Art sounded faint when he asked, “How she was to behave?”
“Most especially, I told her to dress like a lady.” Remembering how she looked in hose, Griffith felt appalled—and aroused—all over again. “Can you imagine the scandal if she rode astride?”
Art choked and flung himself back on the mattress.
“Aye, I feel the same way. With a little bit of guidance—” Art choked again, and Griffith cocked his head. “Art?”
Art’s shriek of laughter rose from among the bedclothes like the cry of an Irish banshee, making Griffith’s blood run cold.
Griffith sat up and stared at his writhing, kicking servant. “Art?”
With snorts and coughs, Art caught his breath. “Ye…told her…to dress like a lady?” At Griffith’s nod, he vented more of his disbelieving merriment, holding his side against the ache. “Aren’t…ye…the clever one? That will no doubt cure…her every mad impulse.”
Before Art could finish, Griffith was off the bed and dressing in yesterday’s garments.
When Art could contain himself, he sat up with a blanket around his still shaking shoulders. “Going to take Lady Marian’s laddie for a walk?”
Griffith cast him a caustic glance as he swung his cape around his shoulders. He stormed from the room, then stormed back in again. A fine glass mirror hung on the wall, and on the table beneath it were a lady’s accoutrements. Rummaging among the dusty things, he found a comb and drew it through his hair.
Art shrieked with laughter again, but as Griffith ran down the stairs he heard Art call, “Happy hunting.”
Marian walked her horse into the trees and dismounted. As she tied the animal securely to a branch, she wondered morosely why she’d come on the hunt.
She’d forgotten how the men stared when she rode astride in a man’s clothes. She’d forgotten how the ladies tittered as she strode about in her pointed black boots.
She’d done it often when first she came from court. Then her still twitching reputation lay in shreds around her feet. Her friends had deserted her, and all that mattered, it seemed, was the wailing babe she tended every night. Her own father had encouraged her to ride like a man, to swear like a trooper, to practice swordsmanship like a squire. Angry, defiant, she’d reveled in thumbing her nose at the gossips, lived to feed the flame of her own destruction.
The memory of those days made her squirm, and she tossed her felt hat to the ground and rumpled her braided hair. Forget it, she told herself, knowing she would not.
Wandering along the low ridge, she watched the ground carefully. If she remembered correctly, along here somewhere…With a crow of triumph, she dropped to her knees and pushed aside the brambles. Wild vines crawled along the ground, and on them tiny strawberries begged to be picked. Creeping along, she filled her hand while memories filled her mind.
’Twas a small thing that brought her to her senses. Nothing more than the letter from the lady Elizabeth, telling of her marriage to King Henry. Henry had spared no expense, but the elaborate ceremony had been marred by one thing and one thing only: Elizabeth’s dearest friend, Marian, had not taken her place as Elizabeth’s chief maid-in-waiting.
Marian had laughed. Then she’d cried. Then she’d rocked Lionel until dawn, clothed herself in a modest dress, and set out to be a respectable lady. It had proved difficult, for even in court she’d been the wild one, willing to run for miles, to dance all night, to walk the fence on a dare. But she flattered herself that she’d done well.
Of course, Sir Griffith didn’t think so.
Marian frowned. Thanks to him and those kisses, she’d been awake all night. Her lips felt irritated, not because he’d been brutal, but because she’d bitten them repeatedly as she tried to understand why he’d been so passionate.
She’d finally decided he hadn’t been passionate. He’d kissed her because he was angry and wanted to teach her a lesson. He couldn’t possibly desire her.
Unfortunately, last night had proved she didn’t despise Sir Griffith. If those kisses were anything to go by, she positively admired him.
Those kisses. She wouldn’t think of them—or him.
Popping a strawberry into her mouth, she closed her eyes and savored the first sweet taste of summer.
How she always hated winter! How she then missed the days at court! The games, the laughter, the fires that chased away the chill.
At Castle Wenthaven, they played the same games, but the laughter sounded shrill and desperate. Wenthaven’s fires were built not for warmth, but for show. The people huddled around them weren’t friends, but watchful adversaries.
Yet every winter Marian had been forced to accept the feigned hospitality of the manor house. When the storms raged outside, the cottage shook in the blasts, the fire sputtered, and like any healthy, growing child, Lionel rampaged in ever-decreasing circles. Cecily whined, and to Marian’s chagrin, Marian herself developed a cough. A cough easily cured in the dry environment of the manor.
The first winter had been the best. She’d moved into her mother’s room, and she liked it there, away from the beggars who surrounded Wenthaven. Lionel’s colic had eased. He’d learned to sit up and crawl—and he’d wanted to crawl down the unrailed, dangerous stone stairs.
The next winter found Marian, Cecily, and Lionel safe in one of Wenthaven’s luxurious apartments, well ventilated with peek-holes and manned by spies.
An unpleasant sense of wet matter startled Marian, and she opened her fist. Smeared across her palm was a streak of red pulp and she chuckled at her own silliness.
After all, what did it matter if someone watched her? She had no secrets Wenthaven could discover, and soon she’d live at court once more. Soon she’d be among the great and near great. Soon all would know what she already knew—that Lionel, her son, contained within him the seeds of greatness.
Licking the mashed strawberry from her palm, she wondered: did Griffith have such secrets? She didn’t know. She didn’t even know—couldn’t imagine—why she’d given him her mother’s room. Except he seemed like a person free of pretense or artifice.
Seemed like?
She grinned. He was. Witness his tactless handling of her. Most men talked to her like a lady and treated her like a tart. Griffith had played no such games. He’d chided her in plain language, spoken like a pompous ass, then treated her like a lady.
Except when he kissed her. He hadn’t kissed her as though she were a lady; he’d kissed her as if she were a woman.
Was that what made her prod him? The pleasure of seeing a genuine reaction? Today she’d dressed like a man in defiance of his order, and now she waited for him to find her just to see more of Sir Griffith’s authentic indignation.
Would he come and find her? She thought so. And if he didn’t—well, she’d have her ego crushed, and Lionel would have strawberries to eat. She opened the pouch at her belt, lined it with a clean cloth, and set to work, picking the hidden fruit until her bag bulged.
Then she heard it: the crackle of brush behind her. Turning, she smiled into the sun, squinting at the tall man blocking it and the golden glow around his head. “It took you long enough to get here.” Then he moved into the shade, and she shrieked as she made out his features.
Hand on hip, Adrian Harbottle smirked at her open welcome. “I’m glad to see you, too, sweetheart.”
Her breath came with difficulty, and she scrambled to her feet. “I didn’t know it was you!”
His smirk changed, turned down into a sulky frown. “Who else would you welcome so generously?”
“Not you.” She tried to jumped back when he lunged for her.
Catching her arm in a bruising grip, he repeated, “Who else would you welcome? Huh? Why not me?”
Glancing around, she asked, “Where’s the rest of the hunt?”
“I left ’em to find you. Who else?” He shook her. “Why not me?”
She was alone with this pathetic imitation of a gentleman, and just yesterday she’d humiliated him in front
of all Wenthaven’s guests. When she was without the protection of her sword, he’d win any contest, and the truth of Griffith’s reproof had been proved. She’d made an enemy with her temper, an enemy who lusted for revenge—and for her.
Cautiously she tried out the first, and best, of her weapons. “The earl of Wenthaven will be looking for me.”
Harbottle honked with laughter.
“At the least, my father”—that title tasted odd on her tongue—“will be unhappy with you for being alone with me. Why don’t we—”
She tried to walk away, but he pulled her in a circle back to him. “Aye, why don’t we?”
She couldn’t bear to watch him as he licked his generous lips.
“You looked fetching with your little arse wagging in the air, looking for berries.” He smiled with practiced, whimsical appeal and reached for her mouth. She jerked her head back, but he brought away a tiny bit of fruit still clinging there. Sucking his long finger, he said, “Strawberries, were they? I like strawberries. Why don’t you share some with me? Show me where they are?”
“They’re right there.”
She pointed, and he pouted as charmingly as if he’d practiced it in front of the mirror until he achieved perfection. “That’s not what I meant. Come on.” He tried to tug her down. “Show me.”
Show me. He was trying to charm her, but if the charm didn’t work, he’d use force, she knew. He’d use force and not even realize it, because he’d probably never had to in his life. He’d chosen his place and time well. No one could stop him or even notice if she didn’t come back. After all, she’d left the hunt by herself. And in the end, who cared if Wenthaven’s slut of a daughter tumbled a minor nobleman in the woods? Or if she’d been raped? She wouldn’t dare complain, or she’d have a parade of men to her cottage, seeking favors.
Oh, God, she couldn’t bear it again. It had taken a sharp sword and an aggressive chastity to keep them at bay after Lionel was born—nothing would do if Harbottle had his way.
So, think, Marian, she urged herself. Think. “I’d love to show you where the strawberries grow.”
If her smile was less than genuine, he seemed oblivious. His gaze slipped to her bosom. “Aye.”
“But I have so many clothes on.”
His gaze slipped lower, and he began to pant like one of Wenthaven’s dogs.
“Won’t you at least help me out of my boots?”
“Oh, aye.” He dropped to his knees and leaned toward her. “Oh, aye.”
She couldn’t believe he was so credulous; when he reached for her boot, she lifted the other foot and kicked him square in his bare throat. He tumbled backward, and she took to flight. Stumbling on the rough ground, she could hear him trying to scream, heard the squawking noise he made instead. In a kind of horror, she wondered if she’d injured him enough to kill him, but she stilled the impulse to help him.
For if he didn’t die, he would kill her. Of that she had no doubt.
With fingers that fumbled, she untied her horse’s reins, then spun in terror as she heard hooves thundering behind her. “Griffith.” She clutched her fist at her chest, pleased to see him, close to tears. Then irrational fury swept her—where the hell had he been when she needed him?—and she shouted, “By my troth, you’re too late to play the gallant rescuer, Sir Knight.” Swinging her leg over the saddle, she sat defiantly astride, but he snatched her reins from her.
“What do you mean?” He leaned forward, looking twice as menacing as Harbottle had. “Rescue you from what?”
It was too late for second thoughts, Marian realized. Too late for wisdom.
Harbottle still knelt on the ground, fighting for breath, but his gaze on the two riders raised the hair on Marian’s arms. He’d found the answer to his question “Who else were you expecting?” Regardless of the danger to himself, he expressed hostility with his red-rimmed eyes, with his feral snarl.
Marian grasped Griffith’s arm urgently. “Don’t bother with him. I already hurt him badly.”
Shaking his head as he dismounted, Griffith murmured, “Nay, dear one. Nay, he’s vermin and deserves to be crushed.”
She tightened her grip. “’Tis not your concern.”
She dropped her hand when he lifted his gaze. He, too, showed teeth in a snarl. The perception of being a bone between two rampant dogs swept her, and Griffith’s guttural voice frightened her. “It’s been my concern since last night. Now go home, Marian. Wait for me there.”
He turned the head of her horse, and as it moved away he slapped it on the rump. It started, then broke into a gallop—a gallop that she couldn’t control, she told herself. It wasn’t that she was obeying Griffith, just that she couldn’t not obey him.
Castle Wenthaven rose on an island in a tiny jewel of a lake, and she galloped across the drawbridge to find the stables almost deserted. Thank God, the hunt hadn’t yet returned. The stable boys sprang forward when she rode in, and she slid out of the saddle and tossed them the reins in one graceful motion.
It wasn’t a desire to avoid Griffith that made her hustle from the stable yard. It was a desire to get away from the curious lads.
But before she’d ducked into the orchard, she heard the hard noise of hooves on the drawbridge, and her prevarications dissolved in panic. Taking to her heels, she wove through the trees, knocking off blossoming tips and leaving deep footprints in the soft ground.
A trail, but she didn’t care. The longer it took Griffith to find her, she reasoned, the more time he’d have to cool down. It would be nice if he had worked off some of that fury on Harbottle. It would be nice if he hadn’t killed him, either. But that was of lesser importance when compared to—
Griffith caught her arm and swung her around. “To where, dear Lady Marian, do you escape so impatiently?”
He whispered as if he dared not speak aloud, as if he would shout if he loosened the restraint on his poise, and she babbled, “Home. You told me to go home, and I’m—”
Looking tall, dark, and beastly, he said, “I want to talk to you.”
“I guessed.”
“Don’t be clever with me.”
She opened her mouth and then shut it. He watched with a sort of satisfaction as she wondered if she shouldn’t use the feminine skills she’d ignored lately. They might appease him. But she had to know one thing first. “Is Harbottle alive?”
“Aye, he is, no thanks to you.”
Her feeling of conciliation faded, and she stepped back until she bumped into a trunk. The tree shook; a few apple blossoms fluttered to the ground.
“But he’ll not lift a sword for a few months,” Griffith added.
“I didn’t ask him to follow me.”
“Some men don’t wait to be asked.” Waving his hand up and down the length of her, he declared, “And some men would consider garb such as you’re wearing an invitation.”
With a smile of well-practiced scorn, she declared, “A man would have to be a dunder-whelp to be attracted to me in this outfit.”
Clutching the front of her coat, he pulled her close and glared down at her. “Are you calling me a dunder-whelp?”
Her smile faded. This man, this broad and stalwart oak, looked sincere. Looked insulted! When she knew, she knew he must be jesting. “You aren’t attracted to me!”
“Indeed?”
You despise me, she wanted to say, but she satisfied herself with, “I look like a boy.”
“You do not look like a boy. You do not walk like a boy or act like a boy, and you could never fool a man with half his senses into thinking you are a boy.” Warming to his subject, his voice rose as he insisted, “It’s not your clothes that tempt a man, it’s the body beneath it—no!”
Her head spun with his contradictions. “No?”
“It’s not even your body. It’s the challenge of your personality.” Stroking his chin, he stared into space, looking for answers. “You can read. You’ve traveled with the court. What can a man offer you? You look right at a man, and you’re
not looking at the clothes he wears or the horses he rides, but at him. A man always knows you’ve judged him and found him wanting, and he wants to prove himself. Most men”—his eyes focused and narrowed on her—“think they can prove themselves in bed.”
She couldn’t help it; she laughed with contempt. “No man has ever proved himself to me in bed.”
“Aye, no doubt you’ve told them so when they lie panting and smug beside you. ’Tis a miracle one of your lovers hasn’t murdered you. I tell you truly, Marian, if you’d mocked that pretty boy after he finished with you today, he would have strangled you and buried you under a bush, and thought nothing more of it.”
“I know.”
“That’s why I told you not to wear”—he plucked at her jerkin—“this.”
Furious with his assumptions, she said, “I’m the victim here.” She pointed to herself. “Me. Every time a man rapes a woman and feels a niggling guilt, he blames the woman. ‘She tempted me.’ ‘She asked for it.’ Well, I didn’t ask for it, and I don’t care what you say, I’m not tempting in this garb.”
“You little fool.”
“I’m not the fool. It shouldn’t matter how I dress. It shouldn’t even matter how I act. Harbottle’s a grown man, he should be responsible for his actions. I didn’t want him to touch me. Maybe I could be wiser, but it’s discouraging when”—to her horror, her voice caught, but she steadied it—“when I behave with all the circumspection of a nun”—it caught again—“and because of one sin I’m considered easy prey. A sin I didn’t commit alone, may I say.” One tear trickled down her cheek, and she wiped it away on her shoulder. “I’m sorry I wore these clothes. It was a stupid impulse, but—”
“But I almost dared you.”
She wanted to look into his face, but to do so would reveal her watery eyes, and she couldn’t bear that. Instead she looked at his hands as they slowly closed around her arms and he pulled her closer. She didn’t want to cooperate—after all, she had her pride—but after one moment of stiff dignity she relaxed. Just a little. Just her body. And she held her head erect.
His arms wrapped around her, he rocked her back and forth.
Outrageous Page 7
