by Shari Anton
Fortunately, she hadn’t yet taken a bite of pie or she might have choked. She knew exactly what he referred to, and the wretch had the audacity to tease her about a momentous, very personal event in front of Philip.
“Everything she must know, like of our marriage, and that I gave Earl William the petition to present to King Stephen—that sort of everything. Did you learn aught this morn?”
She took a bite of the warm pie. With her mouth occupied, she couldn’t say anything else he might twist to his advantage.
The two men exchanged looks of disappointment. “Nothing definite,” Darian answered. “I came back to check on you and Rose before we resumed our inquiries. Would you be averse to spending another night here?”
Her mouth full, she shook her head and shrugged her shoulders, conveying it mattered naught to her.
“Then we will be going back to Southwark.”
She swallowed. “For how long?”
“Not sure.”
“If you intend to be out after nightfall, you should take Rose.”
He crossed his arms. “Did we not have this argument this morn?”
They had, and Darian was as resolute as before. Except this time she had another piece of reasoning to present.
“Then you will not mind when I take Rose out again. Alone. After nightfall.”
“Nay, because I will fetch a rope. Rose goes on one end and you hold on to the other. Understood?”
She understood. She was in for a long afternoon and probably a longer evening. ’Twas a good thing she had letters to write or she might be reduced to combing the tangles out of the wolfhound’s hair.
“Lovely lady,” Philip commented.
“That she is.”
Agreement came easily. Darian saw no harm in acknowledging the lady’s beauty, or her intelligence, or her wit. He still didn’t know how he’d managed not to laugh out loud at the notion of the hound using the chamber pot.
Or why he hadn’t laughed. When was the last time he’d allowed himself more than an amused smile? Too long ago, certes, if he had to look back so far to recollect the occasion.
Unwilling to contemplate his none-too-recent lack of humor, Darian turned his thoughts back to the task at hand, finding Hubert and Gib. They couldn’t just disappear. Why was it taking so much longer to get to South-wark from the inn than from Southwark back to Emma—to the inn? Surely they weren’t walking slower, were they?
“Too bad you cannot keep her.”
Keep Emma? A mercenary with a noble wife? Not an impossibility, but rare. Very rare. Besides, he wanted no wife. Darian liked his life just the way it was.
He grunted. “I need a wife like you need a wife.” “Sometimes I wonder if a wife would not be a pleasant thing to have. A cottage in Flanders. A few little ones to chase. Might be nice.”
“Oh, come now. Have you been talking to Thomas? He wants a piece of land in Kent with a plump wife to tend him. There is still a war to be fought, remember?”
“There is, but someday the war will be over.”
“Not soon.”
“Soon enough to ponder its ending. Given any thought to what you will do afterward?”
Not a single one. “I imagine I will stay in William’s service. There is always a need for mercenaries.”
“William is losing his sight. He will not be leading soldiers for much longer.”
Please, Lord, do not let that happen too soon! “Then perhaps I will form my own mercenary band. Care to join me?”
Philip chuckled. “Perhaps.”
Darian realized that sometime during the morning he’d banished the notion of Philip having aught to do with the theft of his dagger. He’d obviously been laboring on Darian’s behalf. Spent a lot of coin, too. Repayment was due, and he would settle that account with more than coin.
Philip deserved his trust. So give it he would. That didn’t mean the other mercenaries weren’t suspect.
“Where do her sisters live?”
“You cannot have one of her sisters as a wife.” “Funny. I meant to offer myself as a courier for Lady Emma’s letters.”
Darian stopped walking. “Does not William expect you at Wallingford?”
“Aye. When we are done here, I will certainly make my way to Wallingford. That does not mean I cannot take a roundabout route.”
No, it certainly didn’t.
“The young one is at Bledloe Abbey. The other . . .” Darian had to think back to court gossip to remember. “The other is rather out of your way. Camelen is somewhere near Shrewsbury, I believe.”
“Ah, now I remember. Hugh de Leon’s daughter, right?” He whistled low and crossed his arms. “Ye gods, Darian. You are married to the daughter of a Norman baron and a Welsh princess. And you are going to give her up? Have you gone witless?”
A Welsh princess?
Now he wished he’d paid a great deal more heed to court gossip. He’d known of Sir Hugh de Leon, of the knight’s allegiance to Empress Maud and his death at Wallingford. He hadn’t known the man married a Welsh princess. Did that make Emma royal?
His hands sweat with the notion that he’d bedded royalty. He tossed those same hands in the air. “Emma is not loot that I can decide to keep or discard. I did not win her, nor did she expect to be trapped into marrying me. We will end the marriage as soon”—as soon as he figured out how to go about obtaining an annulment after consummating the marriage, a consummation he would never in his lifetime forget—“as we are able. Now, might we get on with the task at hand?”
“Certes, Darian. Whatever you say.”
Chapter Twelve
The day had been long and disturbing. Darian still had too many questions and too few answers to de
Salis’s murder. The same could be said about his thoughts of Emma.
He rapped on her door, unable to hold back from checking on her, almost hoping she was asleep and wouldn’t answer.
“Who is there?”
Her voice didn’t hint of sleepiness. The sun had set hours ago. Apparently she’d waited up for him.
“Darian.”
The bolt slid; the latch snicked; the door opened. Emma stood before him, garbed in her chemise, her bare toes peeking from beneath the hem. Her reddish brown hair hung loose and flowing down around her shoulders. A spark in her wide brown eyes said she was glad to see him, the slight smile on her lips both welcoming and tempting.
He stepped into the room that seemed different than the night before, though he could see little had changed. Coals glowed in the brazier. The shutters were closed. Lumps bedeviled the mattress under a fern-green woollen coverlet.
In the corner of the room sat a small table and stool that Emma must have requested from the innkeeper. On it rested a bottle of ink, a quill, and two rolled pieces of parchment. Emma’s letters to her sisters, no doubt.
“I came to ensure you are well.”
She closed the door. “Rose and I passed the day without mishap. Are you going back to Southwark?”
“Not tonight.”
She slid the bolt. He tossed his cloak on the bed and reached down to pet the wolfhound, who had bumped up against his leg to gain his attention.
“Any progress?” Emma asked.
“A bit. We learned de Salis visited one of the brothels and laid wagers on a cockfight.” The last bothered Darian. If Perrin had lost money to de Salis and couldn’t pay, the results could be fatal. “There are two men we have yet to find who could prove useful. Perhaps they will turn up on the morrow.”
Emma picked up his cloak and hung it on the peg, covering hers completely, as if he were staying the night. Heaven knew he wanted to, but he didn’t dare.
“Philip seems a nice man,” she said.
“He can be.” Darian waved a hand at the table, struggling to keep that same hand from reaching for Emma. “Philip has offered to act as courier for your letters. Will that do?”
“If you trust him, I have no reason not to. Do you wish food or drink before we retire?”
“Nay.” He wasn’t staying. In a few minutes he’d leave for the large room down the hallway. “I know the hour is late, but as long as you are awake, I have a question or two.”
She crossed her arms under her bosom, pushing her breasts up and against the thin fabric of her chemise. His mouth went dry with the memory of suckling her dark nipples.
“What about?”
“Philip said you are the daughter of a Norman baron and a Welsh princess. That makes you royalty.”
With a self-deprecating smile, she shook her head. “Not really. Oh, my heritage is ancient. Some say the lineage goes back to King Arthur, but—”
“King Arthur?”
Her smile widened. “One would think my heritage would command respect. But since it cannot be proven, it counts for little. True, my mother was the daughter of a Welsh prince, but in England it is my father’s blood that makes me noble, and he a minor baron and considered a traitor. Those at court chose to judge me on those merits alone.”
Ye gods, if the blood of Arthur Pendragon flowed in her veins... she was not only noble but the descendant of Britain’s most legendary king.
His ire rose higher than it had earlier this afternoon when contemplating her treatment at court. The king had abominably overstepped when giving her in marriage to a Flemish peasant, subjecting her to the further scorn and pity of her peers.
“Have you no relation on either side with enough power to protest our marriage on your behalf?”
“I have cousins on my father’s side who I am sure are reluctant to do aught in my favor. They are allied with King Stephen and have been appalled by my father’s support of Maud. Of my Welsh kin, they have been told of what happened after my father’s death and none have come forward to protest our treatment. I look for no aid from anyone.”
“Surely your Welsh kin would object to our marriage.” “Perhaps. I gather you have had time to consider how to go about annulling our marriage.”
“The matter crossed my mind.” And the more he’d thought about it, the angrier he’d become on Emma’s behalf. “The king crossed beyond reason when he ordered us to marry. You should not be forced to suffer wedlock to someone so far beneath you in rank.”
Emma stared at him hard before asking, “So you believe we can have the marriage set aside because of our difference in rank?”
“Perhaps. If you have no male relative who can vigorously protest the marriage, perhaps Earl William would take up the cause. Emma, why did you come forward in court? This could all have been avoided if you had not lied!”
Emma closed her eyes briefly, wondering why Darian went over this ground again. They’d had this argument before. Why couldn’t he accept what she’d told him?
“I did believe you when you told the king and bishop you were innocent, and your emphatic search for the true killer has proven me right. Sweet mercy, Darian, the guards were about to haul you out to the gallows! I could not let them do so!”
“Whyever not? What does the life of one common peasant matter to a lady of royal blood?”
Emma tightened her arms around her midriff to keep from slapping him. “I am not so full of myself that the quality of your blood matters one whit. Noble or peasant, the character of a man is measured by the truthfulness of his word and the honorable nature of his deeds. I saw an honest man accused of a crime he did not commit and sought to save him. Is that not enough?”
“Nay. You could not have truly known I did not kill de Salis. How dare you try to convince me you destroyed your standing with your peers, and set aside your aim to help Nicole, on a whim?”
A whim? How dare he! She’d agonized over the decision. “The king was ready to let you hang!”
“What matter if a man you have never met or seen before hangs?” He took hold of her upper arms, his warmth seeping through her chemise. His hazel eyes pleaded for the truth. “Why Emma? Why risk all for me?”
He would be appalled, perhaps incensed. Telling the truth might cost her dearly. But she knew he would never believe the reason she’d given, would continue to harangue her for more.
Perhaps the time had come to tell him and let fate have its way. With a great deal of trepidation, she wet her lips.
“Because I saw you...in a vision.”
His eyes narrowed. “Vision? Like in a dream?”
“I was awake, but entranced.”
Darian’s hands fell away. He stepped back. “You are a mystic?”
She rubbed at the chill his hands left behind. “I truly wish I could claim to be a mystic and my visions heavensent enlightenment. But they are not. I am merely a woman plagued by unholy revelations of people and places.”
“So I was part of an unholy revelation, and because of it, you saved me from hanging?”
Not entirely unholy. “I had no choice.”
Visibly confused, he sat on the bed. “Tell me about these visions of yours.”
She’d never revealed the existence of her visions to anyone but her mother, who’d looked on her with pity, then advised her to tell no one else. Emma had obeyed that command all these years, and disregarding her mother’s admonishment didn’t come easy.
“I began having them as a child. I discovered that if I stared too long into water, I could see . . . people or places. My mother cautioned me to not invite them and to tell no one of what had been revealed. I am sure she feared for my wits, so she wanted no one else to know. I did as she commanded.”
Darian listened intently, not seeming repulsed, so she continued.
“Some of the visions have not yet come to pass. Of those that have, one was of my mother’s death in childbirth. I did as my mother ordered and kept the vision to myself. I have wondered ever after if by warning her, she might have taken cautions that would have saved her life.”
He shook his head. “You were a child. You cannot be held responsible for your mother’s death.”
Except the child had possessed the power to interfere and had done naught. Others might excuse the child, but Emma would forever bear the guilt.
“Perhaps my mother would have died anyway, but I will never know if by sharing my knowledge, she might have lived.”
He waved a dismissive hand, apparently deciding not to argue further. “Go on.”
“From the moment of her death, I decided I would have no more visions, would never again stare into a pool of water. I had no desire to view anyone else’s death, not knowing if I should give warning or no.”
“You no longer have visions?”
Not if she could stop them.
“At times I am caught unaware, and one begins to form. If I turn away quickly and concentrate forcefully on other things, the vision dies. Do you remember at Hadone, that first night, when a servant set a washbasin before me? I looked into the water, saw it go bloody, then closed my eyes.”
“I thought you suffered the onset of a headache.” “The headaches are a result of halting the visions. If I do not act quickly enough, the ache can last for several days. I was fortunately swift at Hadone, so I did not suffer long.”
He rubbed his face, absorbing what she told him. Was he remembering how he’d carried her up the stairs, or their first kiss, which he surely hadn’t intended but happened anyway? Her head had ached horribly, but his thoughtfulness and touch had been comforting, his kiss arousing and... healing.
The thought brought her up short. No potion or poultice or prayer had ever eased her pain. Yet Darian’s kiss had seemed to lessen the ache, allowing her to sleep. Could that be possible?
How foolish! She’d stopped the vision swiftly, that was all.
“Have all your visions come to pass?”
“Not all, as yet. Of some I do not know the meaning. There is a room I have not yet entered, a door I have not yet passed through, a young girl I have not met. I suspect all will come to pass, someday.”
“So you expect your visions to come true, as the one of your mother did.”
“Aye.”
“T
he vision of me. Did you see me hang?”
Far from it. A smooth-skinned, muscular chest. A glorious smile. A man very much alive.
“Nay. You did not die in the vision.”
“Then you did not lie to save me from certain death, as you thought you should have done to save your mother.”
Damn visions. How did one explain her dilemma where they were concerned? How angry and fearful they made her feel? How confused and uncertain?
“When I saw you in court that morning, I recognized you as the man in my vision. As matters went from bad to worse, I had to decide if I could live with myself if I did not interfere. That is the horror of the visions, not knowing if I must allow matters to take their course, or if I am expected to intervene to allow the vision to come true. I did nothing to save my mother. In your case I decided that if you were to live, as you did in my vision, then I could not allow them to hang you.”
“So your interference had naught to do with your belief in my innocence?”
“I do believe you, Darian. I did then, as I do now.” “So what did I do in this vision?”
Emma took a long, steadying breath. She’d been honest with him thus far and foreswore turning coward now. “You became my lover.”
“What?” He rose from the bed, took a step toward her, then stopped. “In your vision we were lovers?”
“That is likely where I got the notion to tell the king you spent the night with me. I knew we would eventually come together, so I—”
Angrily, he pointed at the bed. “Is that what last night was about? You seduced me to make some dream come true?”
She thought she’d explained clearly. “Not a dream, but a vision that I had when I was but twelve.”
His arm lowered, his anger faded somewhat. “Twelve? So long ago?”
“Nigh on ten years now. Imagine my dilemma when I saw the man I knew would become my lover about to be hauled out to have a noose put around his neck. I had to decide what, if anything, I should do. Whether to interfere or no. Are you truly sorry I decided in your favor?”
“Aye. Nay.” He tossed his hands in the air. “How were you to know the hanging might not take place? Perhaps a witness would come forward or . . . or the king would change his mind.”
