Marsaili gasped. “’Tis no way to jest!”
“Look at it from my standpoint, milady. I could marry you—but at what concession from you? I do not wish to ponder your motives.” He brushed lightly at the bulge in the front of his breeches, and Marsaili quirked an eyebrow, impressed. He gave her a searing look and a quick kiss, then grabbed his cane.
She fisted her hands on her bare hips, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Where are ye going?”
“To talk to Edmund.”
Geoffrey was able to pull himself away from Marsaili only with steely determination he hadn’t experienced in many months. Though Marsaili hadn’t exactly argued with him about becoming his wife, she had taken his hesitation poorly and there was only one thing he could do about it. Dispense with Edmund’s obsession once and for all. He could then return and put the question of marriage to her in no uncertain terms. Perhaps taking up where they left off . . . .
He nodded to the pair of guards in the hall outside Marsaili’s door and continued to the stair, maintaining a steady, careful tread on the worn stone. Simon appeared at the foot of the stairs, his face first registering surprise, then unease.
“How fares Milady?” he asked.
“She is in a bit of a tear,” Geoffrey admitted.
Simon fell into slow step with him. Geoffrey passed the head of the stairs and continued to his rooms. Bracing his cane against the chair, he dragged his chain mail from its stand. Simon assisted solemnly, though Geoffrey could tell he barely contained his questions. At last Geoffrey relented.
“She alone nursed her late husband who suffered from a gangrenous toe. He begged her to help him die on more than one occasion.” Geoffrey shrugged the surcoat into a better fit across his shoulders and reached for his gauntlets.
“She left the healer’s potion within reach and ’tis her reasoning he drank it too soon, not knowing its effects. Whether he drank it on accident or not, Edmund accused her of assisting his brother to his death.”
Geoffrey disbanded the splint on his leg and cast it aside. “He locked her in a cell for nearly two months whilst he mocked her with tales of Andrew’s burial as a suicide. When she did not succumb to his offer to take her as his wife, he threatened to hand her over to the Church as a criminal.”
“My God!” Simon exclaimed, his face infused with color. “I will settle him!”
Geoffrey buckled his sword across his hip. “No. I will.”
Marsaili glared at the closed door. “Ye amadan! Ye cannae fight Edmund! He doesnae fight fair!”
She snatched the wrap from its pile on the floor and flung it about her shoulders. After a moment’s hesitation, she threw it across the bed and knelt before one of the clothing chests, rummaging through the contents.
“Ha!” Grabbing a dark blue bliaud edged in gold braid, she hurriedly dressed, pulling a matching surcoat over the top. She shoved her feet into a pair of slippers, sparing her ruined boots a rueful glance. Beatrice bounced from one side of the bed to the other as Marsaili rushed about.
Marsaili shoved her hair from her face, strands falling down her back in half-dry curls. Bending across the covers to ruffle Beatrice’s furry head, she whispered, “Wish me luck!”
The little terrier barked her encouragement as Marsaili dashed from the room, startling the two guards who had clearly expected her to remain within. She disregarded their shouts, nimbly avoiding them as they thundered after her.
Sliding once in the soft slippers, Marsaili regained her footing and flew down the stairs, one hand trailing along the curved stone wall for balance. She burst into the great hall, scarcely able to stifle a shriek as Walter reached from the shadows and caught her wrist.
“Easy, Milady. The Saint asked me to watch for you. ’Tis best you are not a part of this.”
Marsaili paused to catch her breath. “Part of what? And why do ye not help him?”
“He knew you would not listen to the other knights should they attempt to detain you.”
She arched a brow at him in astonishment, aware of the huffs of the guards behind her. “But I will listen to ye?”
Walter gave his slow grin. “Aye, Milady. You will.”
Though she knew Walter would not lay a hand on her, she balked at outright defiance of the man who had done nothing but help her since they’d met. “Mayhap we could find a spot where we could watch?” she suggested.
“The battlements are chilly this eve, but you would be out of sight. ’Twould be best you not distract Lord de Ville.”
Swallowing hard against sudden fear, Marsaili allowed Walter to usher her through the narrow hallways to the battement overlooking the gate. Below, the barbican shielded a number of soldiers as they marched in one side and out the other. Just beyond the gate, on the far side of the moat, an impressive array of armed men flanked two knights in chain mail which glowed in the fading light.
Simon and Geoffrey.
A burly man, made stouter by the swirling movements of his cape about his generous body, faced them, his own personal guard at his shoulder.
Edmund.
Behind him stood the men beneath Bellevue’s banner, though there was not a face she could recognize from this distance.
“Will they fight, Sir Walter?” she asked, apprehension lacing her voice.
“I do not believe so,” he replied casually. “’Tis not Milord’s intent.”
“What is his intent?”
“Why, to see your name cleared, Milady.”
“He is dressed to fight,” she worried aloud.
“Aye. The Saint is always prepared.”
Marsaili leaned her hands against the cold stone wall. Her surcoat flapped about her in the evening breeze. In the distance, the hills no longer carried the dull hues of winter, but boasted the palest greens and pink, darkened by the setting sun. In a matter of days, the lambs would begin their noisy entries into the world, heralding new life.
But tonight, in the shadows of the castle walls lurked the promise of death.
Torchlight on the ramparts brightened about her as darkness fell, but cast little light below. In growing frustration, Marsaili peered into the gathering gloom until she could no longer distinguish the men on the field. Her ears caught the groan of the portcullis chain and the creak of leather. Muted shouts rang out and Marsaili gripped Walter’s arm.
He smiled. “They are within, milady. We may go down, now.”
With a low shriek of pent-up anxiety, Marsaili snatched up her skirts and fled down the narrow passageways to the great hall below.
Men filed into the room, chatting easily among themselves. Their swagger bespoke a conflict easily won. Marsaili scanned the area, her gaze lighting on Lord de Wylde as he and Simon approached the dais. As though he felt her presence, Geoffrey glanced up, meeting her look with a grin and a faint nod.
Ignoring the others in the room, she wove through their midst, her focus solely on Geoffrey. His smile widened and she flung herself into his arms, her hands capturing his cheeks to bring his lips down to hers.
A cheer went up and she ended the kiss, one hand against his neck as she touched her forehead to his.
“All is well, Marsaili,” he murmured. “Now I believe we have business to discuss. In private, if you please.”
Aware of the interest from the soldiers and servants alike, Marsaili nodded, but her body trembled and she could scarce let go of him. He clasped her hands gently and brought them to his lips, giving them each a gentle kiss. The roar of approval was unmistakable and Marsaili’s skin heated. With a steadying breath, she cocked her head at Lord de Wylde.
“Let us be about it, then,” she said. Head tilted, a faint smile on her lips as she anticipated their private discussion, she moved through the crowd and up the stairs.
Chapter Twenty
Geoffrey endured the good-natured clouts to his shoulders and back as he attempted to follow Marsaili. Frustration with his shortened gate evaporated as his gaze riveted on her trim back, red hair tumbling to her waist, a
slight swing to her hips. He grinned. He may have been several feet behind her, but the view was worth the delay.
The door to Geoffrey’s bedroom snicked closed, sending Marsaili’s heart rate into double time. Geoffrey divested himself of his gauntlets in a maddeningly casual fashion.
“Tell me what happened,” she demanded.
He motioned to his surcoat. “Help me with this, please. I cannot remove it by myself.”
She helped him undress, impatience warring with the sudden need to touch him as he replaced his mail with a soft linen tunic. Her fingers glided over his skin, smooth and warm. His gaze caught hers and she heated at his perusal.
“Do you wish to hear what was said, or shall we discuss other things?”
She whirled away and perched on the edge of the chair, out of reach. “Tell me what happened.”
“I gave Edmund his horse back, though he bemoaned its abbreviated mane and tail,” Geoffrey teased with a grin. Marsaili rolled her eyes and drew a deep breath of frustration.
“And he gave up his complaint against you.”
She stared at him. “As simple as that?”
Geoffrey tilted his head side-to-side, a twinkle in his eyes. “Almost.”
Marsaili leveled her gaze at him and tucked her hands beneath the edges of her surcoat where they would be less tempted to betray her need to touch him.
He sat on the edge of the hearth, right leg next to the banked embers, one hand dangling casually over his bent knee. “I was skeptical of Edmund’s ability to obtain a writ from King Henry. Henry has his faults, among them the dislike to be embroiled in what he deems petty problems among his barons. Unless Edmund was a court favorite of Henry’s, it seemed unlikely he could have gotten his attention long enough to request a writ for your capture.”
“You knew this?”
Geoffrey shrugged. “I suspected. I was a knight at court for many months whilst training under my uncle who was the king’s champion. I did not remember Edmund—or a Lord de Ville.”
The corners of Marsaili’s lips tilted upward. “I dinnae suppose Edmund knew this.”
“He was a bit discouraged to discover Lord de Wolfe is my uncle and that I have attended the king. He was even more distressed to know I have seen the king’s signature. And it does not match the scrawl on the writ.”
Marsaili’s eyes widened. “But, that’s . . . .”
“Treason.” Geoffrey supplied the word. “To Edmund’s complete dismay, he cannot prove you poisoned Andrew. He also cannot prove Andrew took the concoction intentionally, though that will do Andrew little good.” He held up his hand, two fingers bent. “He cannot pursue this matter with any hope I’d overlook his treasonous action.” He lowered another finger. “And now, Milady, comes the last question. Would he dare charge the fair wife of Lord de Wylde?”
“He wouldnae,” she whispered, staring at the finger he leveled at her.
“Then, Lady Marsaili, do you consent to be my wife, without coercion or thoughts of gratitude for my actions on your behalf?”
Marsaili held back the rush of happiness. “Would ye often go to battle? I dinnae like war.”
“I cannot promise you there will not be war. I will not stand idly by and give others freedom to harm my people. But I have no need to create war. ’Twas not that long ago that I determined to live a life of a monk, in peace, setting aside strife.” He sighed. “’Twas admittedly before I met you.”
Marsaili laughed in protest. “Milord, I am a peaceable woman!”
He rose and pulled her from her chair. “I am fascinated by you, Marsaili. I want to be amused by you, excited, astounded and loved by you for the rest of my life.”
“We’ve spent the past weeks together, yet I scarcely know ye,” she sighed. “I wish—”
Geoffrey pressed a fingertip to her lips. “I am grateful for those weeks. We already know what happens when we are left unchaperoned. I learned much about you in our time together—listening to you, watching you. I am encouraged to know that I will not wake one day after a night of intense passion and find I have no idea who I married.”
Marsaili leaned against him. “Intense passion?” she queried, suddenly breathless.
“Shall I show you?” he murmured against her ear. His words tumbled through her in a sensuous slide, weakening her knees, sending pinpricks of heat along her skin. He tilted her head to receive his kiss, slanting his mouth across hers as he took possession of her soul. With a sweep of his hands, he divested her of her surcoat. His nimble fingers loosened the laces to her gown, tugged it off her shoulders.
With a wiggle, Marsaili freed the gown past her breasts and Geoffrey slid his palms down her sides, sending the bliaud over her hips and to the floor. She relished the feel of his hard frame as he hauled her against him. Her fingers widened the opening at the neck of his tunic and she slid her hands beneath the fabric, baring his shoulders to her caress.
She gave his skin her attention, nipping the line of his neck, the tip of her tongue gliding over the corded smoothness. Her palms slipped over his frame, relishing the rigid planes of his muscles. Sleek. Powerful. Hers.
His hands lit fires within her, spurring her on. Encouraging. Tantalizing. She slid her fingertips beneath the waistline of his breeches, instantly encountering the tip of his erection. The heel of her hand slipped down its length and back up as a groan rumbled through his chest.
Moving his breeches quickly over the head of his cock, she pulled them down his long, muscular legs. Sinking before him, she unlaced his boots and he stepped out of them, then finished her task of removing his breeches. With a sinuous weave of her body, she gave languid attention to his cock as she slowly rose.
Geoffrey’s hands clenched on her shoulders as he dragged her to her feet.
“You did not answer my question,” he growled, nipping at the curve of her jaw.
“Which one?” she breathed.
“Will you marry me?”
She nodded. “Without coercion.” She ran her tongue along the curve of his ear. “Without thought of what ye did for me today.” She cupped the base of his cock in her hand, rubbing her thumb across the taut skin. “Only this.”
Geoffrey backed her toward the bed, her knees crumpling as she sank onto the mattress. He eased down beside her, cursing the pain in his leg as he rolled onto his side. He fell to his back with a wry grin. “I don’t believe my cirurgian would approve the normal position.”
Marsaili tilted her head, interest on her face. “What do ye suggest?”
“Have you ever set the pace, milady?”
“In truth, I have received more pleasure at yer hands than ever from Andrew and his cock. I am eager to learn, milord.”
Geoffrey’s cock swelled tighter at her words. At his bidding, Marsaili sank over him, clutching his shoulders as if she were astride an untried horse for the first time. Geoffrey grinned. Then he groaned.
She hovered over him, setting her willing lips to his, and he tangled his hands in her hair, aflame with desire that demanded quenching. He settled one palm on her buttock, urging her on, and she arched her back, inviting his caress. Her movements quickened, her lips parted. Geoffrey fought for control as he teetered on the edge of release. He flattened his palms on the bed linens, certain he would lose his mind.
“Geoffrey!”
Her breathless cry pierced the fog in his head and he shouted at the intensity of his release, joining her as she gasped and shuddered.
She drooped to his chest and he stroked her back in aimless patterns. His breathing eased and his heartbeat slowed to a more normal pace. Tiny jolts of pleasure shot through his cock each time she clenched around him. Finally her spasms ceased.
With a sigh, she slipped to his side and nestled her head on his shoulder. She splayed her palm across his chest, fingers tangling in the mat of hair. “I am glad I took shelter in the auld barn that night,” she murmured.
“Even though I changed your plans?”
“Even though ye caused m
e great delay, thinking ye are always right. Waylaying me on my journey to Scotland.”
Geoffrey grinned and kissed the top of her head. “Shall we let the priest settle things?”
Marsaili ran the tip of a finger down the center of his chest. “What would ye have done had I truly been responsible for Andrew’s death?”
Geoffrey cupped her cheek with his palm. “A true murderess—one who has no regrets for her actions, and no respect for life—must be dealt with. But, my love, in these past weeks I have seen in you only compassion and an esteem for others. Your past is not of your making, and we will create a future full of love and trust.”
“Ye trust me? Even knowing my error caused a man’s death?”
“We will take it as a solemn warning to not leave such potions within reach of an invalid.” He settled onto his back. “Do you trust me?”
She sighed. “Though yesterday I believed ye had betrayed me, I see I was wrong. Ye could never do such a thing.”
“I regret it took a dunk in a bog to bring you back to me.”
“Aye. I regret the dunking as well.”
Geoffrey laughed aloud. “I believe we will get along well together, Marsaili.”
Her body grew lax in his arms. “Aye. We will.” She yawned. “Send for yer priest. I have discovered something to keep me in England.”
“What is that, my love?”
A languid smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she nestled closer.
“This.”
Epilogue
Lockardebi, Scotland, just over the border
One week later
Hew’s legs trembled as he slid from the back of the cart. The driver gave a grunt and a nod at the elder’s mumbled thanks before clucking to his team and driving away. The gate to the keep was shut tight, the tower house beyond rising from the silent yard.
What in God’s name has happened? Blearily, Hew eyed the unwelcoming sight. What had happened to the de Carlyles? Where was Marsaili and her family?
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