Outrageous

by Christina Dodd

  But he could still speak. Gutturally, haltingly, but he could speak. “Now. You must come to me now.”

  His eyes were slits, as if he were looking into the sun, when she rose above him.

  Compelled by her uncertainty, he instructed, “Ride astride.”

  In a flash, she understood. Arousing him, she discovered, had aroused her, and she took him into herself in slow, wet increments. He was still too large, but discomfort gave way to excitement when he trembled yet held himself still.

  She was a woman, with a warrior beneath her legs and his pleasure in her care, and it gave her a power she would test to its limits.

  Feigning ignorance, she asked, “What should I do?”

  He glared as if he didn’t believe her. “Up and down.”

  “Like this?”

  “Aye.”

  “And this?”

  “Aye.”

  “Should I go faster?”

  “Aye. Nay. Oh, God. As you like.”

  Still moving, she leaned back and put her hands on his thighs. “Do you like this?”

  He groaned pitifully. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  “With pleasure.” She moved her hands forward, lightly scratching his now bucking body, marking him as her own. “I’m going to kill you with pleasure.”

  “A criminal,” Griffith murmured when he felt her movements.

  “What?” Marian’s voice was choked with sleep, and she sounded so confused that guilt stabbed him. She’d been too weak for such a tumultuous loving, but what could he do? If he’d waited until she was well, she’d have used her clever mind to evade him, and he needed every advantage. Now, as she became aware of their state of dishabille, as the memories of her boldness and his pleasure came flooding back, she began the slow and careful act of disengagement.

  To forestall her, he repeated, “You’re a violent criminal. You killed me with pleasure, and I can’t remember a more enjoyable death.” He used his soft, seductive Welsh accent to color his words with shades of carnality.

  Movement ceased, then reversed as she tucked her head tighter into his chest. He grinned. She must think it better to be held close than to look him in the eye.

  “I have been thinking”—he took strands of her hair and arranged it on his chest, intertwining the brilliant red with his crinkled black—“we can have an eisteddfod for our wedding.”

  Her shyness didn’t last past his initial feint. Lifting herself onto her elbow, she pushed at his hands. “A…? For our wedding?”

  “An eisteddfod.” He pronounced it carefully, as if her ignorance were the only issue to resolve. “’Tis a gathering of musicians and bards, come to sing their songs and recite their poetry.”

  She stared at him steadily. “I did not say I would wed with you.”

  He returned the look just as candidly. “Would you do this with a man whom you don’t trust with your son? Do you have such a capricious instinct you dare not rely on it?”

  Brushing her hair off her forehead in a gesture that betrayed uncertainty, she said, “Wiser women than I have depended on their instinct and been betrayed. And aye, you could have harmed us, but perhaps…you wait on another’s will.”

  It hurt him that she even thought it, and he sat up slowly, his arms aching. “Under no man’s will would I kill a child.”

  “Not even if you were put to the horn, branded a traitor, your lands stripped from you? At the least, your chance for advancement ruined?”

  Steady as an ox in harness, he answered, “I do not make war on children.”

  “Even now, you may be thinking that with the advent of other children—your children—Lionel’s fate will not matter to me.”

  She echoed Harbottle’s words with uncanny accuracy, and it irked him that she read one man’s character so easily, then attributed it to him.

  “If we wed, I would expect honor from you in your dealings with me, but ’tis easy, I think, for a man to dismiss a woman’s expectations,” she added.

  “Not if she won’t marry him because of them.”

  As if he hadn’t spoken, she continued, “I learned not to trust at my father’s knee, and it is a habit deeply engraved on my soul. There’s more to this than you and me. At the royal court, I saw many things occur which were abhorrent to even the perpetrators. Were you acquainted with King Richard, the uncle of Lady Elizabeth?”

  “Not I.”

  “I was.” Pushing him away, she sat up and clasped the blanket before her, treating him to a vision of her spine, clothed only in the crimson-and-copper strands of her hair. “He was a kind uncle to Elizabeth and her brothers, a good brother to King Edward. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined the crimes of which he was capable.”

  Griffith brushed the length of her hair aside and laid his palm on her shoulder. “I am not flattered with any of these comparisons.”

  “I’m not comparing you. Nor would I compare you to my father.” She sounded fierce, but she didn’t turn around to look at him. Because she couldn’t stand the sight of him? Because her own suspicions embarrassed her? “I’m saying that men’s souls are dark and dread places, and I don’t know where to shine the light of truth.”

  “I see.” He did, and his hand fell away from the warmth of her skin, leaving him bereft. But there wasn’t any use in remaining in a bed with this woman who found him so akin to the villains who littered her life.

  As he slid out of bed, she caught his arm. “Do you think I should trust my instincts?”

  Hope, ever valorous, sprang to life. “Aye, that I do.”

  “Well, my instincts tell me you’re hiding something.”

  Then hope crashed, and unexpected rage roared through him, as sudden and violent as a squall off the sea. Unprepared, he staggered beneath its impact, struggling to channel it into coherent thought.

  He’d betrayed himself. Some way, somehow, she’d heard the old gossip. Her hand tightened, and he looked down at it: long, slender fingers, a square, capable palm. It clasped his wrist firmly, as if he were one of her swords, to be utilized under her skillful direction, and he resented it. God, how he resented it.

  He wanted no woman to read him with keen vision and handle him accordingly. He wanted a woman who sewed and tended her garden, gave him children and unquestioning obedience. He wanted a woman who understood it was a man’s prerogative to demand answers to his questions, to shape lives according to his own wisdom. He wanted a woman who understood she had no business thinking, much less speaking, of a man’s mysteries—yet he still wanted Marian.

  Bold Marian. Inquisitive Marian. “Valiant Marian.” He spoke aloud. “Too stupid to know she has charged the line of my authority for the last time.”

  She jumped half out of the covers in indignation, ready to fight. “You shouldn’t be talking about marriage with me. I am not some silly girl who’ll submit to a man’s will without thought or reason.”

  He placed his palms on her shoulders, wrapped his fingers around her, one by one, and lifted her level with his face. “If you wanted a man who would let you drag him along like an out-of-control mare, then you shouldn’t have bedded me. But it’s too late for both of us. I’ve arranged our marriage, you carry my seed, and by the grace of God, we’ll wed and I’ll teach you your place.”

  His eyes blazed with solid determination, and he sounded as stuffy as he had the first time she’d met him. But the first time she’d met him, they’d both been clothed, they’d both been standing erect, and a rumpled bed hadn’t stretched behind her, begging for more.

  If she were wise, she would shut her mouth now and slip away from Castle Powel when she could. But she’d never been wise. “Maybe I’ll teach you your place,” she said. “Maybe I’ll—”

  His kiss smothered the rest, and he bore her back on the mattress in a passion. Of rage? Perhaps, but she could taste frustration and anxiety, and part of her understood.

  He wanted a peaceful life, a traditional wife, yet he’d trapped himself with his own code of ho
nor. He’d taken her virginity, taught her desire, and now he thought he had to marry her. Tearing her mouth free, she told him, “You don’t have to.”

  He looked half-wild. “What?”

  “Marry me. I’m not what you want—”

  He growled and cut her off with another of those untamed, assertive kisses. Cupping her face in his hands, he glared at her and said, “You’re mine. No matter how or why, you’re mine.”

  “I think—”

  “Don’t think.” He kissed her, and she struggled.

  “But you—”

  “No buts.” He kissed her again.

  “You—”

  “No you. No me. Only us.”

  She couldn’t remember what she wanted to say, anyway, and as her motions became aimless, his ardor gentled. He still crushed her, he still wanted her, and immediately, but he wanted her to want him, too. What had been a struggle became a dance, and she teetered perilously close to yielding—when a yell in the hall jerked them apart.

  “Ye can’t go in there!” Art’s voice shouted.

  Another, unknown voice replied, “This is the place, then. Good, for I’ll do what must be done.”

  As Griffith cursed, the door slammed against the wall. Marian squeaked, and a sepulchral voice pronounced, “I bring you greetings from your lord, King Henry.”

  13

  Art squawked like a hen when a wolf has come a-calling. “I tried to stop him, Griffith, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

  Griffith thrust Marian beneath the covers and rolled to his feet. Naked and furious, he stalked toward the messenger. “Oliver Churl, is it not?”

  Imperturbable, the messenger corrected, “Oliver King. Henry Tudor’s private secretary, to be precise. I bring you greetings from your liege.”

  Griffith glanced at the quivering lump beneath the blankets. “My liege has impeccable timing. Art, my clothes.”

  As Art scurried around, sorting the scattered clothing, Griffith placed his fists on his hips, drew himself up to his full height, and put himself to the task of intimidating the small, dapper man before him.

  It didn’t work.

  “I beg pardon, Sir Griffith, for interrupting your pleasure, but our King Henry is, as you know, most impatient. He sent me to you more than a fortnight ago, and I have since traveled to Wenthaven and, it seems, over every Welsh mountain to find you.”

  The need for action still throbbed in Griffith. “You travel slowly.”

  “Not at all. I traveled quickly, since I knew not where to look. King Henry assumed you would fulfill the duties he demanded of you, rather than come to your home for relaxation. Unless”—he glanced pointedly at Art—“your servant failed to deliver the king’s letter?”

  Art accorded Oliver a respect he demonstrated to only a few. “I delivered it, as ye instructed, my lord.”

  Art’s homage caught Griffith’s attention, and he looked more closely at the man before him. Oliver might be too well dressed, and speak with a slight French accent, but his well-muscled body gave his clothes their shape, and his gaze held a sharp intelligence.

  Of course. Henry chose his servants well. Oliver was one of the few men who had been with Henry in exile and in triumph, and he well understood his position in court.

  Griffith’s fury at being interrupted eased, and he pulled on his garments as Art handed them to him. “I followed those instructions,” Griffith said in a reasonable tone.

  “Then where is the lady Marian?” King asked.

  Griffith nodded toward the bed.

  Oliver’s expression changed from surprise, to horror, to thoughtfulness, and then became the blank, smooth expression of a practiced courtier. “I don’t remember our liege dictating these particular instructions to me, but the king’s mind is ever subtle. Perhaps that is what he intended—or hoped—would happen.”

  Art struck his forehead. Griffith hushed King and watched as the blankets stirred. But Marian didn’t pop out, and Griffith found it touching that a woman with her reputation would cower when surprised in a compromising position. Especially when she was no doubt livid about Oliver’s speculation.

  King seemed to find Marian’s reticence interesting, also, and he kept his gaze on the bed. “The king wants you to come to him at once.”

  Griffith paused in the process of donning his cloak. “Why?”

  “The earl of Lincoln sailed for Ireland, where he joined forces with the earls of Kildare and Desmond—and the pretender to the throne. In Christ Church Cathedral, in Dublin, they had this impostor crowned Edward, King of England.”

  “Mother of God,” Art whispered.

  Oliver nodded grimly. “Well might you say so, for they stole a jeweled wreath from the statue of the Mother of God to place on his undeserving head.”

  “Blasphemy!”

  “Aye. When I left court, rumors were flying that they had sailed.”

  “How many troops?” Griffith asked.

  “Their own men,” Oliver replied. “Thomas Fitzgerald, lord chancellor of Ireland, leads a contingent of Irish troops. But most important, they have a company of mercenaries under the command of Martin Schwarz.”

  Griffith welcomed the surge of power that shifted him from thwarted lover to Henry’s warrior. He welcomed the plotting, the intrigue, the language, and with a macabre relish, he said, “An impressive military array, but expensive. Who’s paying?”

  “Margaret, Edward the Fourth’s sister.”

  “Ah, Margaret,” Griffith said contemptuously. “That old witch will do anything to knock Henry Tudor off the throne, and she has the resources to do it.”

  “Let us not forget the earl of Lincoln is her great-nephew, and Richard the Third’s intended heir.” Oliver exhibited the cunning that made him a dependable secretary. “I listened to the travelers on the road, and they reported an army landing on the coast of Lancashire.”

  “Good man!” Griffith thumped Oliver on the back. “Your information is more trustworthy than the rumors at court, I trow. What else have you heard?”

  “Little or nothing of use. The rumors agreed on the landing, but not what party or their destination, and once I entered Wales, the situation in England mattered not at all.”

  “It wouldn’t, would it, Lord Secretary?” Art gave a gap-toothed grin. “The Welsh trust Henry to keep his grasp on the throne.”

  “So he will, while I’m living.” Griffith sucked in a breath and could almost smell the lathered horses, the blood, the burning fields. He knew combat. He understood battle tactics. He knew that victory went to the man who remained standing, defeat to the man in the mud. It was clear-cut, understandable masculine labor, suitable for a knight and preferable to the quagmire of emotions that sucked him under when he dealt with Marian.

  Still, guilt tugged at him as he glanced at the bed and said, “I’ll come.”

  Art took the role of host, freeing Griffith to handle Marian. “Lord Secretary, won’t ye go down to the great hall and partake of some refreshment? Ye’ve come a long ways, and perhaps Lord Rhys and his wife’ll be in. They’ll want to give ye a proper welcome.”

  “Ah.” Oliver fussed with the fur on his cloak, fluffing it so it waved with each puff of air. “I’d be pleased to meet Lord Rhys. I’ll see you soon, Sir Griffith?”

  “Very soon.” Griffith waited only until the door had closed before he crossed to the bed. “Love,” he murmured, peeling back the blankets, “they’re gone. You can come out now.”

  Marian’s tousled hair couldn’t hide the hardness of her gaze.

  Disappointment pierced him. She’d listened only to further her knowledge of Henry’s designs and of his own plans. “You’ve been spying on me,” he said, repeating her accusation—the accusation that had so infuriated him at Castle Wenthaven.

  She recognized his intent and answered in a remote tone, devoid of the earlier vibrant excitement. “A disgusting habit, isn’t it? But one which proves profitable, as you yourself have discovered. It would seem that you leave at once.
”

  Calculating the time it would take him to collect his men and prepare them, he decided, “Tomorrow morning. And you’ll be here when I return. You’ll stay and be treated with the honor my future wife commands.” Her chin jutted out, and he lifted her head with his hand. He dominated her, as was his intention. “Listen to me. You’re safe here. Lionel is safe. My father and my mother will see to it. If you went back out into the world, I would fear for you. So swear to me—”

  Her hand flashed out and covered his mouth. “I will exchange no vows with the man who flies to Henry’s side when he calls.”

  He groaned in disgust and pushed her hand aside. “Are we back to that again?”

  “When did we leave it?”

  As patiently as if he were explaining to a child, he said, “Henry is my liege. I am required by every tenet of Christian knighthood to honor my vows, and the most important vow is to come when my lord needs my services in war. If you heard Oliver King, surely you understood the threat this pretender to the throne poses to Henry.”

  She turned away.

  Abruptly furious, he added, “And to the lady Elizabeth.”

  “Of course you have to go.” She looked back at him and smiled tightly. “So go.”

  Her terse permission failed to satisfy him. “Would you trust a man who fails his vows to his lord?”

  “I trust no man.”

  “You trust Art.”

  Her face softened. “I do trust Art.”

  “He’s my own dear servant.”

  She nodded.

  “Would Art serve me so diligently if I were not a man worthy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He almost smiled, “Ask him.”

  She burst out, “Oh, sometimes I trust you. Then you go to serve Henry, and I remember my duty.” She touched the side of his face with her cool fingers. “Go away, Griffith. Fight your battle, and leave me to fight mine.”

  “You’ll be here when I return?”

  She shot the words at him like a bolt from a crossbow. “Will you return?”