The Maiden and the Unicorn

by Isolde Martyn

  "The Duke invited me."

  He applauded her sarcastically with a brief handclap. "And?"

  "We talked."

  He moved in front of her, hands on his hips and feet astride. "How foolish of me to think otherwise. Is that what you will do tonight when you have finished with me, talk!"

  "Do not patronize me!" With an effort, she fought down her temper and managed to sweep nonchalantly across to the window. "We often talked at Warwick in the old days." It was a discarded morsel of information, tossed over her shoulder. "Talking to dukes does not awe me, sir." Nurse that! she thought. For all Huddleston's high prancing ambition, he had never shared the confidences of the King and his brothers like she had. "He wanted my advice. It was about Bella." She darted a sideways glance at the door and was startled to find him so close behind her again. Damnation! One should always watch the enemy. Except it was hard. Facing him made her nervous.

  His presence behind her reminded her of being his prisoner at the manor farm. She remembered the insults and set them ready like weights to be catapulted against his wall. Meantime, her fingertips idly played with the curled handle of the lower shutters.

  "Lady, you will not lie with George of Clarence."

  Margery's chin rose defiantly and her shoulders jerked in an uncaring shrug. She hoped her coldness found a soft part beneath his armor. It did. Pricked, with a muttered oath, he swung away.

  Margery let out a quiet gasp of relief, appalled that her body had been waiting for him to touch her, yearning for the feel of his hands. Never, never must she let this man see the growing effect he was having on her. That knowledge would cost her her freedom. To be rid of the marriage, she must keep him beyond arm's length.

  She heard him lay the sword down on the rushes and fling himself on the bed. The silence was tangible. Margery stayed at the window, her back to him. It was tempting to glance at the door again. Not long, not long.

  "Are you waiting for the Duke's windmill mind to stop turning?"

  His use of words disarmed her but she schooled herself to turn around slowly, pretending she did not understand him. He was sprawled on the bed, propped on one elbow, his hand supporting his head. "The footsteps I heard were not some ghostly wraith. Someone suspects you of something. Maybe it is merely one of the Nevilles' envious servants hoping to reveal that you and Clarence are conducting a liaison and thus discredit you, or it could be more sinister—the French, the Burgundians, Margaret d'Anjou, or the whole lot together."

  Jesu, the man was too perceptive, too canny.

  "Or even the Emperor or Ned," murmured Margery provocatively, seeking to prod him down a more emotional passageway. "He must have agents here too." She faced him with a bravado that was as fragile as a wren's egg.

  "Ah, the hub of our little talk, I think. Are you sent to France to make Clarence forsake your father?"

  She looked down on him innocuously while, inside her, consternation hissed and bubbled like an alchemist's cooking pan. "The hub, indeed, sir. Would I betray my father?" Her tone carried a surprised but scornful edge.

  "Since he has only bothered to own you for a week, perhaps you would. I think you need to be honest, lady." His eyes perused her as if he sat on some manor bench to hear and determine her case. How dared he sit there and judge her? Her righteous anger bubbled out before she could stop herself.

  "With you, Master Huddleston? Since when have you been honest about a single thing since you—since we met. I have no idea how your windmill mind turns save that your head is certainly full of oiled cogs and wheels."

  "I am sure that at least you know how some of me works." The glint of the hunt gleamed in his green gaze, setting her insides somersaulting. He sat up and swung his long limbs to the floor. His long fingers began to unhook the knops of his doublet. Things were swirling out of control again. She was forgetting how clever he could be. "I wish you might trust me a little, Margery. I did you good service last night." He eased his arms out of his cote and then tugged off his doublet, tossing them onto the other cot.

  Margery's eyes swept sideways to the latch, then she fidgeted, concerned not only about the lightning that was jerking down her spine but how she was going to talk herself out of his expectations. Time was running short. "You make your meaning plain, sir, but you did give me your promise that you would allow me time to be reconciled to our marriage. Will you not escort me back to Isabella?"

  He gave a sigh and looked at her as though she had the understanding of a village simpleton. "Damn you, no, I will not. You need to stay here to allay suspicion. What in Heaven's name do you think I arranged this for—my pleasure, with you?"

  Ignoring her wide-eyed consternation, he tugged open the laces of his lawn shirt. How long could she endure this game and deny him mastery. And if she surrendered, how would he treat her then?

  "I do not understand you." It was a cri du coeur.

  He raised an eyebrow at her. "The night is not over yet, lady. What do you not understand?"

  Some demon in her prompted honesty. "For one thing, whether there is blood in your veins or river water," she blurted out, and then wished a flagstone would slide open and swallow her into an oubliette.

  "Why, you contrary wench, so you do want me to prove my manhood?" He sprang up and moved toward her with a deliberate swagger, making her retreat until the wall was pressing into her shoulder blades. Could he read the panic illuminated in her face? Perhaps, for he advised her softly, "Hark to me, wife, I will not have gossip that I wear a cuckold's horns nor will I have you wandering in the dark for some ill purpose. Confide in me or obey me. Does the truth sit so ill upon your tongue?"

  Margery moistened her lips. Why had she provoked him? "There is nothing to confide."

  He insinuated himself even closer, his grin broad. Wide sleeves walled her in. The musk he wore filled her breathing. "Then obey me. Stop looking at me as though I am an ogre. I swear to you I shall not demand my husbandly rights until"—he smiled like a torturer—"until you tantalize me beyond endurance and tonight you will. As you have just demonstrated, you enjoy playing with fire more than you know."

  He was going to teach her obedience. She knew it. He might not compel her but his promises did not prevent him from touching her.

  At last there were voices in the passageway. Her eyes swiftly glanced beyond him.

  "Expecting visitors?" His cold gaze scythed her. "You were ready for this, were you not? I suppose you had Littlebourne and Wyke posted to follow us out of the hall. Was their attempted molestation of you the other day set up in front of my servant to make me change my mind about marrying you? Do they snuffle like pigs in your—"

  "No!" screamed Margery. Her palm was caught a skin's width from his face. His fingers bit into her wrist.

  "Swear so, on your very soul!" He jabbed her fingers at the silver cross about her neck.

  "I swear it. I would never do that to you."

  "Would you not? I wish I knew." Green fire smoldered in his eyes but a sound outside the door halted whatever purpose he had in mind. "You vixen," he said softly and stepped back from her. His expression had lightened but the gleam of battle still glinted in his eyes. "My dear," he said loudly, "there is a scuffly sort of noise at the door. Are we expecting mice? Oh, I will swear we are." He unlatched the door and flung it open.

  Alys, taken unawares with her arms full, gave him an apologetic shrug and decked in under his arm. Matther Long was behind her, a waterfall of women's garments rippling over his sleeves. He flushed as his master reluctantly removed his arm from barring an entry and turned to Margery. "Anyone else coming, sweet heart? Falconers, butlers, the odd spit boy?"

  "Maybe," she answered sweetly. "The boy, however, canceled."

  Huddleston swore, subsiding on his bed, his face in his hands.

  Alys, looking uncomfortable in the role of accomplice, curtsied guiltily before him. "Truly sorry to disturb you, sir, but they said if my lady was sleeping elsewhere then so must I."

  Huddleston unc
overed his face. His gentle expression for Alys was to goad Margery. "Alys," he answered sweetly, "how could you possibly disturb me? My lady, is it now?" He scowled at his wife.

  Margery rescued the pannier that her maidservant was clutching defensively to her bosom and dumped it by the wall. As she turned, her husband's ironic expression threatened her. He hoped she was wondering how much longer she could survive this battle of wits, waiting and wanting.

  "Master?" Alys prompted.

  Richard Huddleston's grin was, he hoped, disturbingly broad. "I do not bite, Alys. As you are here, Long, you may remove my boots." He braced himself as his servant knelt and tugged at each boot in turn. Master and man beamed at each other in mutual understanding. "As for you, girl, you may, of course, lie at my lady's feet tonight, but you arrived too early. My lady and I have—how did you put it earlier, Margery?—a little business yet." He stood up and unlatched the door for them. "See Alys comes to no harm, Long, and return with her in an hour."

  CHAPTER 14

  "But…" His wife's cherry lips parted in astonishment as she watched him close the door behind them. He leaned back against its boards, coolly regarding her, his arms folded.

  "I wish I had never felt you beneath me that day at Warwick. Come here!"

  Oh, she knew now that the game was up. All that was left to her was the dagger up her sleeve. He saw her swallow nervously but she came dutifully across to him. "I am not returning to Honfleur, Margery. I am going to Amboise with you."

  "You are?" She moistened her lips and looked up at him wide-eyed. He was growing used to the feigned innocence. A fool would have mistaken it for shyness. He placed his fingers on either side of the slender column of her neck. Tonight, he would put her through her paces.

  "So, my sweet wanton, have you not yet got my measure?"

  Her blue eyes widened farther. She smelled of flowers. His left hand moved behind her head but his right smoothly slid to where touching was overdue. She resisted, her breast quivering deliriously against his fingers while beneath the heel of his hand, her heart fluttered in dainty panic.

  "Are you prepared to honor your marriage vows to me?"

  She took a deep breath. "You said there were better bargains to be had elsewhere. So why eat your words? I am handled goods, Master Huddleston. Why did you not pick a virgin heiress?"

  "You want reassurance, lady? You want soft words from me?" He ran a thumb along her lips. "Soft words are earned." Her heart was now thumping like a tabor to a whirling country dance. He felt powerful, conscious of her femininity, her fragility. He was lord over the air between them, willing her into his space. "Why not hand the keys to me tonight, Margery? The treaty is made."

  Tiny fans of dark gold came down, veiling her eyes. "This city will stand, sir."

  "I see." He let go of her coldly. "You disappoint me. I thought you had more courage and intelligence."

  "I have!" she exclaimed hotly, starting back.

  "Indeed?" How dare she withstand him when he could have taken by force what she owed him in duty? "You have the opportunity to sweeten your tongue, behave in wifely manner, and have me like clay—here!" He held out his open palm, his fingers half-curled, and then reading the adamantine look on her face, snapped his fingers into a fist. "You are a fool, lady. I offer you peace and you ride at me with a lance." Sullenly he turned away, folding his arms fiercely. Maybe indifference would goad the wench more than strength or soft words.

  "Sir." Sadness lined her voice. "I respect you for all you rode roughshod over me. Perhaps, given time—"

  "Time, in case you may not have noticed, is not in great abundance, nor is privacy."

  "Sir." Was this Margery? Husky, pleading? That was new for her. What was the little vixen up to now? Curiosity half turned him. She was trying to make a speech, standing there in her blue velvet like an irresistible gift waiting to be opened.

  "Why should I make it easy, Master Huddleston? When we were in England, you bruised both my body with hard riding and my feelings with harsh words It was as if you hated me Do you hate me, sir? Is marrying me some kind of further punishment?"

  "No," It was a sigh No, but he would not have her know how much he wanted her completely his, body and soul By Christ's blessed mercy, he desired mastery over her but not if it meant surrendering his power over himself He would be the lead horse pulling the cart of matrimony "I mean you no harm Have I not proved that?"

  A tiny pink tongue flickered over her lips The blue eyes were desperate What did it take to put a different passion in them? She came forward like a solemn petitioner "I would be happy to have your friendship, sir."

  Friendship! And trust, no doubt, while she met Clarence by candlelight and was closeted alone with kings. Trust! He looked down at her, his eyes cold. "I cannot give you my friendship, Margery."

  She would have stepped back but his hands lightly cradled her shoulders.

  "Why ever not?" She seemed ablaze with astonishment.

  "Take this for answer, lady."

  Richard's mouth came down on hers. He knew she fought against responding. He framed her face between his hands so she could not escape him, and demanded entry. When she denied him, he held her back from him, examining her with the exhilaration of a forester pursuing his quarry. "Margery, I want you so much." This time he had her bewitched as he drew her to him again and touched his lips to her throat. His voice was a whisper as he stroked her, soothed her, willed her. "Let me through, Margery. Give me the city and you shall have good lordship," His sensuous gaze forced her head back as if he held sharp steel against her throat.

  Slowly he drew his thumb downward the tight bud of her breast was ripely engorged. The fabric had become a taut, tantalizing barrier. "You like this, my lady wife?" Her eyes widened as if in surprise at her body's stirrings and her lips parted. He took advantage, his mouth demanding, taunting, tasting her. With a moan, she tried to pull away from his hold but he held her fast. The pupils of her blue eyes were growing dark and huge.

  Unbelievably, her little hands stole up over his chest and around his neck and she arched back into his arms, her eyes closed. It was as if her body was lighting torches and unlocking her lips and thighs to welcome in the conqueror. It was easier than he had dared imagine. He gave a murmur of satisfaction against her forehead as he felt the sheath of thin velvet brushing the hairs of his chest.

  "Monsieur, 'uddleston. Mistress Margery, are you awake?" A pounding shook the door at the small of his back and Richard let go of his wife with an oath, almost dropping her. Her eyes snapped open and the dreamy glaze changed to appalled surprise at the fury she must have seen in his. She thrust a knuckle to her mouth and turned away.

  With an oath, he violently grabbed her in front of him, about the waist, and flung open the door. One of the Duchess's young French maids-in-waiting almost tumbled in. She instantly grabbed at Margery by her hanging sleeves. "Please, madame, 'er grace bids you come straightaway."

  The girl was quite convincing; even Richard had to admit that the smudge of dried tears beneath the beseeching brown eyes looked authentic. How many more had his little witch-wife bribed to save herself from pleasuring him?

  Curse her! Curse her! He held her tight before him like a hostage, his fingers pressing into her ribs as painfully as spurs on a horse's flanks. "Can there be more?" he murmured softly into her ear, his tone larded with sarcasm. "Is Ankarette to set fire to the arras if this plot also fails?"

  Confused, the French girl raised a pleading face to him. "You also, monsieur, the Duchess begs you come. We all do."

  "Me? What is this?" His grip slackened.

  Margery came to life, bursting out of his grasp. He thrust himself away, his back heaving as he regained mastery of himself.

  "Blanche, you must ex—"

  "Just come, now, now!"

  "Go, then. We will follow." Her voice was quietly brisk. He heard the latch. "Sir?"

  He looked over his shoulder. Margery was holding his boots out to him.

 
; "Vixen! So what else is planned?" He ignored the footwear and her flushed face. "Is the Duke of Burgundy invading at midnight?"

  "Oh, yes, there will be a thunderstorm at any moment, the ceiling is to leak over your bed, and I have given Matthew three pennies to collect all of Error's fleas and hide them under your mattress. Oh, for the love of Heaven, Richard, I do not like the sound of this. Please, I beg you, come."

  It was the first time she had ever called him by his given name. The frustration fell away from him. For a moment they stared at one another. There was no antagonism or smugness in Margery's face but a desperation. Wordlessly, he reached out and took his boots from her. As he pulled them on, she picked up his cote and, with a sweet wifely gesture, held it out to him.

  "I will deal with you later, my darling dear," he snarled, thrusting one arm through a sleeve and pushing her out of the room with the other.

  Blanche was waiting for them anxiously in the passageway. Richard followed the two women in silence. Another sniffling wench met them at the doorway of the women's bedchamber and he groaned inwardly. His temper was still loose; Margery could have been soft, fragrant, and willing within his arms now. Why did these wretched women want him, for Heaven's sake? Had she planned this?

  "Hush, Cecily, now what is the matter? Where is Mistress Twynhoe?" Margery put an arm around the girl's shoulders, hastening her out of the echoing passageway into the antechamber.

  "With her grace. Mistress Twynhoe told us to fetch you."

  "I recall Blanche said it was the Duchess who required us," corrected Richard, stepping into the room after them, his irritation scarcely visored.

  Margery glared at him with a mixture of impatience and consternation. "Who is in there with her?" The girl Cecily shrugged and merely blubbered more. Margery let go of her in frustration and ran across to the inner door.

  "Ankarette? Bella?" She rattled the ring latch.

  There was a sort of muffled sob and the door opened a thumb's width, then widened. A female arm grabbed Margery inside and half of Ankarette's face appeared in the gap.