Marriage Under Siege (36 page)

'I had every reason for
coming here.' Honoria raised her head against the onslaught. 'Coningsby was
leaving the Manor, so it was imperative that I enforce my legal claim.'

'But you cannot defend this
place. It is too weak, no natural defences. I know that you are aware of that
small but essential fact!'

'Perhaps not.' She lifted
her chin further against the heavy sarcasm. 'But it is mine. And I will not let
Fitzwilliam Coningsby—or anyone else—lay claim to it.'

'Very well. I can accept
that.' But he would be damned if he would allow her to achieve the moral
ascendancy in this difference of opinion. 'When I found you, you were
benighted in an overflowing ditch, with no hope of reaching here in good
order.'

Honoria hissed like an
angry kitten. There was no answer to this, and she knew it.

'Why in God's name did you
have to set out in the worst thunderstorm in living memory?'

'I did not
choose
to. The weather was calm when we set off, with no
suggestion of rain.' She swallowed hard against the lie, but continued. 'I was
perfectly capable of doing precisely what you did—
unharnessing
the draught horses and leaving the wagon until tomorrow.'

'And to drag Mary along
with you...'

'Mary insisted on
accompanying me. She made her own decision with no persuasion on my part. And I
was grateful for it.'

'And how did you know that
Coningsby was leaving anyway?' Mansell ran his fingers through his hair,
grimacing at the damp, tangled mess. 'For all you knew, he might still have
been here with firearms and cannon at the ready. And then what would you have
done? Turned round and gone back to Ludlow? Indeed, I do not understand why he
decided to leave at all.'

'Because of the plague.'

'Which plague? Have I
missed something here?'

'I refuse to explain.' She
dropped her gaze from his anger with some relief, stooping to retrieve her
cloak. 'You are clearly not in the mood to listen. I am going to find a room
that might be habitable for the night.' She made to brush past him, haughty
composure held rigidly in place, as if his opinion was of no account, as if
her limbs were not trembling, beset by an urgent desire to escape from his
harsh words and the condemnation in his face.

'Oh, no, my lady.' He
caught her wrist in a firm grip so that she stood before him. 'It is far too
easy for you to close down your thoughts from me and shut me out. We will
finish this...this conversation before we go anywhere.'

'There is nothing to
finish.' Deliberately, bravely, she raised her eyes once more to his, picking
up the challenge.

'There is. Why should
Coningsby leave because of a non-existent outbreak of plague?'

'Because I...I sent letters
to Leintwardine that there was plague in Ludlow, which was spreading in this
direction.'

He released her wrist, his
face expressing utter amazement. 'Let me get this right. You spread false
rumours. You sent letters to Coningsby, warning him of plague?'

'Yes. I knew he would
instantly go back to Hereford in fear of his life. I could think of no other
way of ousting him.'

Mansell strode round her to
the jug of wine on the table and poured a glass as he marshalled his thoughts.
His back to her, still with bent head, he finally spoke, his voice now quiet
and ruthlessly controlled. 'I dare not turn my back on you. I never know what
you will do next—or what perfectly logical explanation you will provide for
doing it. Or what the repercussions will be.' He tossed off a glass of wine
while she watched him uneasily. 'I don't think I have had a moment's peace
since I married you—for my sins!'

'Thank you, my lord!'
Honoria fought against the wave of despair, taking refuge in attack. 'That's
all I needed to hear tonight. If I had followed my own wishes, I would have
taken my jointure on Edward's death and be living in peaceful seclusion.
Instead of which I have endured a siege, and am now homeless and seen as the
enemy by the whole of the county.' She ran her tongue over dry lips. 'I did not
ask to be put in this position. My actions have been dictated by events, not by
any desire on my part to cause you concern. You speak as if I have deliberately
acted to thwart and undermine you. To endanger you. That is not so, and never
has been. I have done what I thought was right in an impossible situation.'

He turned his head, to look
at her over his shoulder, silent for a moment. She found his expression
impossible to read. Then he answered, 'I am sorry I inflicted marriage on you,
my lady.'

'So am I.'

They faced each other then,
eyes locked, the air sharp and thin between them as the cruel words echoed. The
distance, a mere matter of feet, was vast.

He knew that she would walk
to the door. And that the gulf would yawn even wider unless he was very careful
with her. He had misjudged her again, painting her with the violent hues of
treachery where none existed. She had never been anything but loyal. She had
fought beside him, demanding of nothing for herself, putting his needs before
her own. Except, of course, this foolish affection for this pretty manor. A
wave of guilt and self-disgust blocked his throat. He had no right to take his
frustration and bitter sense of failure over the fall of Brampton Percy out on
her. She did not deserve it. Nor did she need to know of his misjudgement of
her, those poisonous and hurtful thoughts that now heaped guilt on to his
heart.

There must be a better way
than this.

For a moment he forced
himself to look at her from a dispassionate distance. The pale oval of her
face, no trace of colour in either cheeks or lips. Her hair, a rich brown,
enhanced with russets and gold by the rain, had escaped from some of its pins
and was now drying into curls around her neck. Her eyes had none of the gilt
flecks of happiness or contentment, but were dark with a terrible sadness. Even
so, she was so clearly determined to preserve her dignity in the face of the
emotions tearing at them both. In the face of such courage, and the lash of
his own conscience, it became impossible for him to maintain his disinterest.
He loved her. He had no choice but to recognise and accept the one overriding
desire that filled his mind and his heart. He had no idea when that longing,
that desire to hold and protect above all things, had lodged within him with
diamond-bright claws—but he loved her. It was as simple as that.

What now? There was nothing
that Honoria could think of to say. Her heart was breaking and she could not
find the words to tell him. Instead she had retaliated, denying her love,
blaming him for a union against her will. It was so far from the truth, she
could have laughed at the stupidity of her words, if her throat had not been
blocked by unshed tears. He would not mock her, of course, if she revealed her
true feelings. He would be understanding. Courteous. He might offer friendship
even. But she could not bear that. It would be too humiliating for her and it
would put far too great a weight on his shoulders. She simply had to accept
that she did not have enough to offer him as a wife or as a lover.

'Forgive me, Francis.'
For loving you. For tying you into an undesirable marriage. For
everything.

She would not weep. With no
other thought than escape before her pride could be destroyed by tears, Honoria
turned towards the door. With two long strides, Mansell reacted and blocked her
path, preventing her retreat, grasping her shoulders to force her quiescence.
For a moment he saw panic bloom in her eyes—and then it was gone, to be
replaced by a sheer despair that she could not disguise. He gave her a little
shake, sliding his hands down her arms to take her hands in a strong grip,
holding them captive against his chest.

'No.' He determined to
force the issue here. 'I won't lie to you, Honoria. Things are too difficult as
it is. I am not sorry that I took you in marriage. Not sorry at all.'

She was compelled to
answer, her breath catching. 'Neither am I.'

Eyes held, they simply
stood. Lost in a strange uncertainty, but also in a deliberate reconciliation,
fuelled by a fear of further separation and misunderstanding.

'Forgive me for losing my
temper.'

'Yes.'

'And shouting at you.'

'Yes.' She gripped his
hands even harder, afraid that he would stop, retract his words, shatter the
sudden hope that surged through her.

He smiled, a loosening of
the tight muscles. He looked, she thought, as if he had not smiled for weeks,
had almost forgotten how. She wanted more than anything that he would smile
again at her.

'I am sorry I dragged you
here. I thought it would all be over before the siege was at an end and you
would never have to know. But I do not regret that I lied to Coningsby about
the plague.'

He actually laughed, the
sombre grey of his eyes lightening as the despair relaxed its hold. 'Honor.
Your spirit astounds me and fills me with admiration.'

'I have been so afraid—I
was so pleased to see you,' she admitted. 'On the road in all that mud and
water. I was frightened by the storm and did not know—'

'Come here, my utterly
foolish and misguided wife. But so brave...' He tightened his arms around her,
her head tucked against his shoulder. The damp clothes notwithstanding, the shivers
that raced over their skin, they held on to each other as sole survivors of a
disaster.

'I missed you,' Honoria
whispered against his chest. 'Outmanoeuvring Coningsby helped take my mind off
what you were doing— what might be happening to you.'

'Lingen let us go—in return
for the castle, of course. The walls had been finally breached by then.' His
hands stroked up and down her back, soothing her fears, holding her firmly
against him. 'Family blood, in the end. He could not stomach putting us to the sword.
Or sending us to Coningsby who would gloat and claim success and victory for
himself. So he let us ride free—and our tenants have returned to their homes.
It could have been worse, I suppose.'

Thank God. I prayed so
hard. I thought I might never see you again.'

'And probably wished you
had not, when I arrived breathing hellfire and damnation.' He rubbed his cheek
against her hair.

'No. I could never think
that.'

At her words, the quiet
certainty of her voice, he lifted her, raised her face, hands framing it, and
brushed her lips with his. The softest, gentlest of caresses. And then once
more.

'I believed that I would
never have the chance to do that again. The regret was so powerful, so
painful—in the dead of night when fears have their sharpest edges. And I feared
for your safety when I could do nothing to protect you. You have no idea how
often you were in my thoughts and dreams.'

'It is over now.' She
turned her face against his throat, pressed her lips to the steady pulse, as
shyness flooded her. 'Perhaps we can be together now.'

'I hope so. Honoria—my
feelings for you are far deeper than I would ever have believed, have hoped
for.' His arms tightened a little. 'Do you think we shall ever be granted more
than a day at a time? To talk. To live at peace in a comfortable house. To walk
in a garden. Trivial things I took for granted not so long ago. To laugh
together. Perhaps to love. Or shall we
for ever
be
damned to be parted or at odds?'

'I know not.' She rose on
her toes and repeated his gesture, lifting her lips to his, to brush and stroke
with utmost delicacy. 'I pray that we may be together.'

'Honor.' He pulled her
closer and bent his head, intent on taking and ravaging, branding her with the
sudden need that leapt through his blood, his arms bands of steel around her.

When the explosion of noise
and uproar from the main entrance, the clash of voices raised in anger and
demand, the pound of approaching boots, caused him to lift his head, his body
tensed and he turned towards the door as the blood ran cold in his veins.

Before Mansell could move,
whilst he stood, his arms still enfolding Honoria against him, the words of
love, so long denied and fought against, still forming in his mind, the door
into the parlour was flung back to crash against the wall. The small, intimate
room was suddenly spiked with harsh violence, crowded with armed retainers,
swords drawn, in the bright blue-and-silver livery of the Governor of Hereford.
They lined the walls with well-trained discipline, making no move to approach,
standing to attention to allow their lord to walk in and take command of the
situation.

Fitzwilliam Coningsby,
Governor of Hereford, fervent Royalist and sworn enemy of the Brampton faction.

He closed the door behind
him, deliberately shutting Mary into the corridor where she fretted and fumed
to no avail. Her attempts to warn Lord and Lady Mansell of the impending
disaster had been singularly unsuccessful. A guard was placed in the corridor,
before the door, to thwart her and ensure the privacy of those within the room.
Coningsby stood at his ease in their midst, small in stature, slight in build,
a faint malicious smile curving his lips in his thin face. But his eyes were
dark and flat, as lacking in light as a deep woodland pool and twice as treacherous.
He was clearly no soldier, his satin and velvet clothes with fine linen and
lace proclaiming a man of leisured wealth, but, with the authority of the King
behind him and the troops at his side, there was no doubting who would have the
final word in this confrontation.