Griffith agreed. “It is the truth.”
“Not the King Richard the Third whom Henry defeated, who fought and died for his crown. That Richard Henry might be able to understand, and even forgive. Nay, when Henry looked on Lionel, he saw the Richard who had defiled his wife, and that Henry could not stomach.”
Ugly possessiveness had warped Henry—and worse, Griffith understood Henry’s emotions. He’d experienced those same emotions once—when he had thought Lionel was Marian’s son and Richard had forced the child on her. Hoarse and low, he said, “Tell me now. It is safe. Where do you hide the proof of marriage?”
“I burned it.”
He released her and staggered backward. “But you told the king—”
“That it was in a safe place. So it is.”
“You said…you said you would never destroy it. You kept it for Lionel. You said it was his birthright.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she looked at the ground.
He took her hands gently in his and turned the palms up. Blisters had swollen and burst on the mound beneath the thumb, leaving flesh marked forever with fire. Her index finger and the one beside it were shiny and purple, and redness crept across the skin like algae across a rock.
She had done this to herself to do right, because he’d showed her her ambitions and she’d been ashamed. Now he was ashamed, both about his inept judgment of Henry and about his uncharitable judgment of her. “I know my mother’s burn recipe.” He touched the injured hand, and she winced. “I can gather the herbs right now and…”
But that wasn’t what he needed to say. Words were difficult, slippery beings, but he had to try to make amends. “I wanted you to give up your quest and your dream, assuming they were too immense for you to bear. I had believed my honor to be immutable, and your honor to be a lesser thing. You proved me wrong, about both your strength and your honor. I understand.” He gave her back her hand. “I really do. You wanted Lionel to be king of England. You wanted to stand at his side and share his pride. Well, I…um…feel the same way about you.”
“About me?”
His face flamed, and he strolled toward the river. “I’ve captured a gyrfalcon. Not many men can make that claim.”
“A gyrfalcon?” She followed him, fascinated. “You mean me?”
“Wild and free, soaring high and taking me with you. Do you want to walk? We have the time now. We don’t have to rescue anybody or fight any armies.”
Her unmarked hand crept under his elbow. “I’d love to walk.”
Griffith pointed toward a stand of trees. “Let’s go there. That looks like a fine place to hunt fairies.”
She looked at him, and he saw excitement in her eyes. “I would love to go there,” Marian said, “if you’ll tell me about the gyrfalcon.”
What had started as an embarrassment had become a lure to his bird, and she didn’t even realize it. Leading her down toward the grove, he said, “Of course, most men don’t even try to capture such a bird. They fear the beak and claws, but they envy the man who possesses one.”
“You think other men will envy you for having me as your wife?” She snorted. “The other men have women who sew and cook and take care of their families. Other women never fight with swords or travel alone or challenge the king. When your friends go home, they’ll say, ‘Poor Griffith. He’ll never have a moment’s peace with that outrageous Lady Marian.’”
“Aye, so they will. And at night, they’ll pretend they swive the outrageous Lady Marian, and their dull wives will wonder at their burst of passion.” He put his arm around her. “But only I will have the real Lady Marian—queen of my home, my hearth, my bed.”
“I thought you were sorry Henry made you marry me.”
“Who do you think put the idea in Henry’s head?”
She pushed him so hard and so suddenly, he stumbled backward over a fallen log. “You did that?” He nodded, and she demanded, “Why did you do that?”
“Because I…ah…lost control.” She stared, incredulous, and he said, “It has been ever so where you’re concerned. I’ve been rash and foolish, sweeping you into my bed, taking you to my home against your will”—he scrambled up and glared into her eyes—“and I’m glad. By all that’s holy, glad!”
“But you don’t like to lose control. You resent me when I make you lose control.”
This was the time he should tell her. “I wanted you to trust me without returning the gift of trust.” Tell her about the previous siege of Castle Powel. “You recognized my cowardice, and gave me equal measure.” Tell her how his youthful rage had cost his father the castle and Art his eye. “You gave me nothing.”
He wanted to tell her, he really did. But it required more courage than capturing the castle alone, and he wondered if he could bare his naked and unadorned soul to Marian without shriveling in shame or crying out in agony. The mighty warrior inside, the one who had disciplined him for so many years, feared he might sound silly, or offend inadvertently, or—worst of all—get a tear in his eye.
In fact, he must have one, for she stepped close against him and brushed at his cheeks. “Griffith, Art told me about the loss of the castle, and how you’ve feared you would one day err again. But ’tis not your control I love you for—’tis the man who roars when he’s angry and laughs when he’s happy and loves a gyrfalcon with such passion that he tames her, all unwilling.”
Gently he caught her hands and held them to his face. “You love me—for that?”
“What else?” She smiled, and her wide green eyes made him think of spring. “Do you think I love you when you’re hard and cold as stone?”
“Don’t you?”
“Well…aye. I really love you when you’re pompous.” She winked flirtatiously. “It makes me laugh.”
Stiffly, he answered, “I’m glad I can be an object of mirth for you, my lady.”
She laughed. Putting her lips against his mouth, she murmured, “Do you know when I realized you loved me?”
“When I told you?”
“I’ve had no reason to have faith in men’s words. Nay, I knew you loved me when you drew steel on the king.”
“That was stupid.” He condemned himself. “Unforgivably stupid. If I had had the control on which I prided myself, I’d have thought of another way to divert Henry’s wrath.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” She smiled, and all her dimples winked at him. “But I took care of it.”
“Pardon, my lady?”
“I pledged my fealty to Henry to protect you.”
His control snapped, as it always did with her. “What?” he roared.
“Someone had to do something! Henry has a part of your heart, and I couldn’t have him leave in such a manner. He might have come after Lionel and me, and you’d have fought for us.” She shook her head ruefully. “If there is one thing this last day has taught me, it is that I could not bear to have you die for us. For me.”
“It is my right.”
“Not if I don’t allow it.”
He was furious. She wanted to protect him. Him! The greatest warrior in Wales and England. He could see the reflection of sunshine off her copper hair as she took more steps toward the grove of trees. He could see the green eyes slanting with amusement. Starting after her, he vowed, “I’m going to chain you to my bed.”
Her amusement changed to laughter. “You’ll have to catch me first.”
He speeded up. “Do you think I can’t?”
With a shriek, she turned and ran into the trees, and her voice floated back on the wind. “Who can catch a gyrfalcon?”
“Who can catch a gyrfalcon?” He stopped running, regained control, and considered the question. “Who can catch a gyrfalcon? They are the swiftest of birds.” With a grin, he walked on, slowly, to the place of solitude. Discarding his clothes in an intimate, teasing courtship dance, he whispered to the wind, “Who can catch a gyrfalcon? Only the wise hunter, using the right bait.”
About the Author
Chr
istina Dodd’s novels have been translated into ten languages, won Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart and RITA® Awards, and been called the year’s best by Library Journal. Dodd is a regular on the USA Today, Publishers Weekly, and New York Times bestseller lists. The Barefoot Princess is the second book in her classic new series, The Lost Princesses, following her enormously popular novel, Some Enchanted Evening.
Christina loves to hear from fans. Visit her website at www.christinadodd.com.
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CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR
CHRISTINA DODD’S CANDLE IN THE WINDOW
“A very special romance—heartbreaking and heartwarming, original, beautiful, compassionate, and well written. It is a story you’ll never forget. Candle in the Window ensures Christina Dodd a place in readers’ hearts.”
—Romantic Times
PRICELESS
“Memorable characters, witty dialogue, steaming sensuality—the perfect combination for sheer enjoyment.”
—Jill Marie Landis, author of Come Spring
AND CASTLES IN THE AIR
“Christina Dodd is a joy to read.”
—Laura Kinsale
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
OUTRAGEOUS. Copyright © 1994 by Christina Dodd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of PerfectBound™.
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