“Sir Griffith’ll never tell,” she assured him, brushing her knees.
The giant rubbed his chin. “Then I suppose I’ll not have t’ kill him.”
“I’m grateful,” Griffith said, eyeing the assortment of weapons the fellow carried.
“So you should be,” she answered. “Billy is our fiercest soldier.”
Billy basked in her approval, then handed her a knee-length coat. “Put it on, m’lady,” he urged. “Th’ way ye dress is a scandal. Some men”—he glared at Griffith—“might get wrongful ideas about ye.”
“That’s impossible. Sir Griffith already knows all about me,” she said. “And he’s quite disgusted.”
“Put on the coat,” Griffith said.
Grinning, she did as she was told.
“Do ye want me t’ walk ye t’ yer cottage, m’lady?” Billy asked, giving Griffith the first clue to their destination.
“I’ll make sure she runs into no trouble,” Griffith assured him.
Billy pointed at Griffith’s nose. “Are ye sure ye can handle it?”
“I’m sure.” When Billy seemed about to say more, Griffith leaned close and looked him in the eye. Holding the contact, he repeated, “I’m sure.”
Billy backed up. “Aye, Sir Griffith. As ye say, Sir Griffith.” But as Marian and Griffith walked away, he called, “Ye watch yerself, Lady Marian. Not even yer Sir Griffith can be trusted over much.”
Griffith hoped Marian would have the good sense to keep her mouth shut. Billy’s suspicions didn’t amuse him, and he wondered if all onlookers could see the bubbling broth of desire and disapproval Marian had brewed within him. He hoped she realized he could boil over; hoped she realized how hot a fire she’d built with her very self.
At the same time, he hoped she would be unwise, and the thought shocked him. Speaking to himself as much as to her, he said, “Women should never indulge in fornication without the protection of marriage.”
Marian stuck her thumbs into her belt and swaggered along a row through the trees. “You’re a virgin, then?”
“That’s what whores are for.”
“To cure an unfortunate case of virginity? Tell me”—just outside of the orchard, she turned and smirked at him—“how bad is your case of the pox? It certainly explains your vile disposition.”
A cottage—her cottage?—stood in the shadow of the curtain wall, but he couldn’t look away from her to examine it. Instead he caught her narrow jaw in his hand and lifted her smiling, scornful face to his. “I haven’t a case of the pox.”
“Then you’re one of those men who believe in depriving girls of their virginity to retain your own purity.”
“No, damn it! Stop baiting me. I was wed, and my wife fulfilled my needs, and I’ve had no woman since her death.”
“And how long ago was that?”
“Two years.”
“Two years.” She still smiled, mockingly. “By my troth, I’m surprised you’re not mad with desire by now. Billy certainly seemed unconvinced your motives are pure.”
Her mockery broke his control, and he smiled back, both glad and alarmed at his lack of control—but mostly glad. “Billy is a smart man. I am mad with desire. Would you like me to demonstrate?”
Her flare of alarm delighted him, as did the strength of her shove against his chest. “Nay.”
“Too late.” He lowered his head to hers.
She didn’t want to kiss him. It had been long since she’d kissed a man, and those experiences had been so unremarkable, she’d convinced herself men bored her. But Griffith…Griffith didn’t bore her.
Infuriated her, aye. Amused her, challenged her…attracted her.
Not with a handsome face. Not even his mother could call him handsome. Nay, ’twas his rugged build, his slow deliberation, his honesty. He gave her a sense of security, as if she could trust him to care for her.
Her own stupidity embarrassed her.
But she still kissed him back, for—damn it!—he kissed remarkably well. In fact, for a man who claimed celibacy, he kissed wonderfully well. His lips were firm, his tongue restrained. He took care not to grind his face to hers and hurt her with his whiskers. He smoothed her lips with his tongue, not demanding entrance but savoring the flavor, the privilege, of her. And he let her go when she pulled back.
God rot him, he’d piqued her interest.
The spicy scent of cottage pinks, the cool autumn breeze, the stars overhead, the moon on his strong features…She traced the ridge of his brows with her finger and observed the spark of his eyes. Her hand wandered lower, and she touched his mouth as if she could discern his magic without being affected by it.
It didn’t work. His breath warmed her palm with his long, slow exhalations. His lips felt lustrous as a glass heated by spiced wine. His very patience intrigued her, made her want to indulge her curiosity. Cautiously she whispered, “Again.”
Carefully he pulled her close. “Again.”
Their bodies kissed. Their lips embraced.
The resulting heat burst on them, a storm of spring mating.
Surprised, she leaned into him.
Amazed, he lifted her coat and cupped her bottom.
They fought to get closer. She grasped the hair at the back of his neck and pulled him, opening her lips wide. He tasted her, then sucked her tongue into his mouth. Moaning, they rubbed together like mating wildcats, frustrated by clothes yet as pleasured as if they were without.
She tried to wrap a leg around him. He tried to help her—and she smacked his nose with her head.
He yowled with pain. She moaned, sorry yet exasperated at herself—then she realized what she’d done. What she’d almost done. The vows she’d almost broken, the imbecility, the—
“I beg pardon,” she said, jerking away.
“Think not of it.” He reached for her.
She leaped back. “Sir Griffith, I do beg your pardon.”
He froze. “Why do I think you’re apologizing for more than my nose?”
“I never meant…I never should have…” With one glance at his face, she ran toward her cottage.
She didn’t have to look to know he was right behind her. His long strides ate the distance between them, and when she stumbled on a clod of dirt just inside the fence, he caught her by the shoulder.
She whirled again to face him. “I beg your pardon. I truly beg your pardon. I never should have—”
“We never should have,” he corrected.
“What?”
“There were two of us back there, and you’re right. We never should have.”
She might have believed him more if he hadn’t retained a glow, a fierceness of manhood.
He continued, “But I said I would escort you home, and you’re not home yet.”
“I’m here.” She pointed at her cottage.
“I will see you to the door,” he said. “I will escort you home.”
She opened her mouth to argue, and he placed one finger over her lips. “Home,” he whispered.
“Home,” she repeated. His touch reminded her of things best forgotten, so she walked away. After fumbling for the latch, she pushed the door open into the hut’s single room and saw, in the light of the night candle, her son. Sitting up in bed, he rubbed his eyes sleepily. Chastising herself for leaving him alone, wishing she had never gone, she knelt beside him. “Did we wake you?”
He shook his head and pointed out the window.
“Something out there—” She paused, remembering the noises that had escaped as she and Griffith struggled for satisfaction.
Bright-eyed, Lionel nodded, and his mother blushed.
“He seems to have an affection for you,” Griffith observed.
Promptly offended, she declared, “He’s my son!”
“Women of less rank and wealth than you have pawned their jewels to hire a nursemaid.”
Her mood shifted from offended to defensive. “He has a nursemaid.”
“It would seem he has everything he needs,” Griffith ans
wered.
His amusement embarrassed her, made her aware she’d been jumping to extremes. Looking down at Lionel, she found him inspecting the stranger. When he had gleaned all he could from one searching glance, he buried his head in her chest.
Stroking the dark head, she explained, “He’s shy. He’s not given to liking strangers, and he doesn’t speak yet.”
Griffith examined her with the same care her son had given to him. “Can he hear?”
“Aye.”
“Then he understands every word you say, and you shouldn’t talk about him as though he weren’t here.”
Her mouth dropped at his cool pronouncement, and dropped even more when Lionel pulled his head away from her and inspected Griffith again. Then her shy child smiled and extended his arms to the big man. Griffith picked him up with the efficiency of one long accustomed to children. “Most adults talk that way in front of children, but this lad deserves better.” He glanced at Lionel for confirmation, and Lionel nodded without hesitation. Griffith continued, “I didn’t speak much my first few years, either. But then my mother said I just opened my mouth and out came entire sentences. Entire speeches. Stories in Welsh and English. Songs and ballads. Why, when I started talking, they couldn’t get me to shut up.”
Marian crossed her arms over her chest and glared. “Obviously.”
Griffith swung Lionel into the bed, then knelt beside him and patted the pillow. “Lie down now, my lad, and sleep ’til the cock crows.”
Lionel shook his head.
Griffith laughed. “You don’t look like your mother, but you act like her.”
Marian and Lionel exchanged glances.
Griffith only laughed again—deep, low, and like the purr of a pleased cat. “Please yourself, but if you don’t get a good night’s sleep, you’ll not be rested for our early morning walk.”
For a moment Marian thought he spoke to her, but Lionel had no doubts. Flinging himself back on his pillow with a thump, the boy squeezed his eyes shut as if that would deepen his slumber. Griffith pulled up the blankets, gave the shiny black hair a brief caress, then rose.
He seemed unsurprised at his victory over one stubborn child, she noted, and she wondered if he always picked his weapons and fought his battles with such success. If he did…She squirmed. Was that the purpose of that kiss outside? The petting? Was that kiss only a method of controlling her? He’d tried insult, would he now try conquest?
Did he think, like all the rest, that she was wanton?
As if to confirm her suspicions, he smiled at her. His first smile to her, and she staggered from the effect. His somber expression gentled to strength, his golden eyes warmed to kindness, his lips…
His lips reminded her of his kisses, and his kisses reminded her of her loneliness.
No wonder he apportioned his smiles.
“Go to your bed now,” he said, “and we’ll take you for a walk tomorrow, too.”
“Go to my bed,” she repeated, captivated and enraptured.
Then the words penetrated her mind and jerked her back to reality.
To her bed? Did he plan to tuck her in, too? Did he plan to loose his hold on his celebrated celibacy tonight? Touching her lower lip, she wondered—what kind of lover would he make? If he’d truly been abstinent…But did it matter to her? How could it ever matter to her?
Would he leave without urging, or had he been pretending an interest in her son to cajole her? Casually she strolled toward the door, and he followed. Stepping outside, she saw the moon still rode high through clusters of clouds. The trees still rustled, and the breeze brought her the scent of cottage pinks. The chill of an early spring night had deepened, but she didn’t shiver because of that. She shivered because of the warm memories waiting to pounce. Elaborately casual, she pretended she’d forgotten those heated kisses, forgotten the brief burst of wildcat passion. “The earl has arranged for a hunt tomorrow, and I’ll act as hostess. I’ll have no time for walking.”
Griffith’s heavy brows snapped together. “A hunt?”
She was startled at his surprise and even more at his displeasure. “Weren’t you told?”
“Nay.”
“You rode in yesterday, so I suppose Wenthaven thought you wouldn’t wish to come.” After she’d excused Wenthaven, she added, “You’re welcome nevertheless. The earl’s hospitality is never less than flawless.”
She watched him, anxious to hear his reply. He studied her in return, looking first at her face, then at the overcoat and the length of calf below, but he seemed to find no pleasure in the sight of her. “You’ll not go dressed like that.”
“What?”
“You’ll not go on a hunt riding astride a horse like some loose woman without morals or upbringing.”
Her “What?” wasn’t as astounded this time.
“Just because you’ve borne a child out of wedlock, it’s no reason to live down to everyone’s expectations.”
His gall took her breath away. All her pat answers, all her practiced replies, flew out of her head in the surge of rage. “You dare tell me how to behave?”
“It appears someone must.”
He sounded so insufferably stuffy and looked so sure of himself, she wanted to hit him. But she’d done so, and she’d regretted it. Instead she took a deep breath, calmed her fury, and annihilated him with a brilliant, cutting comment. “You aren’t my father!”
She could have groaned. Where was her renowned wit?
But he answered, and his answer was stupid. Stupider even than hers. He said, “If your father were here, he’d be horrified at the way you’re acting.”
“If my father were here…” Head extended like a turtle, she stared at him. Didn’t he know? Didn’t he comprehend?
But no, he didn’t. His expression set in self-righteous indignation, and just like that, she’d been given the power she sought. Using his own ignorance, she could have the last word. Triumphant yet bitter, she retorted, “My father is here. Didn’t you realize? I am the heir to Wenthaven. The earl is my father.”
4
How odd, Griffith thought. He lay in the countess of Wenthaven’s bed. He lay in Marian’s mother’s bed and lusted after her daughter.
It made him vaguely uncomfortable, as if the spirit of the countess peeked into his thoughts and caught him with his hands in Marian’s codpiece. Yet at the same time…well, surely the countess couldn’t approve of the way her daughter had turned out. Fighting with swords, dressing like a man, giving birth to a babe without the benefit of marriage.
“Who do you suppose the father is?” Griffith murmured.
At the foot of the bed, Art popped up like a child’s toy, comprehending Griffith’s mind with the ease of old friendship. “I was wondering when ye’d think about that. Could the child’s paternity have anything to do with Henry’s peculiar interest in Marian and Lionel?”
“The woman hides her mysteries well.” Griffith leaned on his elbow. The room, so dim and dusty last night, looked cheery this morning. Even Art looked good, thought Griffith, although it baffled him how a one-eyed man with skin like wet leather could look good.
“Ye’re looking better this morning,” Art said, unconsciously twisting Griffith’s thoughts. “The swelling on yer proboscis has almost disappeared.”
Griffith touched the broken place with tender fingers.
Art’s head bobbed on his skinny neck. “Maybe the countess cured ye during the night. Maybe she approves of ye.”
“Maybe she does.” Cold emanated from the walls of cut stone, a cold that bit at his nose, and Griffith breathed deep, reveling in the free flow of air. “She’d be foolish not to.”
Propping his elbows on his knees, Art examined Griffith through one critical eye. “I thought we settled the issue of yer beauty last night.”
“I’m not talking about my appearance,” Griffith said. “I’m talking about my character. I can say, without conceit, that I’m stable, respectable, and moral.”
“God’s blood!”<
br />
“I’m the kind of man a mother would wish her daughter to wed,” Griffith added complacently.
Art’s one eye blinked at him. “Damned dull, is what ye are. And what’s this about ye wedding Lady Marian?”
“I didn’t say I was going to wed her, I just said…” Staring at Art, Griffith decided he could not win this argument. Turning the subject, he asked, “Did you know Wenthaven is Marian’s father?”
“Ah.” Art scratched his ear. “I’d wondered. She seemed so sure she could do as she liked in his house. And there’s the resemblance. ’Tis a little too pronounced for cousins.”
“Resemblance? There’s no resemblance between that strutting sack of dung and—”
“And the strumpet ye’ve been sent to guard?”
Griffith bent his most intense frown on Art, intent on quenching the old man’s sparkle. “She’s not a strumpet. A little high-spirited, mayhap.”
“Such a shift since last night!” Art marveled. “I wonder what could have changed yer mind. ’Tis the smile, ye know.”
“What?”
“The resemblance is in the smile. Wenthaven and Lady Marian both smile readily, and use their smiles to express so much.”
Collapsing back on the pillow, Griffith considered. “In Marian’s case, it’s mostly scorn.”
“In Lady Marian’s case?” Art cackled. “In Wenthaven’s case, it’s mostly scorn.”
“No, that’s malice,” Griffith corrected absentmindedly. Art was right. Griffith had changed his mind about Marian during the night, and he didn’t have to wonder why. She’d responded to his kisses sweetly, hotly, with a hunger long denied. Then she’d bolted like a startled hind. It proved what he desired, that she’d been chaste for many the long days. Since the birth of her son, likely, and before. “It’s not that I think she’s a strumpet. She’s like a wild bird, needing a man’s capable hand to control her.”
“’Tis coincidence ye’ve trained falcons,” Art interjected.
Griffith ignored him. “Like this morning. She’s off on a hunt with the other guests.”
Art looked curious. “Ye’re not going?”
“Nay, I’m taking her son for a walk, but I told her quite sternly how she was to behave.”
Outrageous Page 6
