Lady Rowena's Ruin

by Carol Townend

  Rowena felt her mouth gape. ‘He confessed? You got Sir Breon to confess?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And he’s locked up in the Grand Châtelet along with Sir Armand? How on earth did you do it?’

  Eric grimaced into his goblet. ‘Bluffed him. Told him about out witness and led him to believe her testimony was unassailable and that she had named him. Then I suggested that he considered how His Grace would react when he heard what she had to say.’

  ‘You pointed out the disadvantages of being caught out in a lie to the king?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Eric took a small sip of the wine and his brows lifted. ‘This isn’t bad.’

  She smiled. ‘Thank you, I mulled it myself. Sent Alard down to the kitchen for spices.’

  His eyebrows snapped together. ‘You did what?’

  ‘I mulled the wine.’

  ‘Bon sang, Rowena, Alard was meant to be guarding you, not scouring the kitchen for spices.’

  A small hand came to rest on his thigh. ‘Eric, half the king’s guard were in the antechamber, I was quite safe. Besides, I needed something to occupy my mind whilst you were gone. You didn’t imagine I would be sleeping?’

  ‘You disobeyed me again, ma dame.’

  She made a small humming noise in the back of her throat and sent him a sidelong glance under her eyelashes. ‘I did, didn’t I? Eric, I have to warn you, if King Louis ratifies our marriage, I won’t obey your every word.’

  ‘If the king ratifies our marriage? Rowena, with Breon’s confession, there is no doubt.’

  Rowena laid her head against his arm. ‘Thank goodness. Eric, losing you would tear me apart. I love you so much.’

  Green eyes watched her. Her declaration hadn’t irritated him, on the contrary there was a hunger in them that she recognised. Eric wanted to believe her. He did love her, she was sure of it.

  Carefully, he set his goblet on the coffer and nuzzled her hair. ‘There are no lingering regrets for de Lyon?’

  ‘I am sorry that he was killed certainly.’ Sliding her arm about his waist, she gave him a hug. ‘Eric, Mathieu was just a boy. I loved him with a young girl’s love, and am very thankful you have got justice for him. But you are my husband. The love I feel for you is stronger than what I felt for Mathieu. I love you as my childhood playmate. You are my dearest friend. My heart. You are a man, not a boy, and I admit that gave me pause at the beginning.’ Her lips curved. ‘Mathieu was far more biddable than you will ever be.’

  His eyes danced. ‘Easier to control, eh?’

  ‘So I thought. I was still smarting because Father had driven me into the convent and I had no wish to bind myself to another tyrant who would ignore my wishes.’

  ‘Your father knew you weren’t born to be a nun, he was right about that.’

  ‘Sometimes Papa is far too impatient. If he’d given me time, I don’t think I would have taken refuge in a nunnery in the first place.’

  Eric ran his fingertip down her nose. ‘For my part, I am glad you did. Otherwise, Lord Faramus would never have called on me to get you out.’

  ‘Thank God that you did. Imagine, if you hadn’t come to my rescue, I might be married to the man who had murdered Mathieu.’

  Eric gripped her chin. ‘Rowena, Sir Breon might have killed you.’

  ‘I doubt that, I imagine the lure of the family acres would more than compensate for any bribe Sir Armand might have offered him.’

  ‘Either way, it doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘I hope the king hurries to judgement.’

  His arm wound about her waist. ‘So do I.’

  Absently, Rowena ran the sole of her foot up Eric’s calf. ‘Getting Sir Breon to confess before those knights was a masterstroke. Add that to the gossip Alard winkled out of the king’s guard—’

  ‘What gossip?’

  ‘Alard has learned that the king was petitioned by Sir Armand’s tenants months ago. They accuse him of bleeding his estates dry for the benefit of the Church. The governance of his lands has been called into question.’

  Eric’s eyes widened. ‘It’s that bad?’

  ‘Apparently it’s appalling. Sir Armand didn’t stop at the usual tithes, he’s stripped his land bare. His barns are empty. His peasants starving. His holding has become a wasteland and that is of no use to anyone. As you know, the king is a religious man and for a time the offerings Sir Armand gave to the Church must have blinded him to his true nature. However, no king wants to see peasants starving. No king likes to see workable land abandoned. Even if Sir Armand had nothing to do with Mathieu’s death, he has ignored his responsibilities as a landlord. The king won’t stand for that. My godfather needs to have confidence in the men who hold his lands. He has none in Sir Armand.’

  ‘He has confidence in Lord Faramus.’

  Rowena swirled the wine in her goblet and gave him a searching glance. ‘So he does, they’ve always had a rapport. And since the king trusts Papa’s judgement, that, too, will weigh in our favour. He will have no doubt that he may place his confidence in you, and that you will one day be a worthy steward for our French lands.’

  ‘Yesterday at Notre-Dame, your father spoke most eloquently on my behalf.’

  ‘I am sure that he did. He trained you, after all.’ Rubbing her cheek against him, Rowena glanced up. Green eyes were watching her. The hunger in them was undiminished and she could see those gold flecks, but a shadow lingered. ‘Eric, what is it?’

  He shoved his hand through his hair. ‘I can’t forget that you were rushed into marrying me.’

  Leaning past him, Rowena set her goblet on the coffer next to his and took his hand. Their fingers curled together and she felt a sweet ache in her belly. ‘You’re not still dwelling on that, surely?’

  ‘It was not honourable to snatch you from the convent.’

  ‘Yes, it was! Eric, whichever way you look at it you saved me from misery. I would have been miserable in the convent. I would have been miserable with Sir Breon.’

  Putting a finger on her mouth, he shook his head. ‘It was wrong to abduct you.’

  She kissed his finger and watched his eyes darken. ‘I loved it.’

  A reminiscent smile flickered at the edges of his mouth. ‘You struggled a bit at first.’

  ‘Before I recognised you. Eric, I was dying in that convent. You were just what I needed. You are, and always have been, the most honourable man I know. Every day since our marriage I have become more and more grateful that you agreed to share my life. I’m glad you abducted me.’

  He blinked and his gaze fell to her mouth. He looked at it with an intensity that told her he was about to kiss her. Rowena wanted that kiss. In a moment. They had something else to settle first and she knew this was the time. This talk of people doing questionable things with the best of motives was just the opening she’d prayed for.

  Eric had no faith in love, he thought it always brought pain. She had to make him understand that his mother had loved him. And then would come her biggest challenge—she had to help him see that pain did not necessarily walk hand in hand with love. If Eric had grown up in a family, he would know these things. He’d been denied the rough and tumble of family life. He’d not had to learn to live with a tyrannical father whom you couldn’t help but love, even when that father had driven you to hide in a convent where you would never feel at home.

  Eric had relied on his charm to get by. Charm was also his shield, he used it to keep the world at arm’s length. She was about to disarm him. She hoped. She wanted him to know that he didn’t need charm where she was concerned. She wanted him to trust in her love.

  She shifted closer and he cupped her head with his palm. Somewhere in the palace a door slammed. ‘Eric, don’t be so hard on yourself. You took me out of the convent with the best of intentions. People do bad
things with good intentions every day. In a small way, you did it when you misled Sir Breon into thinking our witness was reliable in order to get a confession out of him. I’ve done it—’

  ‘You?’

  ‘I told the king I wanted to become a nun, when in truth I was deluding myself.’

  His lips quirked into a wicked grin and he reached out to ruffle her hair. ‘You like being disordered far too much.’

  ‘With you I do.’

  Twisting a strand of her hair between his finger and thumb, Eric leaned towards her. Pressing her hand to his chest, she ignored the purposeful light in his eyes and held him off. ‘Eric, you need to think about this, it’s important.’

  ‘What? What must I think about?’

  ‘People being forced to do horrible things with the best of intentions.’ She took in a deep breath. ‘People like your mother.’

  His expression clouded. ‘My mother?’

  ‘Aye, Eric, your mother. Before she brought you to Jutigny your family lived in Provins, did they not?’

  ‘You know they did.’

  ‘Since you were so small when your mother left, it is unlikely you were then aware of my mother’s reputation in the town.’

  His brow furrowed as he stared past her into the fire. ‘You’re referring to Lady Barbara’s passion for charitable works.’

  Rowena nodded. ‘Ever since my parents married, Mama has tried to help people. She ensures that food is given to the Provins Hospitallers for whoever might need it. She visits the sick.’

  ‘Lady Barbara has a heart of gold,’ he murmured.

  ‘Don’t imagine that you are the only child she took into her care. Why, two of the Sainte-Colombe cooks were rescued from a life on the streets. You, however, are the only boy who became a knight. I’m trying to show you that when your mother left you by the gate, she wasn’t simply abandoning you. Eric, she left you in the very place where she knew you’d be safe. I’m sure she thought she was doing her best for you. I’m sure she loved you.’

  Stiff-backed, Eric stared into the fire. His face was bleak. ‘She was doing her best.’ He scrubbed his face with his hands. ‘Lord, Rowena, I was six. It was midwinter. I was cold and hungry.’

  Rowena wanted to hug him and never let go. She wanted to tell him that she loved him with all her heart, but she knew that would not work. Not quite yet. She contented herself with leaning lightly against him and watching the flames alongside him.

  ‘Your mother loved you.’ Surreptitiously, Rowena glanced his way. He looked so serious, so unlike the carefree, flirtatious man she had married that she scarcely recognised him. Had she had gone too far?

  He ran a hand round the back of his neck, and sighed. ‘Perhaps she did.’

  ‘Eric, your mother didn’t simply abandon you. She took you to the one place in Provins where she knew you’d be safe. She’d worked out what your life would be like trailing after an itinerant knight who didn’t want you and couldn’t afford to keep you. She wanted more for you than that. I am sure she still loves you.’

  ‘Wherever she is. She might even be dead by now.’

  ‘Do you know her knight’s name? Perhaps we might find her.’

  He lifted his head and looked at her, eyes bleak. ‘It’s no use, Rowena, I thought of that when I won Monfort. Thought that if Mother and her knight were in difficulties they might make a home with me there.’ He grimaced. ‘I can’t remember his name. I dare say I shall never know what happened to them.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  The glow of the fire was fading, Rowena rose to add another log to the coals and came back to stand before him.

  He took her by the hips and pulled her close. ‘Thank you, my love.’

  ‘For what?’ She set her hands on his shoulders.

  ‘For helping me see what my mother did in another light. Shameful though it might be, I’d never thought of it from her point of view.’

  She pressed a kiss to his forehead. ‘That’s hardly surprising, what she did cut deep and you were little more than a baby. Think of it this way, you might have been lost that night, but your mother left you where she knew you would be found.’

  ‘True.’ Rising, he stretched and yawned. ‘Rowena, my love, the night is half gone and it’s been a long day. It is surely time for bed.’

  He shrugged off his clothes, tossed them on to a coffer and shivered. ‘Holy Virgin, it’s cold.’ He flung back the bedcovers. ‘Hurry up, Rowena, we’ll be warmer together.’

  She smiled. ‘So we will.’ Peeling off her shift, she joined him in bed and settled against him. The bed ropes creaked as he reached to pinch out the candle and Eric’s chest rose on another yawn. He really was tired. She kissed his chest. ‘Eric, I love you.’

  ‘And I you,’ he said softly.

  Rowena’s heart missed a beat. Somehow she managed to keep very still. She even pretended to yawn. ‘Hmm?’

  A large hand ruffled her hair. ‘You heard, witch.’ His voice held a smile. ‘I love you. I love you and I always will.’

  Pulse jumping, for she hadn’t expected a declaration until he’d digested their conversation, she lifted her head. Dimly, she made out his features in the firelight—his dark hair, that strong jaw, those high cheekbones. He was smiling and best of all his beautiful green eyes were looking at her with such softness—such warmth—that she felt the sting of tears.

  A large hand slid from her waist, moving with slow, sensual intent over her buttock. He pulled her more tightly against him. ‘Perhaps, before we sleep, we could try a little more disordering?’

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from MORROW CREEK MARSHAL by Lisa Plumley.

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  Morrow Creek Marshal

  by Lisa Plumley

  Chapter One

  April 1885, Morrow Creek,

  Northern Arizona Territory

  At Jack Murphy’s popular saloon, cowboys bellied up to the bar alongside newspaper editors, mercantile owners and railway workers. Miners and lumbermen tested their luck at the gambling tables, hoping to best gullible greenhorns or visiting card sharps—or simply to suss out which men fell into which of those two categories. Music plunked out at two cents per song—but only if those bits were tipped directly into the musician’s overturned bowler, which he customarily placed atop his upright corner piano. Overlying it all came the tang of whiskey, the rich haze of cigarillo smoke and the earnest hum of business being conducted, gossip being told and men being men.

  Among those men, Marielle Miller felt both comfortable and celebrated. For the past twelve of her thirty years, she’d been spending her nights in places just like Murphy’s saloon, kicking up her skirts for profit and honing her skills at dancing—and managing the men who watched her dance. Being both applauded and respected by those men was a tricky business. It was one Marielle had mastered, too. Unique among her fellow dance hall girls, Marielle excelled at making sure no one man stepped his spurred boots or battered brogans out of line—or got wrongheaded ideas about the smiles she tossed out while performing, either.

  Her smiles were for show, meant to charm and entice. As near as Marielle could tell, they righ
tly did both of those things. But her smiles were all performance, approximately as genuine as the horsehair padding cleverly sewn into her costume to augment the curve of her hips and the swell of her bustline.

  It wasn’t that Marielle didn’t enjoy dancing. She did. Especially with her current close-knit troupe and especially for a generous boss like Jack Murphy. But she didn’t particularly enjoy the artifice involved. Or the wariness, either. More than most girls, Marielle knew she could not afford to invite the attention of a scoundrel. Or any man, really. She had too many responsibilities to see to. Until those responsibilities were properly sorted, there would be no offstage flirtation for her.

  That’s why, as Marielle stepped onstage in the full saloon early one ordinary Thursday evening, she began by sweeping the boisterous crowd with an assessing look. It was easy to spot the infatuated ranch hand, new to Morrow Creek, who nursed a single ale while casting lovesick glances at Jobyna Lawson, Marielle’s fellow dancer and closest friend. It was similarly simple to identify the high-rolling faro player who believed his string of luck at the gaming table would also assure him feminine company for the night. Fortunately, Jack Murphy’s faithful barkeep and cook Harry would correct that misapprehension quickly.

  The dance hall girls at Murphy’s saloon weren’t disreputable. Their company wasn’t for sale, either.

  They were all—like Marielle—entertainers, first and last.

  Handily proving her proficiency at her profession, Marielle high-stepped across the stage in unison with her troupe, lit by blazing lamps and accompanied by rollicking piano music. She swooshed her skirts and then skipped to the side, executing a perfectly timed move—all while continuing her customary study of the saloon’s patrons, both regulars and strangers. Alertness benefitted a dancing girl, Marielle knew. More than once, she’d been forced to duck flying bottles, shimmy away from shattering chairs or retreat to the back of the house to avoid gunfire.

  At Jack Murphy’s saloon, in peaceable Morrow Creek, such antics were almost unheard of. Certainly, newcomers to town sometimes tested the tranquility of the saloon—and the resolve of the townspeople to keep it that way—but those ruffians never got far. Typically, one or more of the brawnier locals stepped in before disagreements could progress to full-on brawls. When that approach failed, Sheriff Caffey and his deputy Winston were available to handle problems—at least notionally—but most of the time, the lawmen’s intervention wasn’t necessary.