By Grace Possessed

by Jennifer Blake

  “Because of what we did together, you mean to say.”

  His voice was deep and layered with suggestion. He searched her face, gazing into her eyes as if he weighed her every expression, every word. She could feel the heat of a flush rise from her breasts to her neck and sweep upward into her face, not all of it from embarrassment. She opened her lips to speak, but could find only a single curt word in reply. “Yes.”

  “You were not expecting me to return your property?”

  “I…don’t know what you mean.” Had she left something behind in his chamber? She could not think what it might be.

  “This, mayhap.” He reached into his sporran and drew something out, placing it carefully on the table in front of her. With a single finger, he gave it a spin. It whirled, catching the light again and again, until he stopped it suddenly, with its sharp tip pointing directly at her heart.

  A poniard. Her poniard.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed, reaching for the hilt, “where did you find it? I’ve been looking everywhere.”

  He caught her wrist, gripping hard. “When did you last see it?”

  She blinked at that stern demand, but answered readily enough. “Two evenings ago. I thought I must have lost it beneath the trestle while I ate, though the servants who break them down had not seen it. How did you come by it?” Her fingers were growing numb, but she refused to acknowledge it, just as she refused to give him the satisfaction of struggling in his grip.

  “Why, I found it in my bath.”

  “Your bath,” she repeated in blank incomprehension.

  “After it was dropped there by the assassin who tried to bury it in my back.”

  She inhaled with a sharp gasp. “And you think that I…”

  “It would be one way of making certain you need not marry. These deaths that left you and your sisters free so long have been opportune. Could it be that doing away with unwanted suitors is a family habit?”

  Anger and alarm flickered like lightning in her brain. He was her husband, in all but the final vow. If he accused her of trying to murder him, the knife might be enough to prove her guilt. The penalty would be hanging, though some wives who did away with their husbands were burned at the stake.

  She moistened lips gone suddenly dry. “You can’t believe I would be stupid enough to hand an assassin my personal knife?”

  “You might, had he no weapon of his own. It would have a certain justice about it, I will admit.”

  “Never would I have parted with it!”

  He tipped his head. “You value it more than most then.”

  “It was a gift,” she answered through stiff lips.

  “From?”

  Her fingers were turning bluish-purple. He glanced at them but did not release her.

  “A friend met at court.”

  “A friend you see no longer, else we would have met. Allow me to guess then. The Frenchman, Henry’s master of revels?”

  She stared at him, surprised out of her hauteur. “How did you know?”

  “The design, for one thing. Though in the Italian style, the workmanship is French. For the rest, I’ve heard of how familiar he was with you and your sisters, and even with Elizabeth of York.”

  “Leon was never familiar, not in the way you suggest,” Cate corrected, her voice not quite steady. “His manner was always most respectful.”

  “What, even in the throes of passion?”

  She met Ross’s dark gaze while anguish rose inside her. “There was nothing like that. You know that, know I had never—”

  Abruptly he released her, closing his fist on the knife’s hilt instead. He kept his gaze on it as he answered. “You were a virgin. That much I’ll give you.”

  “How kind of you,” she said in trembling scorn as she rubbed her wrist and hand, which tingled with a thousand pinpricks as the feeling returned. “You might also give me my knife.”

  “And have its blade rammed between my ribs? I think not.” He spun the poniard again, his gaze on the glittering show it made. “What was this Leon to you, then?”

  “I hardly see that it matters if there is to be no wedding.”

  Ross looked up, his pupils so wide his eyes looked black. “Who said not?”

  “You can hardly wish to marry a woman you think tried to kill you. But no doubt that was Trilborn’s intention. If his man did his job, then well and good. If not, it would be all the same.”

  “Trilborn is no longer with us,” Ross said evenly.

  Her smile was bleak. “But he is not long gone, and he did say, before he left, that he would see you dead.”

  “Though you failed to warn me of it.”

  “What need, when his family and yours have been threatening each other for years? I might have mentioned it, however, if I’d known you would be hunting again. I did fear that something might befall you there.”

  “Because of this threat?”

  “And the curse, though whether it was that or Trilborn’s doing, the end would have been the same,” she said impatiently. “You would have been gone.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again, so tightly his lips made a straight line. Spinning the knife in an idle gesture, he asked finally, “This Frenchman, tell me about him.”

  “He befriended us, my sisters and I, when we came to court,” she said with a resigned shrug. “Our reputation for broken betrothals preceded us, as you may imagine, and Leon was unusual enough, elegant enough, powerful enough in his way, that others followed his lead.” She looked up briefly. “That was secondary to the lead and the fashion set by the king, of course.”

  “Of course,” Ross said dryly.

  “That Leon accepted us meant the rest did the same. Afterward, there was a matter of treason, also a threat against Henry and his queen. He was forced to leave England.”

  “You loved him.” The words were quiet, but had not an iota of softness in them. They demanded an answer, though she could imagine only one reason for it. While unlikely to be jealous, Ross might be inclined to guard against any threat to his property. A wife was chattel, after all.

  “He was different from my stepfather and stepbrother, not so crude or loud or quick with his fists. He was a musician and a poet who sang of love and joy and spring. He teased and smiled instead of frowning, shouting or demanding his proper homage every instant of the day.”

  “And you loved him,” Ross said again, his tone implacable.

  “I…may have, in a way. Most young girls lose their hearts to unsuitable men at least once or twice. It meant nothing.”

  “Unsuitable.”

  “He was an agent for Louis XII, commanded to join Henry during his last weeks in exile so he might send back private reports after Henry came to the throne. If Leon had lands or title, or even a surname, he never said so, though he had a gentleman’s knowledge of letters and writing.”

  “You still look upon the knife he gave you as a treasure.”

  She disregarded that comment as inspiration struck her. “If you see that’s so, then you must also see I would never let it out of my sight.”

  “But you did.”

  “I didn’t! At least not…not intentionally. I had it at the noon meal, but missed it some time later.”

  “So it could have been taken from your chamber?”

  “It isn’t always locked, there being little worth stealing.” She gave a quick shake of her head. “It’s possible I dropped it from its scabbard while kneeling in the chapel or walking in the cloister. All I know is that it was gone, until now.”

  “A weak explanation.”

  “What else can I say? I don’t know how the man who attacked you came to have it. I only know I am not your enemy.”

  Ross snorted. “So we are back to Trilborn.”

  Cate met his gaze, angry that she must defend herself, yet willing him to believe her. “Which is more likely? He did attack you with a knife before.”

  Ross watched her while dark currents of conjecture shifted in th
e blue depths of his eyes. Then he pushed the poniard toward her.

  Slowly, she put out her hand, wrapped her fingers around the hilt. He seemed relaxed, accepting. That did not mean he was unguarded. Cate knew beyond doubt that his strength was merely held in restraint while he waited to see what she would do. The least gesture toward him with the blade would earn swift and painful retribution.

  Not that she intended such a thing. Though it was both maddening and curiously painful to have him think her capable of such a deed.

  “You believe me?” she asked, her throat tight.

  “Mayhap.”

  “And the wedding?”

  “Ah, well,” he said as he watched her slide the poniard into the scabbard that dangled from her girdle, “nothing like a bit of danger to whet a man’s appetite for bed sport with his wife.”

  12

  The wedding was not the ordeal Ross expected. It took place at the chapel doors, a simple ceremony with Cate’s sister and a handful of her friends present, as well as a few men he had hunted with or sparred with in the tilt-yard. The king, with a courtier or two and several of his yeoman guard, put in a brief appearance to make certain all transpired as he had commanded. Henry’s frown of impatience no more encouraged an extended homily from the priest than did the blustery wind laden with a hint of snow that whipped cloaks and capes around them.

  Cate huddled beside Ross with her hands thrust into the wide, flapping sleeves of her gown. He put an arm across her back, clasping her waist to steady her. The priest who stood before them wavered in the wind that lifted the graying fringe of hair around his tonsure and burrowed under his robes. The exhortations to godly and fruitful married life were as hurried as the vows he mumbled. The instant they were repeated, the good father blessed them and all who stood with them, and retreated into his sanctuary.

  The wedding feast awaited them in the great hall. It was a sumptuous repast as befitted a ward of the king, with oysters steamed in almond milk, roast venison and sanglier, or boar. Also partridges and turtledoves basted with honey and herbs, gilded calves’ heads, mutton in divers dishes, stewed cabbage, bread flavored with herbs, and tarts and custards, all washed down with spice-infused mulled wine and new-brewed ale.

  No one was in a hurry to end it, for the evening had turned a forbidding gray and the wind shrieked and howled around the palace towers. The minstrels strolled and sang, acrobats leaped and tumbled, and dancers whirled. A fine bit of mummery was presented, after which a grizzled old bard gave them a legendary tale with many a lascivious twist and dramatic turn. The king made Ross and Cate a pleasant toast, afterward sending them choice pieces of meat from his own plate as a mark of favor. The ribald jests usually offered a newly married couple rained down upon them, but were no worse than might have been expected. The fires leaped and smoke hazed the air as wind gusts forced gray clouds of it into the great hall. Voices grew louder and ever more raucous as servants moved up and down the tables with their flagons, refilling tankards, beakers and the goblets of the high table.

  Ross ate with hearty appetite, but the same could not be said for Cate. She sipped her matrimonial wine, but merely crumbled the bread he gave her, nibbled at the roast pork he offered, ate only a mouthful of the apple slice he put on her salver. Dark circles lay beneath her eyes, like stains on her pale face. Her mouth had little color. If she heard the vulgar jokes at her expense, she gave no indication of it.

  Even so, she was beautiful beyond telling in her dark green velvet, with her unbound hair lying upon it in unfair competition with its embroidery in golden thread. His gaze was drawn to the tender turn of her neck, the pale skin of her throat and the delicate hint of her breasts at the line of her bodice. The need to soothe her fears, warm her, protect her from all that fate might bring, warred inside him with the hot urge to have her naked and trembling beneath him. He knew she wanted nothing of him, that she dread what was soon to come, due to his temper. Knave that he was, he could not find it in himself to spare her.

  She was the prize he was owed for being inveigled into this marriage, and he would not be denied it. That he had tasted it once already was a fine boon, but not enough, not nearly enough. He meant to take her by candlelight, without defenses, weapons or artifice. He intended to explore every inch of her delectable body, to imprint it upon his mind past forgetting. He wanted to make her press against him, moving, pleading to be taken.

  He wanted her to want him. Whether he would have that much from her was more than he could guess. How could he, when he suspected she preferred a dead husband to a live one?

  Henry appeared bored and restless, as if he would rather be elsewhere. Now and then Ross felt the cool royal gaze resting upon him. It was no great surprise when, two hours into the meal, he was summoned to Henry’s side.

  “What is it?” Cate asked as she put a hand on his arm to detain him. “Have you any idea?”

  “Not a one, but I suppose we shall see.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

  Uneasiness shadowed her eyes. She still expected some last minute end to their marriage, he realized with a taut feeling at the back of his neck. She might well be right.

  Regardless, it behooved him to play the doting bridegroom for their audience. Lifting her chilled, almost bloodless fingers from his arm, he carried them to his lips. “Never fear,” he said. “Nothing will interfere with the wedding night before us.”

  Anger brought color to the elegant planes of her face. “That is not my concern.”

  “No,” he drawled with a curl to his lips, “but ’tis mine.”

  “There are other things more important.”

  “Mayhap, but they are not on my mind at the moment. If they are on yours, it will not be for long.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply, not because he thought she wouldn’t have one but because he was sure she would. He was in no mood for more prophesies of doom.

  Henry had pushed back from the table and angled his canopied throne chair, Ross saw as he approached. He moved closer at a gesture, going to one knee close enough for quiet converse.

  It was nearer to the king than he had been in days. Though he had hunted with him, eaten with him, lounged with him in rough hunting manses, they had spoken so little Ross had begun to think it deliberate, a quiet threat.

  “So you are wed and have lived to tell the tale,” Henry said in sardonic amusement.

  “As you say, sire. At least to this point.”

  The king’s lids lowered over his deep-set eyes, hiding his expression. “You do not wear the complete set of wedding garments that was our gift. Did the remainder not please you?”

  “Verily, Your Majesty, how could they not? I am grateful for your generosity. Still, I am a Scotsman, and no manner of embroidered silk and fur trimming can disguise or change that.” He had donned the velvet doublet that was a mate for Cate’s gown, along with his shirt and his plaid, but that was all.

  “You are stubborn, as with most of your kind.”

  Ross merely inclined his head. There was no point in denying the obvious.

  “Chance favors you, however, or so we are told. You escaped being knifed in your bath last evening.”

  “As you say.”

  “Fair fortune is often a better quality to possess than expertise in combat, though you must have that, as well, that you fended off this attack. So. You have vanquished the curse of the Graces to take the lady. We are pleased.”

  “No more than I, Your Majesty.”

  The ghost of a smile slid over Henry’s face, then was gone. He sat forward in the chair, resting his elbows on its arms as he lowered his voice. “We extend every wish for future happiness to you and Lady Catherine. Toward that end, we have made certain arrangements.”

  “Sire?”

  “As indicated when the marriage was broached, a sizable estate known as Grimes Hall has been made over to you in token of our approval. It is our desire that you occupy this holding without delay. You will dep
art in the morning.”

  Ross could not help the frown that settled upon his face at this arbitrary command. However, it seemed best to be clear about it before he protested. “Alone, sire?”

  “By no means. Lady Catherine will travel with you in company with her sister and their serving woman, and with ample knights and men-at-arms to ensure your safe passage. You will proceed to Braesford with all haste. There you will present our compliments to your newly acquired brother-in-law and give him our order to man the pele tower of his manse until further notice, that we may not be surprised by invasion from the east. Afterward, you may journey to Grimes Hall at your leisure, there to make survey of its men, discovering their fitness for our need.”

  In other words, Ross thought, he was to ride northward into the teeth of a snowstorm while surrounded by three females and their baggage, plus a sizable escort and the supply horses required to serve their needs. He was to become a good Englishman, inspecting his estates and seeing to it that Henry had access to whatever men and supplies he might demand from this demesne he had given away.

  It was not how Ross had intended to spend the days following his wedding. Regardless, he had no fear of cold or snow, and at least the journey would be in the right direction, northward toward the border.

  “As you command.”

  “Excellent.” Henry allowed himself a smile. “And now I daresay you would be grateful if we took our queen and retired.”

  No one was permitted to leave table or hall while the king remained, not even an eager bridegroom. “It would be a boon, sire,” Ross answered in wry acknowledgment.

  “It shall be soon, when some small time has passed so it need not appear a result of our discussion.”

  Ross inclined his head, suddenly glad he was no anointed king who must consider every word and action in light of how it might reflect upon all else. He was grateful he had not been required to marry for reasons of state, would not be seeking a marriage bed made chilly by duty and politics.