Forbidden Lord

by Helen Dickson

  William laughed in derision, the silver-grey eyes taking on a steely hardness. ‘You hoped to see me dead, Atwood. Come, admit it. You worked your mischief, I know it, and the reason why does not elude me. Disgraced for standing against the marriage of Mary Tudor to Philip of Spain and dispossessed of my family’s wealth and property, I was a pauper. You did not merit me as suitable a husband for your daughter’s hand as Sir Henry Wheeler,’ he said, knowing all there was to know about the highly respected and influential City merchant, ‘and your decision to get rid of me was not only out of fear at what I would do, but greed-inspired—taking into account that Sir Henry’s wealth far outshone my own.’

  ‘Believe what you like. ’Tis of no consequence to me. It offends me beyond measure to have you strut into my hall when I am entertaining my guests.’

  ‘The occasion being?’

  ‘My daughter’s wedding day,’ Frederick flung at him smugly. A slight narrowing of his eyes was William’s only reaction. What went on behind his cold visage Frederick could only guess at.

  Understanding dawned on William. ‘Ah! So that is the reason for the celebration.’ He shifted his gaze to Catherine, who was staring at him with an expression of stunned disbelief and was as white as a sheet. She was still holding the loving cup she had just shared with Henry. He smiled broadly and, removing his dripping hat, bowed his dark head politely.

  ‘I always knew you would make a beautiful bride, Catherine—I remember telling you so—but a marriage between us was not to be. I rejoice to see you well, and may I take this opportunity to congratulate you.’ His gaze took in the man at her side. ‘Both of you. I wish you every happiness.’

  From where Eleanor sat, her gaze encompassed her stepfather and the intruder. The strange atmosphere that threaded these two people together made her uneasy. It was as tangible as the air she breathed, and as mysterious as the strange gleam in Lord Marston’s eye. As he moved closer to her stepfather, entirely assured, he emanated an angry vigour. There was arrogance and a certain insolence in the lift of his head and in the relaxed way in which he moved.

  He was a man of impressive stature, tall and lean and as straight as an arrow with a whipcord strength that promised toughness, and, even in her predicament, she could not help but admire the fine figure he made. His curly dark brown hair sprang thickly, vibrantly, from his head and curled about his neck, a few threads of silver gracing his temples. He was clean-shaven, his dark-complexioned face slashed with two black brows. His chin was juttingly arrogant and hard, his mouth firm, hinting at stubbornness that could, she thought, prove dangerous, making him a difficult opponent if pushed too far. Yet there were laughter lines at the corners that bespoke humour. But it was his eyes that held Eleanor. They were compelling, silver-grey and vibrant in the midst of so much uncompromising darkness, and they were settled on her stepfather, watchful and mocking.

  ‘Have a care what you accuse me of, Marston,’ Frederick uttered, his face hardened into a mask of icy wrath. ‘You are a traitor and deserved to die along with the rest, and should you have returned from wherever it is you’ve been hiding these past three years before Queen Mary’s demise, then your disobedience might have resulted in a long term of imprisonment in the Tower or the removal of your head.’ His righteous display of anger fairly bounced off the walls.

  The guests listened and stared in unbridled curiosity, leaning their heads together as they exchanged whispered comments. All eyes were on William, the gentlemen wondering how he had the audacity to come back so cocksure of himself after so long an absence, the ladies thanking God for the return of his handsome face. He didn’t look worried; if anything, he looked supremely confident.

  William’s firm lips curved in a lopsided grin. ‘I doubt Queen Elizabeth will call for my blood.’

  ‘Aye, the Queen has a penchant for attractive young men,’ Frederick uttered with scathing sarcasm. ‘Your sort will always find favour at the Court of Elizabeth—where, I suspect, you will idle your days dancing attendance on her, for it is only at Court where position is to be granted, offices to be won, and money to be made.’

  ‘The pursuit of wealth and position is a weakness in a man, which you should know all about, being prey to it yourself.’

  Seeing the vivid alarm showing in Catherine’s eyes and startled by the flood of emotion on her face, bristling with resentment and pushed beyond the boundary of reason and caution by this man’s sudden appearance and used to speaking her mind, Eleanor stood up, emboldened by the wine.

  ‘Can you not be satisfied that you escaped with your life, when others, good men, all of them, went to the block at Queen Mary’s command?’ Her voice rang out, clear and vibrant.

  With considerable surprise, William turned. The piercing amber gaze from the girl’s eyes almost knocked him back on his feet. A spark of desire was sent coursing through his body, and for a moment he was rendered speechless. What irresistible charms did Atwood have at Fryston Hall?

  Attired in garnet silk with a stiffened belt of gold fastened round her tiny waist, she was quite tall and lithe, with rounded breasts—a body made to be touched by a man’s hands. The skin of her face was creamy, glowing, a soft flush highlighting perfect cheekbones. Her lips were moist and the shade of coral that lay on the bottom of tropical seas, her eyes large and framed by sweeping dark lashes, her hair a warm shade of honey gold, thick and gently curling down her spine from beneath her bejewelled headdress.

  His attention full on her, he moved slowly forward to stand before her, his eyes never leaving hers for an instant. They assessed her speculatively with that look that the male assumes when presented with an attractive woman. She was perfect, exquisite, and she reminded him of a young warrior queen, proud and unyielding. Who was she? Her lovely features, mirroring her thoughts, were clouded with undisguised resentment. For some unknown reason she was angry with him. What had he done to deserve her ire?

  ‘Is there something about me that you find distasteful?’ he asked.

  His voice came smooth and deep to Eleanor’s ears, yet there was an amused mockery that seemed to scorn everything about the occasion and the people present. At the moment he seemed relaxed and at ease, but she sensed that he was aware of everything that transpired around him.

  ‘Indeed, I have heard nothing to recommend you, sir.’

  His wry smile indicated his surroundings. ‘You are not alone in that.’

  Eleanor saw admiration in his perusal of her face and her breath caught in her throat, for he stood a head taller than any man present. She had the kind of beauty that drew men’s eyes, and she knew it. Any visitor to Fryston Hall was quick to pay her compliments, especially the men.

  William turned and arched a dark brow towards Atwood. ‘What lady is this,’ he enquired, ‘who speaks so freely?’ The silver-grey eyes settled on Eleanor’s once more, capturing them with a calm coolness.

  ‘She is Mistress Collingwood,’ Frederick provided with caustic venom, resenting the appraisal he had seen in Marston’s eyes when he had looked at Eleanor. The mere thought that some other man might take what he coveted was enough to turn his mind, and if that man happened to be William Marston it could not be borne. ‘Her father was Edgar Collingwood—one of your fellow conspirators.’

  Eleanor saw Lord Marston’s brows lift and he could not hide his amazement, his bewilderment, but suddenly his expression cleared as though a candle had been lit in his mind, revealing the answer to the puzzle. Shock and dismay were mirrored in his look and his features softened. As he looked at Frederick Atwood there was cold hatred in his eyes.

  ‘So, you got what you wanted after all, Atwood, after all your scheming.’ Turning to the irate young woman, he inclined his head with some modicum of respect. ‘My apologies, Mistress Eleanor. I didn’t recognise you after all this time—all grown up and lovely to look at.’

  Hearing him speak her name with a familiarity that bemused her caused Eleanor’s composure to falter slightly. She might have seen him some time,
possibly as a child, but so many people had come to Hollymead she couldn’t remember—although she could not imagine anyone forgetting meeting a man as striking as Lord Marston.

  She checked herself, reminding herself that this man had been the cause of her father’s downfall. He, too, had been arrested, and as a concession for betraying the names of his fellow conspirators he had been granted his freedom—although his properties were stripped from him. Afterwards, so word would have it, he had fled England to save his own skin. This injustice caused the softening of her features to yield beneath the onslaught of pure rage as her pride ached for revenge.

  ‘It is Mistress Collingwood to you, sir.’

  William laughed softly, his teeth sparkling white in his tanned face. ‘I beg your pardon. Mistress Collingwood it is—until I know you better.’ Now he knew who she was, he summed her antagonism up in a moment. Both he and her father had been involved in the same conspiracy, and she must resent the fact that he was alive, her father dead. He turned his attention back to Frederick. ‘I’m astonished to find Mistress Collingwood here beneath your roof. Your stepdaughter, is she?’ He cast Frederick a look of frozen contempt. ‘You made Edgar Collingwood’s widow your wife?’

  ‘That is my affair.’

  ‘So, you got what you planned all along. I congratulate you, Atwood. You are a connoisseur of manipulation and deceit. But, if Marian is now your wife, I find it strange not to see her seated beside you at your daughter’s wedding.’

  ‘My mother is dead.’ Eleanor’s voice shook with the passion of remembrance, as if she wanted to dredge the bitterness and hurt from within her and cast it at this man’s feet.

  William met her gaze, understanding more than she realised. For a split second the intensity of his eyes seemed to explode and an expression Eleanor did not understand flashed through them, then it was gone. The mere thought of Atwood touching Marian Collingwood sickened him. His brows knit together in a query.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. She was a fine lady. How long?’

  ‘October last year. Just four months.’

  William digested this calmly. He knew Marian had been out of her mind when Edgar was executed. She had been a lovely woman, with a gentleness and unworldliness combined with a look of innocent sensuality. Being totally devoted to her husband and daughter, she had rarely come to London, much preferring to spend her days at Hollymead. She had been protected by her husband, and when she was at her most defenceless, when her mind was sorely wounded, she had fallen prey to Frederick Atwood, a man whose reputation was one of dissipation and debauchery—a man her husband had despised.

  ‘Tomorrow I travel to my home in the north—it was restored to my family when Queen Elizabeth came to the throne. I intend calling on Sir John Collingwood, your uncle, at Hollymead, since it was his petition that brought the matter to her Majesty’s attention. I shall tell him I have seen you and found you in good health.’

  ‘Enough, Marston,’ Frederick fumed. ‘Mistress Collingwood is none of your concern. Your presence in my house offends me, so get out. ’Tis a brave man who barges into my home uninvited.’

  ‘I am a cautious man, Atwood—as you can see,’ William said with a slowly spreading sardonic smile, turning slightly to indicate his companion standing back in the doorway, a heavy crossbow held in massive fists directed at Frederick. ‘I come well prepared. May I present Godfrey, my loyal companion.’

  Godfrey was a huge golden oak tree of a man, with a shaggy head the colour of a lion’s pelt and his granite face half-covered by a curling beard. Every eye, as if drawn by a magnet, became riveted on this terrifying apparition with his feet braced wide apart. The wooden floorboards seemed to strain and creek as he moved forward, each stride twice that of an average man’s.

  William looked at Frederick, seeing how his face had tightened and paled, his brow dewed with sweat. He smiled. ‘Be wary of him, Atwood. Only a fool would court risk when he doesn’t have to. Could I shoot the way my friend does, I’d never again pick up a sword.’

  ‘The devil he does,’ Frederick hissed.

  ‘Godfrey obeys my orders to the letter. Providing he is given proper respect, left alone he is really quite placid—though I’m afraid he is not very refined. He is a master when it comes to his fists and with weapons—none finer—and, should any man feel inclined to test his skill and raise his sword against me, his arrow will pierce your heart before you can blink. So you see, Atwood, his foe might just as well commend his soul to the Almighty, for he is already dead.’

  Frederick drew himself up in outraged disbelief. ‘You wouldn’t dare threaten me.’

  ‘Try me,’ William responded, his voice silky smooth, his eyes chips of ice. He moved closer. ‘I bid you farewell, Atwood, but heed me and heed me well.’ Bracing his hands on the table and leaning forward so that his face was only inches from Atwood’s, the words he next uttered were for him alone, but heard by those in close proximity, including Eleanor.

  ‘I shall pay you back in full measure for the harm you have done me and my family. I did not leave these shores by choice—as well you know. You made a serious error in crossing me—you made an even more serious one when you embarked on your crusade and chose me as the focus of your ill will. I am going to crush you. Not necessarily at once—there is no limit to my patience and determination. But I will do it. Before God I will. That I swear.’

  Turning on his heel, he strode out, followed by Godfrey. Those who had witnessed the bitter altercation between the alderman and William Marston listened to the retreating footsteps until they could be heard no more, then there was a collective sigh of withheld breath and everyone began to talk at once, but there was no denying that his appearance had cast a mocking shadow over the festivities.

  Chapter Two

  No one noticed when Eleanor, with a sense of abandoning herself to her fate, slipped out of the hall and ran in hot pursuit of Lord Marston.

  She felt a twinge of doubt at what she was doing, as if she was about to make a decision that would have far-reaching consequences, but she refused to be deterred. With long, purposeful strides, Lord Marston and his companion were crossing to the outer door.

  ‘Lord Marston, wait—please wait,’ she cried, glancing at the servants scurrying to and fro, too busy to dwell on Mistress Collingwood conversing with the intruder.

  On hearing someone call his name, he spun round, his black cloak flaring from his broad shoulders like a bat’s wings. He was unprepared for the impact of Mistress Collingwood’s eyes as she steadily looked up into his face. They were an incredible shade of warm amber, framed in a thick spiked fan of dark lashes. They were quite glorious, but filled with a wary expression he’d once seen in a cornered feral cat.

  Surprise registered on his stern features and then he smiled slightly and bowed his head. ‘At your service, Mistress Collingwood.’

  ‘Sir, I have need of your assistance.’ Eleanor could sense he was wary, that his guard was up. His face was expressionless, as were his eyes. This was a man who could hide his thoughts, whose thoughts could conspire to hide his emotions. The startling grey eyes rested on her ironically.

  William turned to his companion. ‘Wait for me outside, Godfrey. Whatever it is Mistress Collingwood has to say won’t take long.’ Focusing his gaze on Eleanor, a muscle twitched in his cheek. ‘My curiosity is aroused. Of what help could I possibly be to you?’

  ‘Was it right what you said—that you are to go to York on the morrow?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Will you take me with you?’ she uttered quickly, quietly, lest she be overheard. She paused, watching him, waiting for his reaction. His brows lifted and his mocking silver eyes gazed right back.

  Mistress Collingwood’s earlier hostility and having found Catherine married to another made William brutal. ‘Well, I’ll be damned! What makes you think I would want you or your company, Mistress Collingwood?’

  Eleanor paled but she stood up to him and took a deliberate step clo
ser. ‘Because you owe me.’

  His eyes became wary. ‘I do? What I find odd,’ he said with a tone of frosty disapproval, ‘is that I evoke such animosity in you—a man who is a stranger to you. It is clear you are embittered about something.’

  ‘Yes, and don’t plead ignorance. You must know why.’

  ‘That is an interesting assertion.’

  ‘I am claiming a debt. Like I said, you owe me.’

  William’s eyes hardened and he moved closer to her so that they stood only inches apart. His jaw was rigid and a muscle was beginning to twitch dangerously in the side of his neck. ‘Be damned I do! I owe you nothing.’

  Eleanor’s face became flushed with ire and there was a thrust to her chin that told William she was ready for a fight. ‘It was you who deprived me of my father,’ she accused bitingly, ‘or was it so long ago that you don’t remember how you betrayed him and others before fleeing? You alone were responsible for sending him to the block, as bad a death as any, and I, of all people, having witnessed the wretchedness a beheading can cause, know how bad that was.’

  William looked at her upturned face long and hard. ‘It would appear you have me hanged, drawn and quartered without granting me a fair trial, Mistress Collingwood,’ he remarked drily.

  ‘And why should I grant you such a luxury? My father’s trial was anything but fair.’

  ‘And you would know that?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do. He went to the scaffold bravely, repenting his sins, but he would not repent of his principles or his fidelity for the chance of forgiveness.’