Much Ado About Marriage

by Karen Hawkins

  “Nay,” he said with apparent disbelief. His eyes held hers, a disturbing flicker in their brown depths. Then his gaze wandered lower, and Fia instantly became aware of her lack of clothing and her ungraceful position.

  With a mad scramble, she closed her legs and tried to cover her breasts and reach for the towel all at the same time. Her hand closed about the towel, but Thomas’s booted feet held it firmly to the floor. An unexpected grin lit his face.

  The most she could do was cross one leg over the other, fold her hair over her chest, and hope the soapy water hid the rest.

  “I’ve already seen everything you’re trying so hard to cover, comfit,” he said in a dry tone.

  He had, but that didn’t prevent her cheeks from burning. “I know, but—” She’d been too distracted then to think about it. Now things seemed different. “What . . . why are you here?”

  He leaned against the desk and lazily pulled the towel toward him with his foot. “I wished to speak with you privately.”

  She tugged on the towel again, but his foot remained firmly in place. ’Tis rude of you to deny me a towel. The water’s growing cold.”

  His gaze flickered to her breasts, and his gaze heated. “So I see.”

  She glanced down and saw that her nipples peeked through her hair. Her cheeks burned brighter and she hurriedly crossed her arms over her breasts as she tossed about in her head for another topic—any other topic.

  Her frantic gaze found the blue shoe on the table. “Thomas, the blue shoes from your trunk—who are they for?”

  “The queen, if she likes them.”

  Relief, pure and lifting, washed through her. Suddenly feeling years younger and freer, she nodded. “The queen will love them. What woman does not love pretty things?”

  “True.”

  “And men, too,” she added.

  “Nay. Men prefer things of use.”

  “Montley would beg to differ.”

  “Montley does differ,” Thomas replied, “in every area you could name.”

  Fia didn’t want to think of Robert right now. Thomas looked so handsome, and she was achingly aware of him. She wanted to press herself against him, pull his loose shirt from his broad shoulders, and run her fingers through the crisp hair on his chest.

  Sweet Saint Catherine, I need to maintain some dignity! It took all her resolve to gather her wits, but she did. “Robert’s a rare one. ’Tis as hard to teach manners to a pig as ’tis to get Robert to speak sensibly. I had a pig once who was said to possess some magic. I called him King Arthur.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “Duncan wanted Arthur for Michaelmas dinner. I tried to help Arthur, but no matter how wide I left the gate, he refused to leave his pen. I tried putting a lead about his neck to take him to a safer place, but he squealed enough to wake the dead.”

  Thomas tried to tear his gaze from her mouth long enough to follow her recital. “And?”

  She frowned, and he was captivated by the slight crease between her eyes. What would she do if he kissed it?

  “Och, well, I discovered that the problem was Arthur wouldn’t leave his trough. He even slept in it, so attached was he. Duncan laughed and said ’twas a sure sign Arthur was meant for the table, but I don’t believe in fate. Do you?” Black eyes fixed on him in silent appeal.

  He heard himself reply with all of the assurance of a professional swineherd, “Nay. Many pigs sleep in their troughs.”

  “So I thought, too.” Her brow creased again. “But Duncan was determined to eat him, for truly there was never so fat a pig as Arthur. So one night I bribed the kitchen maids to help me heft Arthur’s trough onto an old wagon, then we coaxed Arthur into following it up a makeshift ramp.”

  “So you saved him.”

  “I think so,” she answered cautiously, her even white teeth catching at her lower lip.

  “But?” he prompted, wishing he could release her lip with a kiss of his own.

  She shrugged, the moment causing her breasts to peek through the curtain of her hair again. Thomas gripped the edge of the desk with both hands and willed himself to look into her eyes.

  Fia continued, blithely unaware of Thomas’s struggle. “Several months after I helped Arthur escape, an uncommon amount of sausage appeared at the keep. I was suspicious that Duncan had found the poor pig, but he never would say.”

  As she contemplated the probable outcome of King Arthur, her lip quivered slightly, and Thomas hurriedly changed the subject.

  “I hate to distress you, comfit, but we need to speak of something more complex than the fate of Arthur the pig.”

  Her dark eyes flew to him, and after a pause she nodded.

  “Fia, ’tis obvious that we can no longer seek an annulment. Especially now that you might be with child.”

  She paled. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I should never have touched you last night. I’m not usually overcome by desire, but . . . there is something between us.”

  “Something,” she repeated, disappointment coloring her tone. “That’s what you think ’tis? Just something?”

  She wanted it to be more—the realization froze his heart. He set his jaw. “Aye, ’tis passion and naught else. What else could it be?”

  Fia forced her lips into a smile. “You may have changed your mind, but I have not. I have no wish to wed.” It amazed her that she managed to say the words without a quaver, for her heart was jagged from his coldness.

  “Fia, we have no choice.”

  “We do. We can wait to see if there is a babe, and if not, we can continue to pursue a dissolution of the marriage.”

  “But . . . your innocence. When you marry again—” He clamped his mouth closed.

  “That is my problem and not yours,” she replied coolly. “I came to London to procure a sponsor for my plays, not a husband, so my virginity was my own to dispose of as I wished.” That sounded very far-thinking and strong.

  “I cannot in good conscience agree with you.”

  “Och, don’t be foolish,” she snapped, her voice hard with the strain of holding back her tears. “’Tis not your decision but mine. And I want the end of this marriage.” Now more than ever. How could she remain married to a man who saw their passion as something to regret? Something to wish he could undo?

  Thomas raked a hand through his hair. “Fia, I don’t think you—”

  There was a knock on the door and Simmons said, “Cap’n, ye had best come quick. Lord Montley has been going over the charts and thinks we’ve been blown off course. We need to make a correction forthwith.”

  Thomas cursed but turned to the door. “We’ll speak some more when I return; we must come to an understanding.”

  “We already have.” She rubbed her goose-bumped arms, the water already cooling. “Last night was a pleasant interlude, that’s all. There’s nothing more to discuss.”

  Thomas realized that she was repeating his own decisions to him, her voice so distant that she might have been speaking of someone else. Somehow she made him feel deficient, as if he’d offered her a grave insult of some sort.

  Irritation surged and he scowled. Damn it, this wasn’t how he’d wished this conversation to go. Yet, looking into her cool, clear gaze, he couldn’t find a single word to defend himself.

  His chest heavy, he bowed. “I will leave you then.”

  “Thank you,” she returned coolly, her eyes unnaturally bright.

  She looked forlorn somehow, sitting in the too-small tub, her long, wet hair tangled about her slender shoulders and cascading across her proud breasts. Her chin was tilted high though her eyes were shining with unshed tears. The entire situation tugged at his heart in a way he couldn’t bear to examine.

  Thomas pulled his gaze from her and strode to the door, wishing he knew what words could untangle this moment. But none came, so with a short nod, he left.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The warmth of the sun settled upon Thomas’s upturned face as a light sea bree
ze flirted with the sails. While he welcomed the lack of storm clouds, the sunshine did nothing to lighten his mood.

  The storm had blown them farther off course than Thomas had expected, the crew was restive, and worst of all, Fia had confined herself to her cabin.

  A week ago, he would have paid for her to have made that decision. Now he found himself glancing about the deck, feeling as if something vital was missing.

  He wasn’t the only one; Simmons and some of the other crew members had wistfully noted her absence, a few wondering aloud if someone had offended her.

  In all of his days on ship, and of the hundred or so lords and ladies he’d consented to carry, none had impacted his crew the way Fia had. Apparently he wasn’t the only one bewitched by her presence. Surely that proved that he wasn’t succumbing to some sort of odd magic after all.

  With Fia’s self-imposed banishment, Robert was free to wander about needling the hapless Simmons, who retaliated enthusiastically. Their bickering now took the place of the music and lighthearted banter, and Thomas hated all of it.

  While his days were fully busy, he had long nights to lie awake and think. He found himself wondering if, in his zeal to reassure Fia that he would see to his responsibilities by her, he hadn’t in some way lost something far more important—her respect.

  Simmons hurried up to him now. “Me lord, we’re ready to turn into the head of the Thames and there’s a signal on the east bank.” He handed his spyglass to Thomas.

  Thomas held it to his eye. “A red flag—Walsingham’s signal. They are waiting for us.”

  “That’s good news, isn’t it, Cap’n?”

  “Good enough.” Thomas closed the eyeglass and handed it back to his first mate. “As soon as we land, I must meet the minister. You will take Lady Fia, her servants, and our cargo to Rotherwood House. Lord Montley will escort you.”

  “If ye don’t mind me sayin’ so, I don’t need Lord Montley’s help.”

  “I know, but I don’t wish him to follow me. He and Walsingham don’t see eye to eye.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  Thomas turned back toward the riverbank. In London he’d head to the tavern where he and Walsingham often met, away from the scrutiny and intrigue of the court.

  The minister would be disappointed Thomas hadn’t retrieved the letter, yet Thomas didn’t really care. He had bigger concerns now.

  He sighed and watched the bank as it slid by. Things would be better now that he was home. They couldn’t possibly be worse.

  The Blue Stag Tavern was like a hundred others along the waterfront. Its dark, dirty taproom held the stale odor of rotting timbers and unwashed bodies, while a jumble of uneven tables and broken chairs littered the room. Though the hour was early, several of the more hardy patrons already sat hunched with bleary-eyed hostility over bent pewter mugs.

  Thomas made his way past the scarred tables. A gaunt dog bared his teeth, protecting a sliver of bone he had managed to steal from the kitchen. Thomas was glad Fia wasn’t there; she’d no doubt have wished to adopt the beast.

  He resolutely pushed away the thought. He couldn’t afford to be distracted right now. As much as he respected and trusted Lord Walsingham, by the nature of the power the old man held, one would be a fool to take the association lightly.

  At the very back of the taproom, leaning against a wall by a small door, sat an immense man, his boots worn and cracked with age, his black leather tunic marred by an array of unidentifiable stains. Small eyes glowered at Thomas from under heavy, scraggly brows.

  “Hail, Goliath,” Thomas said in greeting. “I come to see ‘Leticia.’”

  “What ’ave ye got to give fer it?”

  Goliath was Walsingham’s guard and “Letty” was the code name to gain entrance to the meeting room. Walsingham probably didn’t know Goliath had taken to demanding gold along with the password, which amused Thomas, so he encouraged the practice by paying.

  Thomas pulled a coin from his purse. “Here.” He flipped it into the air. The coin was deftly caught and disappeared into the greasy tunic, but the giant remained blocking the door.

  “What’s this? Let me by; I’ve paid the toll.”

  The man shook his head, his gaze moving beyond Thomas. “It’s two coins if Letty’s to take on both ye and yer fancy friend.”

  “My fancy frie—” Thomas looked over his shoulder. “Damn you, Montley! What are you doing here?”

  Robert flourished a bow that drew every eye in the dank tavern. “Why, I’ve come to see the wondrous Letty! I apologize for my lateness, but I found myself with naught but rags to wear.” Robert was even more elaborately dressed than usual. His velvet doublet glimmered, the deep purple shot through with gold threads that caught the dim light and made him almost iridescent.

  Thomas noted sourly that the gaze of every cutthroat in the taproom was now transfixed on Robert, their faces reflecting varying degrees of amazement and greed.

  With a flourish of lace and grace, Robert tossed a coin to Goliath.

  The giant caught it, held it up to the light, and then grunted. He lumbered to his feet. “I’ll send Letty in to ye as soon as she’s able.”

  Thomas threw the door open and stalked into the room, Robert’s measured tread behind him.

  As soon as the door closed, Thomas turned to Robert. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Robert tossed his cloak onto a chair. “I came to protect you from your own ambition.”

  “I don’t need any protection.”

  “You do, and ’tis my right to provide it. I and my sisters owe you our lives and I’ll not forget it.”

  “You owe me naught but peace. Now leave.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Have you seen the street outside?” Robert lowered his voice to a whisper. “The alleys are narrow and fraught with dangers.”

  “You arrived without mishap,” Thomas pointed out in a dry tone.

  “I followed you. None would dare harm me so long as I remained within the safety of your shadow.” Robert dusted off a rickety chair. “So here I remain until you leave, safe and sound.” He sat down and stretched out his legs, the gloss of his black leather boots reflecting the weak blaze in the fireplace.

  After sending Robert a hard glance, Thomas went to stand beside the fire. The room was little better than the taproom, the table greasy and the chairs broken and dirty. The only spot of freshness was a bowl of green apples sitting upon the table.

  Thomas scowled at a small pot steaming over the gasping blaze as though in defiance of the chill wind that whistled occasionally through the plank walls. The chamber was cold, damp, and foul, and for once, he didn’t appreciate Walsingham’s turn for the dramatic.

  He kicked at a loose ember, wondering what Fia would think of Rotherwood House. His father had won it from the estate of the Duke of Northumberland after that schemer had been sent to the Tower for treason. It was large and impressive, built of gray stonework set with narrow windows. It had been built to intimidate, not welcome.

  After his father’s death, Thomas had added a large fountain of warm yellow stone to the front lawn, ordered his gardeners to maintain flowers and topiaries for as many months as the seasons would allow, and added a portico crowned with flowers. The last had been Robert’s suggestion, and Thomas had to admit that it helped.

  He rubbed his face, feeling suddenly weary. What do I care what Fia thinks of my house? She’s not the woman for me, nor does she wish to be. She’s still impulsive, opinionated, unconventional, and—he closed his eyes—completely adorable.

  It was madness, complete and utter. He didn’t just want her; he craved her, yearned for her, day and night.

  Was this the madness that drove my mother from our house? All these years, I’ve done what I could to be more like Father, but inside I always feared what I now know: I am as impulsive, impatient, and ruled by passion as my mother.

  The door swung open and a barmaid sauntered in, her russet hair contained beneath a surp
risingly clean scrap of lace. Her blue gown was torn and ill patched in a dozen places, but it was neatly pressed and fit her figure well. She flashed a smile and clunked two mugs of ale onto the scarred table, her overflowing breasts pressing against the inadequate scrap of muslin tucked into her bodice as she leaned over.

  Robert drained his mug with startling quickness.

  “I can see yer lordship is the thirstin’ kind.” The maid flashed a saucy smile at Robert, her eyes glinting hazel in the dim light. “Perhaps ye’re wishful fer some more ale?”

  He captured her hand, murmuring soulfully, “Forget the ale, sweet maid Leticia! Do but reside within mine heart, warming it until the coldness of death shall overtake it.”

  She pulled her hand free with a brisk tug. “Me name is Annie, no’ Leticia. Letty’s on her way, so I wouldn’t waste no time if’n I was ye.”

  Robert clutched at his chest. “Fair cruelty! I seek but to please thee and instead I am sent away, sore and rejected as a beaten dog from the beckoning warmth of a hearth.”

  Anne sniffed. “Me duties don’t include entertainin’ the customers in no way other than servin’ ale.”

  Thomas stirred restlessly. God’s blood, where is Walsingham? The man had to be expecting him; the wily old fox knew every time a ship turned into harbor.

  Suddenly a shadow darkened the doorway as an old man stood within the opening, his dirty face shadowed by a ragged cloak. “I’ve come to beg a word with me daughter.” The voice cracked with weariness; the thin, dirty hand gripping the cloak shook with the palsy of age.

  “Da!” The barmaid bustled to the door. “What are ye thinkin’ t’ be comin’ down here? ’Tis in bed ye should be, not wanderin’ about!”

  “Let me be, daughter. Do I look t’ be dead yet?” The old man began to cough, swaying dangerously.

  “Come, Da.” Annie pulled the old man from the doorway and fixed a pleading gaze on Robert. “Do ye mind if me da sits a spell here in yer room? He won’t be no trouble, I promise. He can leave as soon as Letty comes fer ye.”

  Robert ignored Thomas’s frowned warning. “Of course. Pray, bring the good man something to eat as well. He’ll feel better once he’s had some food.”