Faerie (24 page)

Did he mean to break his oath and take her after all? What could she do about it if he did? Not a man or woman below would understand a wife refusing her husband.

She thought she would never understand him.

“Did you have to say that about the sheets?” she asked.

He pulled his blue tunic over his head. “Aye.”

“I don’t see why.”

“You did say you do not want to be bedded. And I wish to keep my vow. But they would have forced us, all of them meaning well. It was the only way to stop a public bedding, my precious, to persuade them there was no point in it. De Mowbray especially, the randy old dog.”

He held out his hand to her. She took a step back.

“Do you not wish to lie down with me? I’ll make myself a pallet by the wall, and in the morning I will see that I am found beside you, so none will suspect our lie.”

Even now her mind screamed fear for his perfidious deed, for the terrifying dream that kept returning every time she closed her eyes. Yet her body thrummed the rhythm of excitement at the very scent of his presence. Even the hairs on her arms seemed to stand alert when he was near. And all the while her heart called out,
This is Philippe
. This Philippe was the man to whom she had foolishly and secretly given her heart when she was little more than a child, when he had brusquely tossed it away.

And he did not want her now. He wanted only to please his king.

She did not want to lie down with him. Even in pretense. But she drew in a long breath. She was Leonie of Bosewood, who would fear no man, fear no fate.

“We shall sleep together,” she said.

He nodded silently and turned away as he stripped the last garments from his body. Perhaps, she thought, he was ashamed that he did not want her.

“Leave on your chemise,” he said. “It would not be unseemly for a new bride. But if I am clothed, then our lie will not be believed.”

She nodded.

“Your foot,” he said. “I forgot it. Let me see it.”

“It is fine. Ealga tended it earlier.”

“It could not be, not so soon, and I made you dance on it. Forgive me.”

“Nay, I tell you, I did not notice myself. Do not fuss over it. There is no pus, no pain. But there will be a scar.”

He frowned. “Show me.”

With huff, Leonie sat on the bedding and stretched out her foot, and he unwrapped the cloth to see for himself she did not lie.

“Still, I should not have made you dance.”

“It was a good dance. A good reason to laugh.”

In the darkness, he slipped beneath the sheets and turned his back to her. Now she had no doubt he would keep his promise not to molest her. And something in her felt the hurt as deeply as if it stabbed, knifelike, through her heart. As it always had.

Shafts of moonlight fell upon him where he lay, and her eyes could trace the fine curve of his spine. Her hands wanted to touch, to follow the beauty of the curve. There was no denying he was as well made as any man might ever be.

She had not expected love from a husband. She had always known better than to believe that, for women of her sort who inherited great properties would never be allowed husbands chosen by their hearts. But that was the irony of it all. For some reason she would never comprehend, she had been given the husband of her dreams, only to face his abhorrence of her. And that
would be true even if the wild and frightening thoughts in her mind turned out to be false.

If they were fortunate, she could just go on living, doing what she must, and he could do what he must, and someday they might forget that they did not belong together. Or she might go away, as he had said, and he would forget her entirely.

“Philippe?” she said tentatively, in case he might still be awake. He had slept little if at all in the last few days.

“Umm?” It was the sound of a man already lodged in the world of dreams.

“Do you think Fulk will give up now?”

“Nay.”

“Then what will they do next?”

Philippe rolled to his back. She could see the tired lines in his brow and wished she had let him sleep.

“The Bishop of Durham will complain to Archbishop Anselm that Rufus has given a promised maid in marriage to another man, and the archbishop will take the complaint to Rufus. Rufus and Anselm are at odds these days, though Rufus does listen to him. But it will not matter. Rufus knows the real truth and will know Fulk has lied to his bishop. Durham and Fulk may not realize it, but their very complaint will tell Rufus of their real intentions.”

“How?”

“Rufus can read people better than the archbishop can read his Latin treatises. I have sent word to the king of today’s affairs, but my messenger must pass through Durham’s lands to reach the king. De Mowbray sent his own man, west through Westmoreland. Mayhap one of the messengers will get through. If not, Rufus will know when he does not hear from me that something is amiss. Rufus told me he had already turned down Fulk’s suit before Fulk ever went to Brodin. Yet the fool still went to Brodin to stake his claim. So from all this, Rufus will deduce that Durham means to join Malcolm in war against the king.”

“Rufus will see all that?”

Philippe smiled. “Did you not realize it too? I think you did. Whether Fulk means to or not, he will deliver my message to Rufus for me.”

Leonie wrinkled her brow for a minute as she absorbed all that. Philippe rolled back to his side, away from her. She ought to let him sleep now.

A new thought hit. A more frightening one.

“Philippe,” she said.

“Aye?” It sounded almost like a sigh.

“How did Fulk know where we were?”

As he turned onto his back again, shafts of moonlight illuminated his chest and the sprinkling of dark hairs on it, every single one of them calling to her to run her fingers over them. She quietly clenched her fingers into fists to remind them to behave.

“Mayhap he had heard you were lost and went in search, as de Mowbray did.”

“Bringing the bishop? That seems odd. The bishop was not clad for a journey.”

Philippe propped himself up on one elbow. “Hm, true. The Bishop of Durham is a man who loves his comfort. Ah, you are right. His only purpose was to give authority to Fulk’s deed.”

“But how did they know where to find us? He said he had come to rescue me from you, so he meant to find both of us. But how could they have learned?”

“De Mowbray sent word ahead to Bosewood. They must have learned from that.”

“But nobody at the outpost knew you had found me until after dawn, and we set out for Bosewood shortly after. No messenger could possibly have reached Durham, for them to reach the crossroads when we did.”

He propped up on his elbow, studying her, exposing the deeply shadowed muscular planes of his chest, causing her to catch her breath, lest she betray her thoughts about him.

“They could not,” he said. “Yet they did know.”

“How?”

Philippe returned to his back, his hands folded behind his head. “Not de Mowbray. He did not know before he found us, and he has been with us since then. His dog surely did not tell.”

She snickered at the image of Ilse trying to tell a secret. “Though I do think she’s smart enough, she does not speak the language well.”

He chuckled. “But someone knew. Were we followed? Or mayhap they found where we camped?”

“Why would anyone do that? Who could have moved so swiftly?”

“I don’t know. But aye, it was no accident that they came upon us. And it means, precious bride, that there is far more at stake here than appears on the surface. They want you badly.”

“Ha. They want my land.”

“Which is easier to control if they have you.”

“More than that. I saw what was in Fulk’s eyes,” she said. “He means to kill you.”

“Haps he will.”

“It would be easier to claim the bride after dispensing of the husband than to go through archbishops and kings for an awkward annulment.”

“They will do that anyway, for effect, to make themselves look blameless.”

“Then what will you do?”

“Fight them. I will not let them take you.”

“Even though they will kill you.”

“Now they must kill me if they wish to gain their ends. But it doesn’t mean they will succeed. Leonie, promise me two things.”

“What?”

“First, if anything happens to me, you must escape to de Mowbray.”

“You trust him? I thought you didn’t.”

“I can’t say I do. It is natural that we would be at odds, for I support Rufus, the very king our Black Earl detests. But the man is blunt and speaks his mind. For now, I think I believe him. He must choose and knows Rufus is a better choice than the Scottish king, who would never let him keep Northumbria if the battle goes to the Scots. But more than that, he has some reason he has not told us that he will protect you. I know it, somehow. So you must turn to him. Promise me.”

“But if you are wrong?”

“Do you not trust him?”

“Trust him? Five men: you, Fulk, the bishop, Rufus, and de Mowbray. I trust none of you. But haps I trust Robert de Mowbray a little bit.”

He quirked his mouth in a half smile. “That will do. And now, the other thing. If ever I tell you, ‘Do as I say,’ in those words, you must do it, instantly. I promise I will never say exactly those words unless the circumstance is dire, but I must know, if I do, you will obey immediately, without questioning me.”

“Why?”

“You see? You always question me. If I ever I say that, it will be a time when even a moment’s hesitation will bring you danger or death. I must know you will do this for me. Promise me.”

She couldn’t help sighing. None of this was the way she had imagined her wedding night.

“Promise me.”

“All right. I promise.”

With a smile, he lay back down on his back, raising an arm to press against his forehead. “You will be safe. I promise you. You will never know all that is done, but what must be done will be done. And now, precious bride, I am more than a little tired. Give out a little squeal and moan, will you? That will please them, and then we may both get some sleep.”

“Do your own moaning.”

He chuckled and rolled on his side away from her. Almost instantly, she heard the funny rattly, whistling sound she had so often heard among the snores of sleeping men in her uncle’s hall.

Deep and hard the night wind blew, like dark, frosty fingers lacing into his hair. Armorless, he rode, swiftly as his great grey warhorse would take him. The road beneath the hooves turned to dust, to mist, to heather-strewn rock, and fell away behind them.

Fly, my Tonerre, fly like the eagles!

“Help me! Philippe, save me!” She struggled against her captor, who would force himself on her to obtain her land.

“I charge you with her life, Peregrine,” said Rufus. “Do not fail me.”

He was the king’s man. The woman was his. His heart throbbed with fear for her and ached at the thought of losing her. Calling to her, he rode hard, forcing his stallion to greater speed over the countryside after the fleeing villains.

The grey horse rose into the air and sped past clouds and moon, chasing the brigand knights on their ghostly mounts as they raced across the moors and valleys toward the spires of Durham, sitting on its hill above the sharp curve of the river.

He sliced and stabbed his way through the dark knights, parrying their blows, his sword swinging wide and deadly arcs until
he reached the leader, who clenched Philippe’s struggling wife with one arm and the hilt of his gleaming steel sword in the other hand. Fulk. Hot rage surged power into Philippe’s arm. With a mighty swing, his sword took off the villain’s head. The head flew through the air and landed among the rocks, bouncing and bouncing, and came to rest in a trail of its own gore.

The head of Fulk glared in frozen hatred, the mouth gaping and still. But nay, it was not Fulk. ’Twas Clodomir, the sorcerer. And this time, dead. His enemy, and hers, both dead, gone. She was safe now. Even from the sorcerer’s curse.

Philippe’s wife. Leonie, his wife. She stood before him, still and beckoning amid the bloody battlefield, her strange, compelling green eyes seeking her mate in him.

They’d had clothes, but now the garments were gone. It had been so long; weeks, months, and years had passed since he had taken a woman, and each day his bollocks had grown harder with need, their hunger unsatisfied. Now he had a wife again, one with sleek curves and long, long legs to wrap around him while he embedded himself deeply inside her, all the way to his hilt.

“You must not.” Nay, it was Joceline who spoke to him, but Joceline was dead. Had died because of him.

“You cannot kill another,” said the voice he could never forget. “You are cursed. Let me be the only one.”

Nay, said his heart. The sorcerer is dead, the curse ended. It will be all right. She will be safe. And I will not let myself love her, just make love.

“I want you,” said his voice to his wife, its rough, low sound betraying his raw hunger.

“You want me. I am here. Take me, Peregrine.” She trailed the tips of her fingers down her chest between her breasts, over her navel, down to touch the rusty-blonde curls she wore like an indiscreet garment.