Stealing Heaven

by Madeline Hunter

  As she continued up the stairs, another sound broke the silence. A laugh, long and hearty, penetrated the heavy door of Marcus’s chamber.

  She raised her eyebrows and continued on her way. God must have said something very humorous.

  In her chamber, she set up her makeshift table and unrolled a parchment. It would be nice to use a sheet to write to Genith. She wondered if she would ever hear from her sister, or if they were dead to each other.

  Thinking about Genith only made her sad, so she turned her thoughts to the next few days. If Marcus was rethinking this marriage, he might rethink everything, and allow her to leave. Of course, whether he permitted it or not, she would have to find a way to do so. The ring nestled between her breasts would not let her forget how essential that was.

  A deep melancholy pierced her right below the ring’s weight. She bit her lower lip and picked up her brush, and told herself it was sorrow about Genith that caused the pain.

  Marcus did not rejoin the household until dinner the next day. He appeared rested and very calm, as if his retreat had soothed his body as much as his soul.

  At the end of the meal, he called the steward over. “David is leaving in two days. I have decided to make a small feast for him tonight, since his travels will keep him eating tavern food for months. Help me plan it with the steward, Nesta. Such things can use a woman’s touch.”

  Nesta thought of the wily merchant whose face never revealed his thoughts. The way she saw it, he had all but lured her to damnation in the wainwright’s shed. She thought he deserved a fist, not a feast, but she offered some suggestions on the meal just the same. She would have to hide her resentment about the role David had played that day. He was willing to pay too much for her designs, and she had one to sell him.

  That night they enjoyed a wonderful feast. It was noisy and crowded and raucous. Nesta sat beside Marcus. He was in such good cheer that the animosity between them disappeared with the flowing wine.

  Unfortunately, that meant that the other emotion that bound them had its way, and a nostalgic intimacy settled over her as the evening progressed.

  Marcus must have felt it too, because he grew less careful in his behavior with her. When they spoke the affectionate warmth in his dark eyes acknowledged what they had known together. He took to feeding her wine and bits of food with a charming, teasing delight.

  “I am glad to see that your religious retreat has returned your good humor,” she said after swallowing one tidbit. “I trust it has also returned your good judgment.”

  “My judgment has never been so sound, Nesta. Completely so.”

  “Not completely so. You should not be so obvious with me in front of all these people.”

  “You look so lovely tonight that I could not help myself.”

  She laughed. “It is the wine. All women look lovely after a man has drunk several cups.”

  “I have not noticed any other woman. Nor have I seen you notice any other man.”

  She felt herself flush. “Did you spend your last day practicing pretty words, Marcus? Do you think to sweet-talk me into a marriage that you cannot force?”

  “Would that pretty words could sway you, Nesta. Nay, I have accepted the steel of your resolve. But do not deny me my pleasure in having you here beside me. If I am too familiar, talk of that will disappear when you do.”

  That surprised her. “You agree that I can leave?”

  He shrugged. “I have spoken with David. You said that you want to go back to Scotland, and the convent. He has agreed to escort you there.”

  “I did not expect to leave so soon.” She tried to ignore the way his words had emptied her out. She told herself that her dismay was with the proposed destination. When she left here she did not want to go to Scotland at all.

  “You will be safe with David. He and Sieg are worth ten men-at-arms.” He lowered his voice. “Word has come that your father’s men have been raiding again for some time now, in the marches and the midlands. I must see to that, as I am bound to, and it is better if you are well away from the strife. I cannot bring you to Scotland myself, or spare the men to escort you, so David’s offer is welcome.”

  She did not know what to say. He had capitulated on all points, so she could hardly argue now that she should remain at Anglesmore until she hatched her own plan for escaping and joining Carwyn.

  The steward came down the table, placing silver cups filled with new wine in front of them. Servants carried in a tray of cakes to finish the meal.

  Nesta stared numbly at the preparations for the final course as the din in the hall flowed into a distant, seamless noise. Suddenly she felt totally separated from the happy household spread in front of her. She became isolated from everything and everyone.

  Except Marcus. She felt him beside her as if their bodies touched. The deep knowing of him that had emerged in the lodge wove its spell, heightening her awareness of him to a poignant sensitivity.

  Two mornings hence, he would give her what she wanted and send her away. Then he would be all but dead to her, like Genith. His generosity moved her, exposing profound regrets that she dared not examine.

  He leaned toward her. Touching her chin, he turned her face to him. He lifted his wine cup to her lips. “You will like this. It is a special wine, sweet to flatter the taste of the cakes.”

  It seemed to her that he knew what she was feeling, and that his expression held its own regrets. She sipped the wine absently while they watched each other, their heads so close that his breath warmed her cheek.

  The wine became an invisible kiss.

  He slid his arm around her shoulders, and held the cup more purposefully. While she drank, his head dipped behind hers, and he whispered in her ear. “Come to me in the garden tonight.”

  Two days and she would be gone. She would leave with David, but she would not go to Scotland with him. Marcus must know that. He was not stupid.

  Two days and he would take up his duty, and she hers. They would be adversaries again. Enemies. And something hopeful and glorious would truly be no more than a magical memory.

  “Say you will come,” he whispered.

  She drank more wine. She nodded.

  laughter… bright colors and giggling women… hands turning her as she smiled and smiled… heady, wonderful happiness.

  A sea of faces, moving to and fro like waves… torches, and talk she could not make out… Marcus, incredibly handsome and gentle. His warm hand in hers, and distant voices, and his wonderful eyes looking in hers until the world fell away.

  A kiss…

  A kiss, warm and sweet like the last wine of the feast. Nesta felt it and tasted it again, and opened her eyes to embrace the man who had given it to her.

  The kiss and the dream disappeared. She found herself on her bed, alone in her chamber. Squinting, she looked to the light coming through the window slit.

  It was midday. She had slept through the morning.

  She sat up. Her head felt thick, and lopsided with an inner weight. Remnants of the dream fluttered through her mind, growing vague even as they fell.

  She had drunk too much wine at the feast. So much that she did not remember returning to this chamber and this bed. She tried to shake the fuzz from her head. Her last clear recollection was agreeing to meet Marcus in the garden.

  Had she gone? A fine thing if she had, and now couldn’t remember it.

  A kiss… She remembered that very clearly. His hands holding her face and his mouth touching hers and a hungry response overwhelming her so badly that she would not let him go.

  A very wonderful kiss. She rose and began dressing. If that was all she remembered from their last shared passion, it was a beautiful memory at least.

  She descended to the hall where the servants already prepared for the midday meal. Everyone moved in the lazy, subdued way typical of people after a night of revelry.

  The steward noticed her. He bowed.

  That was odd. Just how odd worked on her mind as she walked t
hrough the hall. Heads turned. Faces grinned. Sidelong glances slid her way. She grew increasingly uncomfortable.

  She felt her face burn as she comprehended the implications. In her drunken state last night she must have done something indiscreet. The whole household appeared to know she had met Marcus in the garden.

  Her women entered the hall from the sewing room. Winnifred ran over, wearing a smile so broad that her ears moved.

  “Oh, my lady, it was so beautiful. Like a tapestry come to life, it was. To see you so happy—to witness such pure emotion—I like it here, and am glad to stay. Now Philip says maybe he and I will marry too—”

  Nesta held up her hand to halt the onslaught. Parts of Winnifred’s rambling had gotten through her stuffy head. A horrible suspicion began ruthlessly clearing her mind. “What do you mean, Philip and you might marry too?”

  “With your and my lord’s permission, of course. I know Philip drinks a bit, but he is a good man, and, well, we all of us drink a tad too much now and then, don’t we?”

  Nesta ignored the allusion to her recent behavior, and forced the only point she cared about. “What do you mean, too? Who else is getting married?”

  Winnifred’s broad smile wavered. “Why, you, of course.”

  “I certainly am not.” Even as she said it, she realized what had happened. Lightning replaced the cloud in her head.

  The knave! He had lied to her last night at the feast. He had fed her wine and tidbits so everyone would see them acting like lovers and thus accept his announcement of their marriage this morning. He had gotten her besotted deliberately so that she would be abed and unable to refute his scurrilous lie.

  “If Marcus announced that he and I will marry, he did so without my acceptance or permission,” she said. “You are to go to every person within these walls and explain that. I will treat with Sir Marcus myself.”

  “My lady, all heard—”

  “I am sure that all have heard. Now, let them hear the truth.” She turned on her heel to go and heap hellfire on Marcus. “Where is the deceitful churl?”

  “Churl! My lady, it is not wise—”

  “Where is he?”

  Silenced by her yell, Winnifred pointed to the threshold.

  Nesta strode out to the yard. Marcus was nowhere to be seen, but she spied Paul near the stable. She aimed for him, her eyes narrowing and her body tight with outrage.

  No doubt the farmers this morning had heard this lie too. She pictured the story spreading like a fire through dried fields, over the farms, into the hills, throughout the land. That was Marcus’s plan—to have the Welsh, especially Carwyn and her father’s men, believe she was tying herself to the King’s man. It could change everything. It could make her useless to her father’s cause.

  She quickened her pace. More silly smiles greeted her as she passed. A knight’s wife, who had considered herself the leading lady of the manor, made it a point to move out of her way and make a deep curtsy of deference.

  Nesta bore down on Paul. “Grin or bow and I will scratch your eyes out. Where is Marcus?”

  Paul backed up a step. His thumb jerked toward the stable.

  She pushed past him and entered the stable full of shadows and horse smells.

  Marcus was just taking the reins of his horse from a groom. He noticed her intrusion. “Good morrow, Nesta.”

  “A devil’s fart on this morrow. Marcus, I am going to kill you.”

  The groom’s shocked eyes peeked over the horse’s rump. Marcus turned to him with a man-to-man grin. “Women. They are so changeable. Happy one moment, distraught the next.”

  “I am not distraught, you scheming bastard. I am so angry that I would cut you down if I were a man.”

  He walked his horse to her. She straightened to her full height and glared at him.

  “You must not speak to me like this, Nesta,” he said quietly. “A lord cannot permit such disrespect.”

  “You have not begun to hear the depths of the disrespect waiting for your ears.”

  “Then let us go where it is for my ears alone.” He grabbed her and threw her onto the horse and quickly swung up behind her. “I am taking my bride for a ride,” he called back to the groom. “Tell the others our departure will be delayed.”

  “I am not his bride,” Nesta insisted furiously, glaring back at the groom so he would know she meant it.

  “A maiden’s misgivings. You know how that goes,” Marcus said to the thoroughly stunned groom.

  “I am not a maiden, and the whole world knows it,” Nesta hissed.

  Marcus moved the horse to a trot and they shot out the stable door. As they passed Paul, Nesta saw him shake his head and make the sign of the cross.

  She refused to touch him. Despite their speed, she would not hold on to him. She bounced along, grasping the horse’s mane and the front of the saddle. Marcus tried once to steady her with his arm, but she smacked it off and gave him a glare that warned not to try it again.

  He finally reined in at the foot of a hill. She slid down as soon as the horse stilled. She did not want him helping and touching her.

  She strode away from him, and fought to contain her trembling rage. She found just enough composure to speak coherently, and turned to face him.

  “I will speak to everyone. I will tell them that you lied.”

  “Nesta—”

  “Listen to what I say and believe I can make it so. I will be sure all the Welsh in the region know what you did. The fire of your lie will be followed by the blaze of truth and my words will overtake and consume yours.”

  “Nesta, hear what I am trying to say—”

  “If you attempt to pursue this, I will not submit and say the pledge or vows. Starve me if you want. Beat me. I will deny you with my last breath. I will—”

  “Nesta, we were betrothed last night. The whole household saw you accept me. They all heard you make the pledge.”

  Shock took her breath away. For an instant her whole body went cold. Then, as full comprehension pierced her astonishment, the heat of fury trickled through her again.

  “You plied me with wine and then took advantage of my condition. I will explain that—”

  “No one will believe you. You were very happy, Nesta. Delighted. You refused to break the betrothal kiss, and hung on me long after it was over.”

  A kiss…

  “All of the witnesses will say that you pledged your troth willingly. Eagerly.”

  Bright colors and laughter. Words that she could not hear.

  Marcus strolled toward her. His dark eyes regarded her warmly as he gently brushed an errant strand of hair from her temple. “You also pledged your love. The women were in tears, you were so eloquent.”

  Dear saints. She felt her face burn, with anger and embarrassment. “I was out of my head.”

  “You did not appear to be. Perhaps for once you were in your right head, free of the burdens you carry.”

  “If I spoke words of love, I assure you I was not myself.”

  Her mind veered from memory to memory. She tried to pull the ones that mattered out of the fog, but only little snips would come. Instead she saw herself at the table, and Marcus being so solicitous. Flattering her. Feeding her tidbits.

  Agreeing to send her to Scotland. Lies, that. But why bother with such deceptions?

  The answer broke through her confusion. He had done it so she would drop her guard, and act softly toward him. If they appeared affectionate, what followed would not appear odd and abrupt.

  She saw him again, mesmerizing her with his attention, raising a wine cup to her lips…

  “You churl. I was not in my cups at all. You fed me a potion!”

  He did not turn a hair. “An excellent one. Paul knows this wisewoman—”

  “You spent a day in prayer and God told you to drug me?”

  “I prayed very little that day. I retreated to my chamber to test the potion on myself first, to be sure it would not harm you. David held the vigil with me, to let me know
later how I had been affected.”

  “Then you know that your actions and words were not of your own will. Just as mine were not. I will petition to have this annulled.”

  “You must do so to the archbishop. Let me think… ah, that would be Stratford.” His eyes sparked with wicked amusement. “I have sent a messenger to him already, to let him know what has transpired. If he objects to this marriage, you will not need to petition at all, and the wedding will never take place. If he finds it convenient to his plans…”

  “If he does, it will make no difference. There will be no wedding, and this betrothal is not legitimate.”

  “In the eyes of the world, it was most legitimate.”

  “You have managed to deceive the world, but you know the truth. This was despicable. I thought you a better man.”

  That provoked him. Jaw tight and eyes burning, he strode to her and grasped her shoulders. “I will not let you endanger yourself through complicity with Carwyn and his plans. Nor will I let you put me in the position of having to hand you over for judgment as a traitor. Deceiving you last night was an easy choice, Nesta, once I weighed my options.”

  She stuck her face up at him. “Very neat to your mind, no doubt, but despicable all the same. Now, hear my resolve, Marcus. I will not let you make me into a war prize that you subdue through marriage. I will not allow nonsense like passion divert me from what I must do. Bride or not, defying you will also be an easy choice.”

  She shook off his hold but did not move away. She would not give him the satisfaction of thinking she feared him. She met his fiery gaze with her own glare while their wills silently battled each other.

  One piece was missing, and she needed to know just how much of a knave he had been. “I have no memories of the night. Was there anything more than that one betrothal kiss?”

  “You offered but I refused.”

  “How chivalrous.”

  The firm line of his mouth did not soften. “It was not chivalry, but pride. When I take you again, I want you to remember it.”