying, “You’re angry.”
“Yes.” His dark brows crowded down over his storm-cloud eyes. “Why did you ambush me like that?”
“I had to pretend I was in love with you—because of the heart. He was so pleased that he couldn’t wait to make a formal announcement. I’m sorry it happened that way. I would have told you first if I could have. Does it really matter? You knew he wanted us to marry.”
“Yes, just as you knew I don’t wish to.” His voice was tight, strained,
and he didn’t look at her as they made their way to the study.
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have agreed to it,” she snapped, withdrawing her hand from his arm.
“Don’t pretend you weren’t holding out hope that it wouldn’t happen,” he said with considerable heat. “You agreed to your father’s matchmaking, but only if the groom met your approval.”
“You meet my approval.”
He stopped just before they reached the door to the study and turned to face her. “What?”
She braved the angry fire of his stare, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. “My father desperately wants me to marry you—a descendant of Gareth. I don’t particularly care if I marry at all, and since you don’t wish to marry, why not marry each other? It doesn’t need to be a real marriage.”
Although after that kiss, she could also see the benefits of that. But she would not admit that to him.
He spun on his heel and went to the study, opening the door for her to precede him. Once inside, with the door closed, he crossed his arms over his chest. She turned to face him, leery of his simmering ire.
“You’re proposing a marriage in name only?” he asked.
“Yes. That allows us to travel together to find the rest of that poem and hopefully the cloak, and it appeases my father.”
He was silent for a moment before muttering something, violently uncrossing his arms and stalking across the room to look out the window.
The door opened, and her father entered.
“Let us get down to business,” Papa said. “We need to change for the falconry exhibit.” He looked toward Stratton, who’d pivoted to stand in profile near the window. “I expect you’ll garb yourself more accordingly.”
“You expect a great deal,” Stratton said evenly, his tone heavy.
“Nothing you haven’t already agreed to,” Papa said, moving to stand beside her.
“I wasn’t expecting what you just did.” Stratton’s voice was a low rumble. “You should have asked me first.”
Her father waved his hand as if they’d only caused Stratton a minor inconvenience. She understood why he was angry—they’d agreed to spend the festival deciding if they would suit. And suddenly, they were betrothed, without telling him. Still, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise.
“When do you want to have the wedding?” Papa asked. “You can procure the license this afternoon and be wed as soon as next week.” He sounded hopeful.
“That’s awfully fast,” she said, again watching the muscles in Stratton’s throat throb.
“I’ll get the license this afternoon,” Stratton said, surprising her. He turned his gaze to her. It had lightened to the color of ice in midwinter. “When do you wish to wed?”
“I don’t know.” Her answer came out as a squeak, and she coughed to clear her throat. “Next week is fine.”
Her father clapped his hands together and grinned at them. “Splendid. I am sorry you’ll miss the falconry exhibition, Stratton. Daphne is quite good with the birds.”
The earl didn’t respond, just continued to stare at them as if they weren’t really there.
“You should go prepare yourself,” her father said, placing a hand on her lower back and steering her toward the door. “I’ll see you on the field.”
She allowed him to usher her from the room, and her last glimpse of Stratton was of him refolding his arms over his chest, a look of extreme distaste curling his lip. Then her father shut the door.
As she made her way to her chamber, her mind was a riot of emotions. She hoped Stratton would see the wisdom in their union. They would both get what they wanted—the cloak. And then what?
She recalled his kiss and shivered. She could see a future where their marriage wasn’t just in name. But would he want that?
Too bad she couldn’t use the heart on him.
No, she wouldn’t do that. She couldn’t. He’d been right when he’d said it wouldn’t come from him. From us, he’d said. She shivered again.
She hadn’t really wanted to marry, but that was because she hadn’t expected to be able to do it for love. For the first time, she glimpsed the possibility, and it excited her far more than the proof she sought regarding Morgan le Fay or finding the cloak.
Entering her chamber, she grew annoyed with herself. Who was she to lose sight of her objectives because of an exceedingly handsome and riveting gentleman whose kiss set her alight and made her toes curl with desire?
She had to keep her wits about her—and her intentions clear. She would prove Morgan was a healer who’d helped Arthur, and not the manipulative sorceress many believed her to be, whatever the price.
The feeling of being trapped intensified as Miss Foliot closed the door, leaving Gideon alone with her father. How he despised this man who manipulated everyone around him. Never mind the crimes for which he was responsible, namely the murder of Cate’s husband’s brother, who’d been the Earl of Norris. His death had required Elijah to leave his military career and return to England to claim an earldom he’d never imagined he’d have to inherit.
Much like Penn having to be an earl when he’d never known he was the heir. But hopefully that wouldn’t come to pass.
Gideon shook those thoughts away and centered his attention on Foliot. “I presume you escorted your daughter out so that you could speak with me alone?”
Foliot nodded. “You may wish to consider referring to her as your betrothed instead of my daughter. Although with the rapid advent of your nuptials, I daresay you should perhaps simply refer to her as wife.” His mouth curled into a smug smile that Gideon longed to wipe away permanently.
“What do you want?”
Foliot’s expression darkened to a frown. “You seem angry, and yet you agreed to this union. Have you changed your mind?” His gaze turned steely.
Gideon hadn’t really ever explicitly agreed. In fact, he’d tried to say no when Foliot had first asked, and Foliot had threatened him. “I’d hoped to have a few more days at least to get to know her—and she to know me.”
“That doesn’t matter since the heart seems to have worked so perfectly.” Because she was pretending to love him. What a bloody mess. “Let me remind you that if you wish to remain in the Order—and in Camelot—you must display your loyalty. But, if you require more…persuasion, allow me to offer something else.”
Gideon’s blood ran cold as he tried to imagine what Foliot might hold over him. He said nothing, instead waiting for Foliot to play his card.
“I am aware that you are not Stratton’s firstborn son.” And there it was. Gideon clenched his hands into fists briefly before forcing his hands open lest he show too much of his anger.
“How? I only recently learned that.”
“The vicar is here on the estate.”
Gideon surged forward, eliminating half the space between them until just a few feet remained. “You kidnapped him?”
“I invited him,” Foliot said mildly.
“How did you even know what he was about?” Gideon worked to keep his tone even, while inside, he was positively burning with rage.
“Some of my men were following Penn Bowen’s assistant. That man called Egg. When they determined he was after the vicar, they wondered why he was valuable and brought him here. Unlike some people, these men are exceptionally good at doing my bidding.”
Gideon tried to calm his racing heart. “Let me see if I understand—you will ensure the vicar doesn’t reach London if I marry your daughter.”
Foliot exhaled with exasperation. “Just call her Daphne. Yes, you have the right of it. And, I will ensure the evidence he carries, which proves Bowen’s birthright, is destroyed. Then if the vicar chooses to repeat his story, he won’t have any proof.”
At least he wasn’t threatening to kill the poor man. “I want to see the church record and watch you destroy it.” That was the proof—the church’s ledger recording Penn’s birth and listing his true father: the Earl of Stratton.
“A reason
able request, and I will honor it as soon as the wedding is over.”
Of course he would.
Foliot continued, “May I suggest you take yourself—and your new bride—to London as soon possible to claim your title? While my goal has always been for Daphne to wed a descendant, I am quite pleased for her to have an earl in the bargain.” He smiled that sickly, satisfied smile again, and Gideon had to bite his cheek to keep from lunging forward. Or telling the man he was a selfish, malevolent son of a bitch.
“I’ll do that,” Gideon said, though he was thinking about what Foliot would do with the vicar if the wedding didn’t happen… “In the meantime, I need to go to the church to obtain the license.”
“Excellent. I am sorry you’ll miss the falconry. Daphne has many skills. She truly will be the best wife in the realm. You’re a lucky man.”
He felt about as lucky as a man walking to the noose. “I’m a man who has always made the best of what life gives him. I will do that again.” He bowed, then took himself from the room as quickly as possible, lest he have to listen to any more of Foliot’s prattle.
He walked quickly to his bedchamber, his legs devouring the distance in his haste. He didn’t have a moment to spare. Once he reached his room, he quickly changed into riding clothes, grateful he’d given up on a valet when he’d started searching for the Thirteen Treasures on Foliot’s behalf. He’d advised Gideon that it was easier to move about without one, and he’d been right.
For a moment, Gideon paused, thinking of what he’d be doing now if he hadn’t succumbed to Foliot’s charms at Oxford. He’d been a young man hungry for attention, especially from someone who could fill a fatherly role. He should’ve allowed Rhys to play that part, but at that stage of his life, Gideon had thought Rhys looked down on him because of who his father was. So he’d stayed away and been vulnerable to a man like Foliot.
