He faced her, regarding her solemnly. His eyes were as she remembered, a warm brown, the outer corners tilted. Her face grew hot under his stare and she clasped her hands together to keep them still. "Well, you know where the hall is."
He did not speak, but his eyes devoured her.
"Perhaps you could play for us later." She dropped into a curtsey and left, forcing her feet to move smoothly, to not run. When she reached the end of the corridor, she glanced back. He stood motionless, his harp on his shoulder, his eyes on her. She raised her hand and slipped around the corner, finally allowing her feet to flee.
He did not follow.
THE GARDEN again. Richard paused at the entrance in front of the hawthorns. After Maríana had shown him to the knights' room, he had dropped his harp and sword on the nearest bed and washed the dust of the road off his face, using a bowl and pitcher he found on a small table nearby. Then he descended the central stairs into the great hall, searching it for a slight figure with flowing auburn hair. But Maríana was not there. Nor did he find her in the kitchen below. When she had stood before him, he could not take his eyes from her, but he had found no words to speak.
Now, he leaned against the hawthorn's smooth gray bark and stared into the garden. When they were squires together, Arnaut and Jean-Pierre had tried to frighten him with tales of ghosts and drowned children. It was true that no one would go there after dark. Richard remembered telling Maríana that Arnaut challenged them to go past the hawthorn trees after light had left the sky, but he had lied. His own dare had brought them all to the garden that night when Maríana knelt at the pool. He had hid among the burdock, sure that she was the ghost Arnaut had warned him about. When she had touched him, he nearly yelled.
Just now in the palais, in front of her grandmother, in front of the future Baroness de Reuilles, he had almost pulled Maríana into his arms. He entered the garden, into the cool shadows. How could he have thought this trip would cure him, that seeing her again would end the nights when he awakened with the scent of her skin on him and the weight of her hair on his chest, with the longing that made him cry out when his dream faded.
He had even volunteered to escort Ysabel to Navarre, sure that when he saw Maríana, she would be like any other girl, not the way he remembered her. He gritted his teeth. He hated Ysabel de Gréves-her incessant chatter, her meddling, her possessive touch. How could he have believed that seeing Maríana again would lay to rest his yearning?
He raised his eyes and his heart stilled.
Maríana knelt, pulling weeds out of the patch of field violets. He stood there, barely breathing, while he watched her fingers dipping and rising in a rhythm. She had plaited her hair into two braids. One lay along her back. The other hung over her shoulder, swinging in time with the motion of her hands. Johanna had told him that Maríana lived in the palais, now. He had felt a warm gladness -- she was out of the tower. Then the door had opened and there she stood, arms overflowing with roses. His pulse had quickened. He had bitten back a cry, but Ysabel noted it. That woman.
He dropped to his knees. "Maríana."
She looked up, then leaned back on her heels. The hair at her temples curled around her forehead. He wanted to pull her over to him and taste her. But her dark green eyes were regarding him, measuring. Then the corners of her mouth lifted in a smile and she reached out to touch the scar through his eyebrow. "How did you do this?"
He shrugged, then stood and reached out his hand, help her to her feet. "Someone insulted my sister." Her hand was damp, but he did not mind. "I took exception to it. He looked worse than me, afterward," he assured her, delighting in her laughter and shining eyes.
He could not help it. He took both her hands and pulled her to him, savoring the clean lines of her face, smelling her sun-warmed skin. His whole body ached; he longed to take her in his arms. She watched him, her eyes still laughing, yet the shadow of hurt showed there, too. He tipped his face down to hers, but the sound of voices made him raise his head and look over his shoulder. Johanna and Ysabel. They were at the entrance, but would be upon him and Maríana soon. He dropped Maríana's hands and stepped back, close enough to touch her again, but within the bounds of propriety.
Ysabel immediately went up to Richard and took his arm, turning toward Maríana. "Richard was my dear protector," she said, her fingers firmly gripping him. "I am so glad he accompanied me to Reuilles-le-château." She looked up at Richard. "You simply must stay for my wedding."
Richard gently tried to extricate himself from her grasp, but Ysabel refused to release his arm. With a sly glance at his hands, she said, "You must tell Beatrice of Bourdeilles that she must wait a little longer for her husband-to-be to arrive!" Blast the woman! Now she was watching Maríana's face.
Maríana stilled and her skin paled, but she said, "Why should she wait?" Her dark green eyes stared into Ysabel's. "Bourdeilles is closer to Navarre than to la Guerche."
Didn't Maríana care? Had he misread the signs? Richard squelched his start of surprise, but he was sure Ysabel had felt him jump. Her hand dropped from his arm and she stepped next to Johanna, staring back at Maríana, who met her eyes in silence.
Richard felt his jaw tighten. "My wedding is not for another two years yet. I am on my way to..."
"Yes, yes!" Ysabel waved him off, her voice sighing in boredom as she dropped her eyes and took Johanna's arm. "You are going to Assisi to burn a candle to thank God for the health of your father at that church of Francis di Bernardone."
Richard backed away from her and muttered, "Among other things." He turned to Maríana again. She was still pale. He reached out but his fingers only grazed her arm. He could not touch her now. Now that she knew.
He dropped his hand.
YSABEL MOVED farther into the garden next to Johanna. That was a disappointing reaction from the girl. She had hoped for sorrow or even anger at the news of Richard's impending wedding to another and was dissatisfied with the outcome of her little game. Richard and Maríana were standing so close in the garden, and earlier the girl had actually taken his hands! But when she revealed what she knew all Maríana had done was stare at her. Ysabel sighed, listening to Johanna's chatter, then her thoughts turned to Richard himself. At least now she knew he had not told Maríana about Beatrice. She savored Richard's reaction to her game. Oh, now, that was perfect! He was furious with her.
Ysabel looked back at the two of them. Richard was earnestly discussing some flowers or something else equally dull. So that was why he spurned all her advances and would not even flirt. He was in love with that girl.
She quickly stifled her stab of jealousy. Her, jealous? Certainly not. Songs had been written about her, after all! Her thoughts turned again to her intended husband as she listened with half an ear to Johanna prattling on about this servant and that servant. Servants! All they were good for is fetching and carrying. Not much better than animals.
She turned her face toward Johanna and widened her eyes, the best she could manage at this moment to express interest, then looked back at Richard. "They say Louis-Philippe is very handsome," she mused. "Too bad he could not come to fetch me himself. Hard to think of anyone more comely than this young one, though." Johanna glanced at Richard and smiled, then pointed at the edge of a bed of flowering herbs, saying something about a physician. Ysabel kept glancing at Richard while pretending to listen.
She had enjoyed teasing Richard on the way to Basse Navarre. Others accompanied them, so she had been unable to take him to her bed -- it would not do for idle gossip to be spread about the new Baroness, of course. Not that she was chaste at home, far from it! But she had been discreet enough to keep speculations about her chastity to a minimum. At least she had been able to embarrass the poor boy, wearing her most close fitting gowns when she was around him, leaning over and touching his strong arms constantly during the long ride down to Basse Navarre.
She smiled at the memory of Richard blushing and gnashing his teeth whenever she leaned toward him. But her
reverie was shattered when she saw a man striding toward them through the gardens. "Now, look there!" she said to Johanna. "He cuts a fine figure." Her memories of Richard were discarded. "Just look at how tall he is!"
The man wore a leather hauberk and a tunic embroidered with the colors of silver, indigo and sea-green. He pulled off his visor as he came toward them. Ysabel grabbed Johanna's arm at the same time she heard her say: "Louis-Philippe! How delightful, you have returned. Come and meet Ysabel."
Ysabel's fingers dug into Johanna's arm. Her friends had said he was handsome. But the man was a god! Adonis, Apollo! Her head spun and her legs turned to water as Louis-Philippe smiled engagingly. He wiped his sweating brow with his glove, pushing back his damp black hair that, she noticed, was laced with the smallest dusting of silver at the temples.
Gallantly, he raised her hand to his lips, kissing it with gusto. "Ysabel," he said. "I regret I could not come to Brittany to accompany you to your new home. I was engaged in the service of the King of Navarre. Please accept my sincere apology and my welcome to Reuilles-le-château."
Ysabel recovered and smiled her sweetest smile, turning her face up to look at him. All the intrigues and games she had been planning for Maríana and Richard were forgotten as she walked toward the palais beside her intended husband. How can I wait till August eve, she thought in dismay. I want him in my bed right now! She looked at Johanna. No help there. That one would watch her like a hawk. She sighed. It was going to be a long month.
MARÍANA held her body still, face lowered, enduring the wrenching pain that spread from her belly to just below her heart. Before Ysabel and her grandmother left them, she felt a light touch on her arm. Richard stood beside her, but beyond a few words remarking on the violets, he had said nothing since Ysabel and Johanna walked away. She had not seen her father enter the garden, but she had heard his voice and had glanced up to see him leaving, Ysabel hanging onto his arm.
Now Richard was speaking again. "Can we stay out here a bit longer? I would like to see the blackberry bushes by the pond where we went after... well."
"They are no longer there." Her voice sounded far away. She would have to do better. "The roots became rotten. Ib... Jacques had them torn out." Good. She could speak again. Now, could she look at him?
She made herself look up and her own anguish dwindled to a dull ache. His face was white, his eyes, stunned. A muscle jumped in his cheek as he clenched his teeth, but all he said was, "The bushes are gone?"
She touched his arm and he flinched. "There is a seat where they used to be." Could she make her feet move? "We can go there." Her feet shuffled at first, but she was walking. She did not look behind her to see if he followed.
Chapter 10
YSABEL OPENED her eyes and raised her body up on her elbows. Why was she still in her gown? The wedding last night had been everything she had thought it should be. All Louis-Philippe's vassals attended. And such a feast! She would have to let out her clothes if they ate like that again. She had even danced with the King of Navarre. Of course, he could not hold a candle to Louis of France, but, nevertheless, he was a king.
Louis-Philippe lay beside her. What had they done last night? Her memory might slip from time to time, but she could not forget something like her first night with such a man. She reached under the bed and found her needle still in place. A puzzle. The last thing she remembered was lighting the candles and lying on the bed, awaiting him. They had forgone the traditional carrying chairs, where the married couple were carried to their bedchamber in two chairs and placed into bed by the vassals. Louis-Philippe had not wanted that. She ran her nails across the fabric of the sheets. He had kissed her on the forehead and said he would be back soon. Not soon enough, apparently, since her needle was still in place.
Surely he wanted her! She had been courted by many, although, until now, only young Henri had won her heart. She had agreed to this marriage when it became clear that Henri would not come back for her. And she had waited such a long time. Well, the baron was here beside her, wasn't he? She stretched out next to Louis-Philippe, running her hands gently down the skin of his naked back, shivering as her fingers encountered a long, jagged scar running the length of his back. She sighed as she remembered Henri's arms around her. Then she yelped and snatched her hands away from Louis-Philippe.
They could not consummate the marriage in the light of day. She needed darkness so she could prick her finger to provide the blood that proved she was pure. Easing out of the bed, she wrapped her robe around her and tiptoed from chamber.
The next night she was prepared. She stripped all her gowns off and lay naked and ready under the soft sheets. Again he came in very late, after she was asleep, and again she had to leave the chamber before he did so that he would not find out she was not the virgin she had claimed to be.
After a month of this, she was determined to find out where he went when he stayed out so late. She questioned all the servants. None of the dolts would say anything, but the dressmaker, Jeanne, told her in a whisper that he went up to his palace where Jacques the gardener lived.
Men and their drinking chums! She had plenty of experience with this problem -- her father and brothers were the same way. Well. She would see this fellow for herself.
The path was steep and rocks tripped her feet. She was sure that a blister was starting on her toe. She was watching the uneven ground so she would not stumble and so she did not notice she had arrived until she saw blue and white tiles under her feet.
She raised her head and her mouth dropped open. There was a fountain and a graceful white palace, complete with arched windows and door. Johanna had told her that Louis-Philippe had been to Byzantium, but not that he had brought some of it back with him. She strode up to the door and rapped sharply on it, then tried the handle. Locked. She would have to try something else.
YSABEL BACKED Louis-Philippe into a corner of the upper corridor leading to the knights' room. It was just after the evening meal, but few were about on the second floor. Most still loitered in the great hall, playing dice. She had made sure that the games would be offered this evening to clear the upper chambers and had followed Louis-Philippe when he climbed the stairs. His eyes lit up in surprise when he saw her, but got even wider when she slipped her hand beneath his shirt and pressed against him. He did not move to kiss her; he just stood there while her fingers teased his chest. A flicker of something dark and red trembled within her breast.
"We will be husband and wife tonight," she said, her voice barely under control. "Or I will seek an annulment tomorrow." She felt him quiver. Then he lifted her chin and seized her mouth with his.
After a long moment, he said, "Lead the way."
YSABEL KICKED the bed again. She had already thrown the chamber pot. It lay in smelly pieces on the floor.
He could not do it! She had not noticed his lack of arousal. He had kissed her with enough fervor, but when she was ready for a deeper embrace, he could not give it.
At first, she had been simply stunned. He had sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. He had said nothing, but had looked so woebegone, she had even patted him on the back to soothe him. Then he had kissed her on the side of her mouth and told her he was going out to clear his head. She had grabbed the chamber pot and it had sailed after him, but he had already closed the door. No one had come running to see what had happened. She could tell them it had slipped. Tomorrow.
He went out. Where would he go? Her back straightened. Then she slipped out of the bed and pulled on an old gown, covering it with a dark mantle. As she made her way through the great hall, she practiced her story for the night watch. She would tell him she was going to see her husband. He had passed this way earlier, had he not? Oh, no, she did not need a page or squire to accompany her. What could happen to her with her lord out there? Open the gate. It had only been a short while since Louis-Philippe left. Well, she would join him at his palace. Then they would see.
SHE DID NOT need to go so far.
The blackness of the night, the stony slope, the scuffling of beasts in the brush, none of these disturbed her on her climb to the palace.
They were outside, both of them. She heard their voices before she reached the spot where the path turned, so she moved into the oaks that clustered in a thick stand around the clearing's edge. Louis-Philippe sat upon the ledge that surrounded the fountain, and the other... .
She had seen him in the garden with Maríana. He did not carry himself like a servant. Two torches burned golden on either side of the palace door and light from inside spilled out into the courtyard. The harsh light threw the two men's faces into stark relief. The gardener was almost as handsome, in his own way, as her Louis-Philippe. She crouched down behind the tree closest to the clearing, held her breath and listened.
"I think it is age, my friend," the gardener was saying in an amused voice. "I would not worry if I were you. It will come in time." He patted Louis-Philippe on the shoulder, then he also sat on the ledge.
Louis-Philippe mumbled through his hands so that Ysabel had to strain to understand him. "It has never happened to me before, as you well know!"
The gardener shrugged. "She is a desirable woman," he said. "You are a lucky man."
Ysabel nodded her head. Now, this fellow really knew what he was saying!
"That is just it." Louis-Philippe leaned forward. "She is a woman." He waved his hands. "I am not like you, Ibrahim Al'Khaldun. I don't think I can handle both."
Ibrahim? Who was this Ibrahim? Ysabel had been told his name was Jacques.
"You managed before. You will manage again. Anyway, why not use your imagination?" Ibrahim smiled and crossed his arms.
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