by Cathy MacRae
“Close the gates!” Simon commanded as the riders swept through the barbican. Chains rattled as the portcullis dropped. Shouts rang out from Edmund’s camp.
“It’s my horse! I demand justice!” His fists gripped the iron bars as he stared at the retreating riders. He shoved away with a curse, shaking his fist in the air.
Geoffrey ignored him. Every ounce of his being was centered on not murdering the young woman before him. She slid from the horse’s back, her knees buckling before she righted. Geoffrey stared at her, making no move to lend her support. Marsaili lifted her chin, strain etched across her muddy face, her eyes defiant.
“Get inside,” Geoffrey bit out, not trusting himself to say anything further.
Shoulders back, she stalked past him into the hall. Geoffrey signaled to a servant. “Bring water for her bath.”
He followed Marsaili up the stairs and into the rooms she’d vacated two days earlier. Hitching along, leaning heavily on his cane, he disregarded the ache in his leg. He slammed the door closed and Marsaili whirled, fear flaring for an instant in her eyes. Beatrice darted across the floor, barking happily, dancing about on her hind legs, seeking attention. Marsaili gave the dog’s head a pat then faced Lord de Wylde.
“What are ye doing?” she demanded.
“You need a good dunking and I need answers to a few questions.”
She propped her fists on her hips. “Not whilst I bathe, milord. I will speak with ye when I am finished. Leave the room, please.”
“And let you out of my sight again?” Geoffrey queried, shaking his head. “I have no wish to chase you down again.”
“Ye? Chase me down?” Marsaili swept him with a derisive gaze. “Ye couldnae chase down a tethered sheep.”
“Do you try my patience further?” he asked, astonished at her baiting.
A tap at the door silenced their animosity. “Enter,” Geoffrey snapped, moving away from the door as four lads hurried in with buckets of steaming water. Beatrice harried their heels as they emptied the containers into the tub and departed in haste. Geoffrey pushed the door closed.
Marsaili struggled to maintain her composure. She was tired to the very marrow of her bones, and in no condition to do battle with Lord de Wylde. A faint aroma of lavender wafted from the tub, legacy of other baths, beckoning her. She ached all over, including her heart.
I was so close! I could have lived my life never seeing him again, and would have been content.
But would she? His betrayal cut deeply, but he’d dragged her upstairs to a bath, not flung her to Edmund and his soldiers. A bath!
Geoffrey scraped a chair from the hearth to the doorway to the bathing chamber, angling it just enough to provide her a modicum of privacy. And no chance for escape.
“Be quick.”
Certain he settled into the chair, Marsaili entered the small room and peeled off her grimy clothes. She kicked them to the side and grabbed a handful of dried lavender as she stepped into the tub. Comfort enveloped her, as paralyzing as physical restraints, and she surrendered to the caress of the water.
She quickly soaped her hair, then set about scrubbing her skin, removing the embedded mud and stench.
“You rode due north.” It was a statement from Lord de Wylde, not a question, and Marsaili sighed.
“Aye. And mayhap a bit west. I dinnae know the bogs were so deep. Or so . . . boggy.”
“They are dangerous if you are not exceedingly careful. I am glad my men were able to get you out.”
Marsaili rolled a square of linen for a cushion, then leaned her head against the rim of the tub. Closing her eyes, she wondered how long he would let her soak before he demanded answers to his questions. Would he then turn her over to Edmund? Would his sense of right and wrong deny her justice?
Her eyes watered, and she wiped angrily at them as helplessness rippled through her.
“Tell me, Marsaili,” Geoffrey began. “Is this a ploy from Edmund to take you? Or are you guilty of murdering your husband?”
Marsaili turned, staring at him over the edge of the tub. “’Tis true, milord. I am responsible for Andrew’s death.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Geoffrey stood, his frame looming in the doorway. Tall. Dark. Unyielding. Marsaili swallowed. Hard. A frisson of unease shivered down her spine.
“Get out of the bath. Now. We need to talk.”
He disappeared into the bedroom and Marsaili climbed from the tub, wrapping her hair in a length of linen as she quickly dried off. She glanced about, finding a wrap hanging on a hook by the door. She slipped her arms into the voluminous sleeves and draped the soft, heavy fabric about her, belting it securely at her waist. Beatrice bounded to her feet as though she anticipated something exciting.
Marsaili shook her head at the dog. “This isnae going to be fun, wee dog. Ye may wish to stay in here.”
Beatrice ignored the warning and pranced happily beside Marsaili as she entered the bedroom.
Lord de Wylde sat in one of the cushioned chairs next to the hearth. His gaze bore into hers. Stern. Determined. Inflexible.
“Are ye judge and executioner?” she asked. Her knees shook.
He motioned to the empty chair. “Sit. Please.”
Marsaili made it to the chair without incident and seated herself gracefully, sweeping the luxurious wrap about her, conscious of the rasp of the fabric against her bare skin. She unbound her hair and let it drape over her shoulder, finger combing the long strands before the fire.
“Shall we start from the beginning?” Lord de Wylde asked, his tone smooth. Calm. Steel.
Marsaili raised a brow. “Ye want to know how I killed Andrew?”
Lines tightened across his brow, giving her the only indication he was disturbed by her words.
“Did you kill him? Marsaili, it would help if you told me the entire story.”
She gave him an angry shrug. “Why? ’Tis apparent yer English king is on Edmund’s side. Edmund wouldnae have come here without the writ you asked for.” Belligerence kept her tears at bay, for she knew Lord de Wylde had no choice but to hand her over to Edmund. His code would not allow him to defy his king, and the truth would only make him despise her.
“I have my reasons,” he said. “—which I will share with you after I hear your side of the tale.”
Marsaili studied him intently. His amber eyes were dark. Hard. Compelling.
She’d trusted him once. Dare she try again?
She had nothing left to lose.
Geoffrey begged her silently. Give me one good reason—any reason at all to be your champion.
“I will not turn you over to Edmund. No matter what you tell me, the Bishop alone has the right to decide your fate.”
Her eyes glowed with sudden tears. “’Twas not intentional.”
He leaned forward and clasped her hands in his. “Then tell me.”
Beatrice whined and leapt into Marsaili’s lap, sparking a small smile as Marsaili pulled from Geoffrey’s grip and helped the dog cuddle in the folds of fabric. Geoffrey settled back in his chair, his muscles relaxing somewhat from their tension. She wasn’t making this easy on him.
“Andrew and Edmund had entered an argument. Edmund lost his sword and grabbed another from a display on the wall. Truly furious, Edmund plunged the sword into Andrew’s side, though it appeared an accident. For days, Andrew languished, feverish, dying. I’m no healer, but I remained at his side, wiping his brow, spooning broth between his lips. After more than a sennight, he awoke.”
Geoffrey frowned. “I thought he died.”
Marsaili glanced down, fingers plucking at Beatrice’s wiry fur. “He remained verra weak for many days. ’Twas difficult for him to draw a full breath. He seemed to fight through this, and began to take a bit of exercise, slow steps across the room. He couldnae manage the stairs—he collapsed the only time he attempted it. He took over my solar above stairs, and I moved my things to replace his on the ground floor. For a time, he remained about the same and dinnae
worsen.”
“Were the two of you in accord?” Forgive me, Marsaili, but I have to ask.
She sent him a hard look. “We lived our lives separate for the most part. After years with no children, there was nothing to hold us together other than our vows.” She shrugged. “We dinnae hate each other, though I can say I dinnae miss him much.”
Her sharp tone tugged at his heart. She had been trapped between a loveless marriage and a man who coveted his brother’s title. “What happened?”
“He and Edmund spent much time closeted together. I heard Edmund more than once demand Andrew turn the title over to him, citing poor health. Andrew wasnae of Edmund’s warring temperament, but he was stubborn. There were great shouting matches in the solar, and I believe his arguments with Edmund exhausted him.”
“That does not explain why you say you killed him.”
“’Twas a few days after one such episode that Andrew called me to him. He said he’d kicked the metal brazier that heated the room and broke his toe. ’Twas a horrible color—black and red and green—and verra swollen. I had the healer attend him, but the toe became putrid and nothing helped.”
Marsaili’s skin blanched. “Angry streaks of red flamed upward, followed soon by the green and black of dying flesh. Andrew knew what was happening. He knew it would eventually consume him. He knew his death wouldnae be pleasant. The healer wanted to amputate his foot. He refused.” She sent Geoffrey a pleading look.
“He begged me to kill him.”
* * *
He begged me.
Damn! Did it excuse her actions, or was she responsible for murder? Geoffrey mulled over her words, viewing them from every possible angle.
I wouldnae agree. I couldnae end his life, though he pleaded with me daily. The healer mixed a concoction for me to administer when he became hysterical, and it sent him into a deep sleep. Thank God, it gave him rest.
She alone had been responsible for Andrew’s care. Edmund had shunned the sickroom, though the smell alone could have driven the most stalwart away. Andrew became demanding, panicky, prone to violent bursts of temper. Not the man remembered by most. The entire castle reeled from the lord’s impending death and the heavy drinking binges Edmund indulged in, knowing the lordship would soon be his.
Sometimes I gave Andrew the potion three or four times a day. ’Twas no time at all before his waking moments were filled with bitterness. He called me a coward. Uncaring. Glad to see him suffer. ’Twas not true. I couldnae wish such a death on anyone.
Geoffrey recalled the endless days she’d chattered at his bedside, coaxing Beatrice to show him her new tricks, engaging Simon or Walter in witty debate. He’d never met a more caring person than Marsaili. She was compassionate. Concerned.
He became withdrawn. Irritable. Feverish. I fetched another potion, but when I returned, he was already in a deep sleep. I placed the mug on the table beside him.
I escaped the room. It was heaven to breathe the fresh air on the battlements. I knew my clothing and hair stank from endless hours in the sickroom. I knew Andrew would wake soon and become frantic if I wasnae there. But I stayed away until dark.
When I returned to Andrew’s room, he was dead.
* * *
“What does yer Church say about assisting a suicide?” she asked.
Lord de Wylde remained silent for a few moments. “You did not kill Andrew.” His words flat. Final.
Marsaili’s throat was raw with unshed tears, swollen with the remembered horror of what she’d done. “Edmund entered the room a moment later. My hand was on the mug. It took him less than a second to inform me he’d heard Andrew ask me for a potion to hasten his death. He accused me of poisoning Andrew.”
She lifted her shoulders in a weary shrug. “Mayhap I did. I prayed every day for his end to come. I’d considered the potion the healer mixed. Wondered what would happen if he drank too much.”
“Just because Edmund said you poisoned Andrew does not mean you did. And his word alone will not convict you.”
Marsaili sent him a withering look. “Not in a court, but who’s to say I would be tried by the king’s man?”
“Edmund had no right to deny you justice!” Geoffrey rumbled, his face red.
“He thought so!” Marsaili flung back. “Andrew died four months ago. I spent almost two months in his stinking dungeon, begging for food. Light. Someone to talk to.”
Geoffrey leaned forward and caught her upper arms in his hands and dragged her into his lap, perched across his good leg. She fought him, then sagged into his embrace, crying bitterly. Beatrice leapt to the floor, attaining the bed in one effortless bound. Geoffrey smoothed a hand over Marsaili’s hair, repeating the motion until she was fairly drugged with the gentle caress.
“There was an investigation,” she hiccupped. “Andrew’s death was ruled a suicide. I know ’twas an accident. If I hadnae left the mug where he could reach it . . . .”
“He wasn’t in his right mind, Marsaili. He was dying and afraid. I’ve seen battle-hardened men quail at the thought of amputation. Neither he nor you are to blame.”
Marsaili sighed. “It doesnae matter. Edmund has sworn a warrant for me. He is prepared to hang me if I dinnae capitulate and marry him.”
“How do you know this?”
She lifted her face. “Edmund visited me in the dungeon on three separate occasions. He told me Andrew had been buried at night, face down, a stake driven through his heart to anchor his spirit to this world. He said if I did not agree to marry him, he would have me convicted as a co-conspirator with Andrew. For my crime against God and the Church, I would receive the same treatment.”
Geoffrey placed gentle fingers under her chin, his thumb caressing her cheek. “You are safe here. Never doubt that. He cannot harm you and I will not turn you over to him.”
“You kept me here until he could come for me,” she accused, though the words had lost much of their validity.
“Nay. I did not think he would actually go this far. And even if he did, he could not accuse the wife of a baron.”
“What do you mean?” Marsaili’s head began to spin as exhaustion dulled her mind.
“I mean, sweet Marsaili, when you ran from Edmund two days ago, I was only moments away from asking you to marry me.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Marsaili stared at him. “Ye’d ask me to marry ye?”
Geoffrey shook his head and eased her to her feet. “No.”
“Not now?” she sneered, shame recoiling into anger.
Geoffrey rose, standing a bare hand’s breadth from her, making her crane her neck to see his face. “’Tis not that easy, now.”
“Ye will offer me sanctuary, but not yer name,” she mocked. “The Saint has his code to live by. He always does the right thing.” Her voice rose, scathing. “It would not be proper to sully his name with a woman who—”
With a muted roar, Geoffrey gripped her upper arms and jerked her against his body. His mouth slanted across hers, stilling her bitterness, commanding her to silence. Listen. Feel.
Sparks burst through her at his touch, igniting a desire that reverberated through her veins. Rising on her toes, she arched against him, pressing her body to his, demanding he feed the hunger he ignited.
She cupped his face in her hands. He shoved his hands inside her wrap, loosening it. The velvet rasped her sensitive skin, and she shrugged it off her shoulders. Geoffrey snatched the belt free and the fabric sagged to the floor, disregarded. His hands prowled her skin, sparking streaks of passion low in her belly. He circled his thumbs on her nipples, his touch tightening them beyond enduring. Marsaili mewled, sliding one knee along his hip as she pressed closer.
He gathered her against him, his breath harsh in her ears. His hands splayed across her back, his motions slow, gentling. Marsaili shattered as he pulled away.
“Then let me go home,” she whispered, knowing she could not stay and deny the attraction between them. And she would not stay and be his mistress
.
To her surprise, he grinned at her.
“’Tis not easy, because I would not know if you married me because you love me or because you merely wished to escape the hangman’s noose.”
Marsaili gasped. “’Tis no way to jest!”
“Look at it from my standpoint, milady. I could marry you—but at what concession from you? I do not wish to ponder your motives.” He brushed lightly at the bulge in the front of his breeches, and Marsaili quirked an eyebrow, impressed. He gave her a searing look and a quick kiss, then grabbed his cane.
She fisted her hands on her bare hips, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Where are ye going?”
“To talk to Edmund.”
* * *
Geoffrey was able to pull himself away from Marsaili only with steely determination he hadn’t experienced in many months. Though Marsaili hadn’t exactly argued with him about becoming his wife, she had taken his hesitation poorly and there was only one thing he could do about it. Dispense with Edmund’s obsession once and for all. He could then return and put the question of marriage to her in no uncertain terms. Perhaps taking up where they left off . . . .
He nodded to the pair of guards in the hall outside Marsaili’s door and continued to the stair, maintaining a steady, careful tread on the worn stone. Simon appeared at the foot of the stairs, his face first registering surprise, then unease.
“How fares Milady?” he asked.
“She is in a bit of a tear,” Geoffrey admitted.
Simon fell into slow step with him. Geoffrey passed the head of the stairs and continued to his rooms. Bracing his cane against the chair, he dragged his chain mail from its stand. Simon assisted solemnly, though Geoffrey could tell he barely contained his questions. At last Geoffrey relented.
“She alone nursed her late husband who suffered from a gangrenous toe. He begged her to help him die on more than one occasion.” Geoffrey shrugged the surcoat into a better fit across his shoulders and reached for his gauntlets.
“She left the healer’s potion within reach and ’tis her reasoning he drank it too soon, not knowing its effects. Whether he drank it on accident or not, Edmund accused her of assisting his brother to his death.”
