by Mimi Riser
Chapter 4
“Nooooo…”
A blood-curdling shriek split through Hunterdon Manor.
“’Tis monstrous! I’ll not bear it—not bear it, I tell you!”
Lady Cymrica was not having a good night. The rushes on the floor scattered in all directions as she stormed about the great hall in a full-blown frenzy of grief. Several brindled hounds hurried to vacate her path, their ears pressed flat, tails between their legs. Firelight glinted off her saffron gown and raven black braids as she flung out her arms and wailed like a banshee. Her cries echoed high in the rafters.
“I’ll kill myself! I’ll drink poison! I’ll jump in the well and drown!”
“I’ll join you,” Marian muttered under her breath. She wasn’t having a good night either. Eyes lowered, she stared down into her wine cup, winced when Cymrica rattled the rafters again.
“Aaahh, Allan my sweet, my heart, my only love! If they kill him, I shall hurl myself from the tower!”
“Nonsense. You will do nothing of the sort. Do sit down, cherie. Hush. You are disturbing the dogs.”
The order came from a white wimpled, russet gowned woman seated by the hall’s central hearth. Lady Isolde, the previous earl’s widowed sister-in-law. Very plump, very French, and nearly out of patience with her Saxon niece’s hysterics.
“Such a goose you are being, ma petite. If he dies, I am sorry for it, but we could never have let you wed him in any case,” she scolded.
The indisputable logic of that prompted a fresh wave of wails from Cymrica. “I know, I know—’tis too cruel!” She clutched at her bosom as though stabbed. “Pray do not be harsh with me, dear aunt. Tonight I am the most miserable of maidens.” Collapsing to her knees, she buried her face in Isolde’s well-cushioned lap and sobbed long, loud and bitterly.
Isolde rolled her eyes and patted the girl’s sleek hair, tutting and clucking like a bored hen. One of the hounds by the hearth lifted his head and howled in harmony.
Marian knew exactly how the poor creature felt. This was no dream but a horribly bad feudal soap opera—with herself one of the star players, appropriately costumed in an elaborate blue silk gown they’d given her for the occasion. How long had she been here? One hour? Two? She’d lost track of the time. Minutes crept by like snails. Father Boniface had been summoned, but Father Boniface was temporarily indisposed—a chronic occurrence apparently. He had a delicate constitution, she’d been informed. Like she was supposed to care? Good grief, he could take all night as far as she was concerned.
Seated in a far corner between a large, gargoyle-faced nurse named Godgifu, and the steward of the manor, an elderly knight called Sigurd who seemed able to sleep through anything, she could have enjoyed a good howl herself if the earl’s younger sister had not been doing enough of that for both of them. To even things out, Marian was drinking enough for two. It seemed only fitting since half the Hunterdon household still thought she was Elaine. The other half favored the “lost twin” theory. Unable to think of a better story to explain her presence, she’d told the one the sheriff concocted. A ridiculous story, but safer than the truth, she’d figured. Stupid her.
The Hunterdons had been debating the issue ever since. Several fistfights had broken out over it, in fact. As near as Marian could tell, the “lost twin” faction just liked the romance of the tale. The “Elaine” side—the pragmatists—claimed she knew not what she said, that the ordeal with Sir Guy had been too much for her, that she was hysterical.
They weren’t far wrong.
She downed the rest of her wine in two big gulps—one for poor Elaine, one for poor her—held out the goblet for more. An obliging young page refilled it. Nice boy. Marian managed a small smile of thanks for him. He smiled back, which made her think of Orlando, which turned her smile to a worried frown.
Where was Orlando? She wasn’t exactly in a position to go looking for him, and she hadn’t seen him since passing out on the road. She must have passed out, of course. Her last clear memory was Sir Guy and company beating a hasty retreat into the twilight while dizziness swamped her. The next thing she knew it was full night and she was lying in front of this manor. She must have found her own way here. The manor wasn’t far from where they’d been, she’d discovered from Sir Sigurd. If she and Orlando had walked a few hundred yards up the road they’d have spotted its tower.
I passed out, Orlando left me there to look for help, and while he was gone I sleepwalked here.
The explanation was barely plausible, but the only alternatives she could think of were impossible. So impossible they made the fact she was stuck in thirteenth century England seem quite sane by comparison. Hard, cold, miserably sane.
Stuck in thirteenth century England and responsible for the agonies of a man who was possibly being tortured to death this very moment. She couldn’t blame Cymrica for wailing one blessed bit. She drained her goblet, gestured for more.
Got it. Very nice. She was beginning to really like that page.
Nurse Godgifu shot her a disapproving glare.
You, I can do without. Marian ignored the woman and took another drink.
Stuck in thirteenth century England and mistaken for a dead girl—or her lost twin, depending on to whom you spoke. Not that she could blame anyone for that either. Given the resemblance, it was only natural, right?
Right. I’ll drink to that. She raised the goblet, gulped in, swallowed down.
Godgifu clucked indignantly.
Shut up, you old bat.
Stuck in thirteenth century England. Merrie Olde England, during the reign of King John—when things were anything but merrie. Mistaken for a dead girl—or her sister—and expected to marry that girl’s betrothed. Marry?
More wine.
Yep, she was supposed to marry Lord Roland, Earl of Hunterdon. Marry him tonight.
Tonight! Good God, there wasn’t enough wine in the world.
She gripped the goblet till her knuckles turned white, took a deep breath and fought back the panic.
Why the rush? According to what she’d learned from the garrulous Sir Sigurd before he’d mumbled himself to sleep, Roland had already postponed the wedding three times in as many years. And always on the same pretext, that he couldn’t spare the time from his studies. He was something of a scholar, this enigmatic earl. His family worried their lord would go blind from all the reading and writing he did locked away in that musty closet of his.
They worried more he’d never produce the desired heir. There was little Stacey (short for Eustacia, her mother’s name), Roland’s twelve-year-old daughter. He’d been married once before, but his wife died giving birth to the girl—a thought that sent chills down Marian’s spine since she was expected to be the next broodmare. Stacey was currently with the sisters of some neighboring abbey, and seemed destined for the church—according to Sigurd at least, who saw no other reason for a girl being educated.
“Why else would she need so much learning?” he’d wanted to know, scratching his head. Then he’d explained that what Stacey really needed were brothers. A wealth of information was good old Sigurd. As one of the few Saxon families who’d managed to hold onto their lands despite the “thieving Normans,” Sir Sigurd considered it doubly important the Hunterdons protect their rights and property with plenty of sons. He was extremely relieved Lord Roland was finally doing his duty.
“Bloody well took him long enough,” the knight had mumbled right before his mumbles segued into snores.
Oh, yes, it was bloody wonderful, just peachy keen. But Marian didn’t think duty had a damn thing to do with it. The real reason for the rush was another “D” word. Dowry. Whoever Roland believed her to be, the attempted kidnapping today had obviously spurred him into action. From his perspective either she was Elaine, who had almost been stolen from him and could be so again unless he finally sealed their union, or she was someone who looked enough like Elaine to have a chance at her dowry. Either way she was worth money. Hah. Wasn’t that just par f
or the course?
Marian stared at the goblet in her hands. Gold, encrusted with jewels. Must be worth a fortune. The Hunterdons had wealth, she’d grant them that. But there was an addictive quality to wealth, wasn’t there? The more people had, the more they wanted. Marian knew all about addictions.
Clutching the cup in a futile effort to keep her hands from shaking, she glanced across the hall and studied the bridegroom through her lashes by the flickering light of hearth and candles. Seated there with his close-trimmed black hair and clean-shaven face, his solemn brown velvet robe spilling about his ankles and an open book on his lap, Lord Roland looked every inch the scholar his family accused him of being.
Tall, lithe as a dancer, dark as the devil, he looked no more like Sir Guy than a falcon resembled a grizzly bear. Yet the two were cut from the same cloth, she decided—both predators, both shameless opportunists, both only too willing to substitute one bride for another. In fact, Roland was the worse. For Sir Guy had had the sheriff orchestrating things and egging him on. Roland acted on his own.
And I don’t give a damn. The wine had finally done its job, and old training did the rest. Her eyelids drooped, her pulse slowed. Cotton filled her head, apathy her soul. A thick, familiar lethargy settled over her like a cloak. The defense mechanism she’d perfected as a child, an almost catatonic trance that never really dulled the pain, but at least made it seem less important.
Aw, come on, Marian, don’t give up so easy. No one can hurt you unless you let them.
A voice? It stung her like a slap. Her eyes snapped open. She jerked alert.
Orlando?
Her gaze swept over the tapestry hung hall. She half expected to see him come striding out of the shadows. But the voice had been in her head, just an audio memory called forth by some quirk of the subconscious. The only footsteps coming toward her were the catlike tread of Lord Roland. Several paces behind him waited a wizened little man in priest’s robes. Father Boniface? Whoopee. The old priest looked remarkably blissful, as though his long vigil in the privy had resulted in some deeply satisfying spiritual insight. At least someone felt happy.
Roland looked like his patience had run out ages ago and was being held in check only by the thinnest threads of courtly protocol. No longer the quiet scholar, he seemed like a jungle beast ready to pounce. His dark eyes glittered down at her out of a face almost too handsome to be real. Ruthlessly handsome. He looked more like some imperious eastern emperor than a Saxon earl. By comparison with their stocky, fair-haired kinsmen, he and his sister Cymrica looked like a couple of exotic blooms growing in a field of common daisies.
“They favor their grandmother,” Sigurd had whispered earlier. “She was a Byzantine princess the old earl rescued from shameful straights in Constantinople. ‘The Black Rose,’ they called her. ’Twas said Lord Cymric abandoned a caravan load of riches in order to bring her home posthaste, and ne’er regretted one penny of the price.”
“Lady? You will accompany me, please?”
Roland spoke the request gently, but Marian wasn’t fooled. An autocratic command if ever she’d heard one. She glanced at the hand he held out to her—sensitive and long fingered, a poet’s hand—then quickly lowered her eyes, gripping her goblet so tightly its contents quivered and splashed burgundy red drops onto her lap. They stood out boldly against the pale blue of her gown. She stared at the spots, unblinking. For some reason they fascinated her. Maybe because they looked so much like blood.
“There now, see what ye’ve done?” Scowling, Godgifu pried the goblet out of Marian’s frozen fingers and set it aside. “’Twill stain, that will, and this be Lady Cymrica’s best gown.”
Roland’s expression tightened. “Cymrica has more gowns than the queen herself. But if ’twill soothe your sense of loss, good nurse, I shall buy her a new gown to replace this one. In fact…” His gaze slanted to his sister who was still crumpled before Isolde, sobbing hysterically. “I shall buy her two new gowns if she will cease howling long enough for me to be wed with some small degree of peace.”
Cymrica twisted around and glared at him. “I want not a new gown! I want nothing from you.” She scrambled to her feet and stood backlit by the blaze of the great central hearth, looking like some fiery avenging angel. “If you were half a man, you’d not be thinking marriage now. You’d be attacking Gisbourne and demanding Allan’s release! If not for his sake, for your own honor! The swine tried to steal your bride, didn’t he?” She shot a hateful look at that bride, letting everyone know whom she blamed for Allan’s plight—a sentiment Marian couldn’t help but share.
Roland’s ebony brows arched upward. “Me? Riding about the countryside at this time of night? In the damp air? Really, Cymrica, you know how easily I take chill.”
“‘Chill’ is it? Is that your newest word for cowardice?” With a haughty sniff the girl spun about and stormed down the hall to a far door. “Well, if you’ll not do anything about it, I will!” Sounding like a thunderclap, the door crashed shut.
Roland groaned. “God’s ribs, she’s headed for the armory.”
Isolde sighed. “Oui, my lord. She has her father’s temper, that one. You should be thinking marriage for her as well as yourself. A strong husband is what she needs, one who will not be afraid to beat the stubbornness out of her.”
“I’ve been looking, believe me,” Roland said. “But I’ve not yet found any man I dislike enough to inflict her upon.”
“Ah well…” Isolde rose to her feet, took an unhurried moment to adjust her wimple and smooth her heavy brocade gown. “I fear you must excuse me from attending your wedding. I had best see if I can talk some sense into the silly child. Otherwise we shall have to lock her in her chamber again. A pretty thing that would be for your marriage bed, no? She would be screaming all night. None of us would sleep.”
Her ample figure swished languidly to the door Cymrica had slammed. She pushed it open, then paused to flash a sly grin over her plump shoulder. “Not that you will be sleeping much this night, in any case, eh, mon chere?”
With a ripple of laughter, she disappeared into the gloom beyond the door.
Marian swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Next to her, grumbling and fussing, grim-faced old Godgifu hauled her bulk up off the bench and made to follow.
“Stay, nurse. Your duty here is not finished.”
Her master’s curt command halted her in mid-step, though not without some effort on her part. With a sharp-eyed glance at both him and Marian, Godgifu grudgingly reclaimed her seat.
“Sigurd? Sir Sigurd!” Roland nudged the steward awake with the pointed toe of his shoe.
It looked like the dictatorial eastern emperor had completely pushed aside the quiet Saxon scholar. A pity, because Marian had been hanging onto the slim hope she might yet be able to reason with the latter.
“Hie you to the stables and tell that rascal Dirk to keep a close guard,” Roland ordered. “If he allows Lady Cymrica even to glimpse a mount tonight, I’ll have the hide off his back.”
Sir Sigurd chuckled. “In one of her battle-maid moods, is she? The old blood runs strong in that lass. She’s a true Hunterdon, she is.”
He chuckled again, ignoring the warning look in his lord’s eyes.
“When you have finished with that,” Roland carefully enunciated each syllable, “you may inform our battle-maid herself that I shall look into the matter of Allan on the morrow. If the fellow is indeed facing harsh punishment, a few coins in the right palms may at least buy him a speedier death.”
“Aye, ’tis about all we can do, I suppose.” The old knight sighed, ruefully scratching his head. His eyes met Marian’s and whatever he saw there made him feel an explanation was in order. “Mind you, m’lady, there be nay fondness ’twixt the Hunterdons and Gisbournes, and Sir Guy’s actions this day have given us grave insult, but the lout has the favor of the sheriff, and together their forces outnumber ours.”
“Meaning that a direct assault would prove nothing but our own idio
cy,” Roland cut in crisply. “There are other ways of handling these matters.”
The sudden hooding of his eyes offered Marian an ominous clue as to what one of those other ways might be. Her chest tightened.
“Aye,” Sigurd agreed. “Like the wedding and bedding of your bride afore that Norman swine gets another chance at her!” He snorted his approval, then turned beet red beneath his earl’s blistering black-eyed glare. He coughed. “Ahem…right…the stables. I’ll see to it now.”
He bobbed a hasty bow and retreated as fast as his old limbs would carry him.
“One wonders what that tongue of his is connected to these days. Not his brain certainly.” Roland’s hooded gaze followed the steward out before returning to Marian. “My apologies for his impudence, lady, but his point was well, if crudely, spoken. ’Tis not safe for you to remain unwed.”
Her face flushed. “Are you saying this marriage is for my good?” What a hypocrite.
He had the cheek to actually grin—a small one, just a slight curling at the corners of his lips, but a definite grin. It deepened Marian’s blush. The tightness in her chest increased.
“Oh, ’tis possible I may get some good out of it as well. But ’tis your good that concerns me most.”
Yeah, she’d heard that one before. Her eyes narrowed.
His grin disappeared. “You do not know Gisbourne and the sheriff as I do, my lady. Whoever you are, you will be in danger from them till securely wed.” He gave her a long, appraising look. She flushed hotter under it. “But if it eases your mind, I have decided to accept your story. Your face is very like Elaine’s, but your manner is very much your own. Therefore I am willing to wed you as Marian, if that be your wish.”
He had a voice like crushed velvet—husky soft, deep, rich—an elegant diction warmed by a deadly sensual purr. The sound of her name in that voice sent an odd flutter through her. She shivered, but not from cold. This was a very dangerous man. She didn’t want to marry him, period.
“My wish is to be left alone. If you believe I’m not Elaine and still insist on this marriage, you’re as bad as Sir Guy.”
His brows lifted. “I think not. All he wants is Elaine’s dowry. I am happy to forego that if needed, and take you as is.”
Bullfeathers. Medieval marriages didn’t work that way, not among the upper classes. They were based on money and politics. No one in their right mind gave up a dowry, and definitely not happily. He was lying. On top of which he was being a jerk. What else would you call a man who married another mere hours after his intended had been murdered? So, okay, she could think of some other terms for him, but they weren’t ones she generally used. Although she was fast nearing the point where she would.
More wine. That’s what I need.
Quickly, she reached for her cup.
Quicker, Godgifu moved it out of range.
Rats. Marian shot her an I-hate-you look.
The old woman didn’t seem to care.
She wouldn’t, the hag. Marian switched her look to Roland, who didn’t seem to care either. Arrgh…
“For God’s sake, why?” She tried not to sound as desperate as she felt.
She failed.
His lips curled in that maddening grin. “For your sake, my lady.” He answered as though he thought that was obvious. And also as though he thought that particular phrasing might mean something to her.
The odd thing was, it did. Except she didn’t know what—only that a weird prickle ran through her, and she suddenly felt like she’d forgotten something. Something important? Her brow wrinkled. She struggled to remember. Drew a blank. Decided it made no difference. She had bigger things to worry about, one of them six feet tall with the attitude of a cat tormenting a mouse. And she was the mouse.
He leaned close and she let out an involuntary squeak. Good grief, she even sounded like a mouse. Marian clapped her hand over her mouth.
Roland stared down, his grin fading into the tiniest of frowns, a narrowing of eyes and lips, a tensing of the jaw. “We will marry because you are in speedy need of sanctuary, and marriage is the surest way I can provide it,” he explained calmly, logically. “Because if I had married Elaine as planned, very likely she would still be alive. And…” He drew a deep breath, let it out in a sigh. “Because I’ll not have your death on my conscience as well.”
Marian sighed, too. “How noble.”
She didn’t dare meet his eyes. She focused instead on the blood red drops on her gown and wondered at a curious sensation stirring within her, wondered what to call it, because she’d rarely experienced it before. She felt his gaze burning into her, felt her face heating again. Her stomach knotted, her thoughts raced.
All right, maybe she’d judged him too harshly about Elaine. He did sound genuinely sorry about the poor girl. But that doesn’t excuse what he’s trying to do to me.
If he really wanted to protect her, he could do it without marriage, and he knew it. All he had to do was stick her in a convent. Wasn’t that what most medieval noblemen did with their troublesome women? She’d like being cloistered, darn it. Calm, quiet life…time to study, read, write… No men. It was perfect for someone like her. It would certainly be safer than here—from her perspective anyway. He just wanted that damn dowry. She hoped like hell King John refused to give it to him.
“Noble or not, it operates in your favor. You should be honored. I am giving you my house, my name, and my protection in exchange for the simple matter of a son or two.” He extended both hands to her. “Now come.”
Awfully sure of himself, wasn’t he? Marian suddenly recognized her feeling. Her heart began hammering. She glanced once at Roland’s hands—to let him know she saw them—then deliberately clasped her own hands together on her lap.
Rebellion. That’s what she felt—inside and out. Rebellion against him, and against her own quiet nature. It was a long overdue digging-in-of-heels inspired by Orlando’s words, or maybe just the thought of free-flying Orlando himself.
Holding the boy’s image in her mind like a beacon, she cleared her throat and said, “Um, no, I don’t want to.”
“No?” Roland appeared not to understand the word. “Lady, we are wasting time. Father Boniface awaits. We had best make use of him before the…ah, the necessary claims his attention once more. He had eels for supper and they don’t agree with him.”
“Fine. Father Boniface can live in the necessary for all I care. He can move into it lock, stock and barrel.” She kept her gaze lowered and clasped her hands tighter, held on to herself for dear life. “We don’t need Father Boniface because I’m not going to marry you. I said no.”
A sharp sigh hissed out above her—impatient, exasperated, the sigh of a man in no mood to argue. Which was good, Marian thought, because she had no intention of arguing either.
“Ah,” Roland said, “I see. And am I to assume that this is your final word on the subject?”
Damn straight. She took a deep breath to steady her voice. “You assume correctly.”
“So be it.” His robes swished as he turned away. “Nurse Godgifu,” he called over his shoulder, “’twould be unseemly of me to lay hands on the lady before we are wed. I leave it in your charge to see that she reaches the chapel in good speed. Try not to handle her too roughly.”
