Marriage Under Siege (41 page)

'I have a yen to go there.'

'Very well.' He made little
effort to resist. 'I shall value your company. Priam—' his glance was suddenly
intent with an impossible depth of concern '—could you not have stopped her?
She might have listened to you.'

'No.' Priam's answer was
brutally honest. 'Short of tying her to a chair or locking her in a room, and
Joshua here did not feel up to that. No, we could not. Honoria can be very
determined, when she has a mind to it.'

'Or stubborn.' A ghost of a
smile touched Mansell's face, quickly followed by a more unwelcome emotion.
'And yet, beneath it, beneath the undeniable strength and composure, she is
sometimes so vulnerable, so fragile. And so easily hurt, as I know to my
cost.'

'Go to London, man.' Joshua
took his hand in a warm clasp. 'Find your wife. Make your peace with her.'

'I must. For I suddenly
find that life is not worth living without her.'

In London, Honoria settled
herself into Ingram House. How strange it was to live without fear. The walls
secure against attack and the elements. Without gunfire and the thunder of
cannon.

She could enjoy the
pleasures that the city had to offer, even in wartime. Purchase some flattering
and extravagant gowns. Renew old acquaintances. Visit with Sir Robert and Lady
Denham. And Francis's mother, who received her unknown daughter-in-law with
considerable surprise, but welcoming grace. After one shrewd assessment of the
lady who sat before her, she took care not to ask any searching questions,
once she knew that her son was alive and well and free from captivity. A
reticence for which Honoria was eternally grateful.

Ingram House ran seamlessly
round her under the efficient care of Master Foxton and Mistress Morgan. It
required none of her interference. Morrighan and Setanta remained with her,
reluctant to leave her side, as if they sensed the deep core of sadness within
her. But there was nothing to trouble her or demand her time and energies other
than her own pleasure.

Her lord's room was cleaned
and aired, the fire laid, the furniture polished with beeswax, the bed made
fresh with clean linen and lavender. All in readiness for the lord's return.
And if she spent time sewing a particular collection of dried herbs and flower
heads into the pillow case, and the day happened by chance to be a Friday, then
no one but Honoria was aware of it. No one need ask her why she wept over her
stitches. And no one but herself could tell her how foolish such hopes and
dreams might be.

For she was not at peace.
Sleep evaded her and she picked at the food urged on her by Mistress Morgan.
She had no desire to indulge in gossip or social gatherings with friends from
her previous life. Restless, she could not lose herself in a book, in
needlework or in her music as she once would have done. The lute lay mute, the
harpsichord stood unused. But she paced her room, pausing often to look out
from the window.

For Honoria's heart was not
in London, but still in the wilds of the Welsh Marches with its rolling hills
and turbulent skies and bitter strife. And her dreams, indeed, all her senses,
were filled with Francis. Would he follow her? She had no idea. She was no
longer even sure that she wished him to do so, torn between a desire to see and
touch the love of her life once more, and a fear of the condemnation that she
might see in his face, hear in his voice. Would it not indeed be better if they
remained apart? For then the terrible sense of loss that drained her spirits
might gradually dissipate and allow her some tranquillity to exist from day to
day. Their final meeting at Leintwardine, his bitter words when Coningsby
gloated over his capture, the splintering of light on edged steel—all returned
again and again to haunt her. She did not weep again, for Francis or for
herself, but her heart was torn with grief and the days—and nights—were long
with loneliness and despair.

Francis and Priam rode to
London. Francis made a poor companion, silent and introspective for the most
part, but Priam let him be, fully aware of the torment that afflicted his soul
and stripped his nerves to the raw.

Because Francis had to
accept the truth of Mary's caustic and less- than-flattering review of his
character! He winced inwardly at her accuracy. And knew that he must see
Honoria and talk to her, persuade her to talk to him, neither one of them
hiding intimate thoughts and feelings behind a façade of aloof composure. There
was no rest for him through the long days and nights. Guilt weighed heavy. And
a sharp hunger, a longing to see his wife, hear her voice, hold her and protect
her against the fears that stalked her dreams and her waking hours. They had
been too long apart. And through all his doubts and self-condemnation ran a
terrible gnawing ache that she had given up on him. Would she turn her face
from him as he had once turned from her? He deserved no less, after all.

Never had the road to
London seemed so long. Never had Francis anticipated his arrival there with so
much dread...

'Captain Priam! Captain
Priam!'

Honoria's face lit with joy
as she returned to Ingram House one afternoon some days later to see her
unexpected visitor about to cross the hallway. He was still garbed for travel,
boots and breeches mired, cloak slung negligently over his shoulder. Without
thought for his condition, without staying to put aside her own cloak, she
rushed into his arms.

'My dear girl.' He hugged
her close and then kissed her cheeks, a decided glint in his watchful eyes.
'What a prize you are. I would court you myself if you were not Mansell's.'

He saw the flush that
brightened her complexion. And noted the changes. Too thin. Too pale. Eyes
shadowed and a little wary of his scrutiny, although her gaze met his steadily
enough.

'You look tired! Are they
not looking after you here, lady?' He turned her to face the light, a callused
hand beneath her chin, but keeping his concern light. 'Surely Mistress Morgan
is nagging at you.'

'Oh, yes. I am well
enough.' Honoria stepped back to hide her confusion. And sudden impatience. 'I
am so glad to see you.' And then she could wait no longer. 'Where is my lord?
Where is Francis?'

'Here, of course. Where
else would he be?'

Her heart began to thud
against her ribs, threatening to suffocate her. He had come! 'Oh. I did not
know... I am sure you need food. I will arrange for dinner to be served—'

'Honoria.' Priam took her
shoulders in an affectionate grasp, to hold her still, and gave her a little
shake. 'Go up and see him. For God's sake, tell him what is in your heart and
put him out of his misery. I have had to suffer his doubts, his temper and his
dismal silences for three days on the road. More than a sensible man can
stand!'

Honoria could no longer
meet Priam's eyes. She looked down at the toes of her shoes. 'But he despises
me. Blames me for his capture.' The flattering tint drained from her cheeks at
her own admission.

'Foolish child! No, he does
not.' Heartsore, Priam's words were as matter of fact as he could make them.
'Go up.'

After a moment of hesitation,
and a struggle with a strong desire to turn and flee, Honoria nodded. She had
nothing to lose, after all. Kissing Priam on the cheek, she turned from him,
picked up her skirts and ran up the stairs, her face suddenly beautiful with
animation and renewed hope. Priam grinned and watched her go.

By the time she had reached
the corridor outside her lord's door, Honoria's confidence had drained to the
region of her leather shoes. What now? She stood before the door, listening. No
sound. She knocked timidly. This was foolish—but she could not simply walk in
as if there were no gulf between them! As if he would open his arms to her in
welcome and hold her close. She lifted her hand to knock again—perhaps he had
not heard. But the door was opened before her fist could make contact.

He simply stood and looked
at her. He had changed his clothes from the journey and now stood in black
velvet breeches, his heavy linen shirt still unlaced and open at the neck. His
hair still damp and drying into glorious waves on to the cream linen. He looked
hard and tense, a little stretched and finely drawn after the effects of the
siege, but dangerously attractive. The power was still there—and the magnificence
as his eyes gleamed silver in the fall of sunlight. The mere sight of him
turned her bones to water. She could say nothing as her breath backed up in her
lungs.

And he continued to stand,
attractively ruffled, impatient and very much alive. He was all she had ever
wanted—and she must simply be grateful that he was alive. But her fingers
itched to reach out to touch him. Her lips burned to press against his, to
trace the fine silver scar at his temple. She wanted more than anything to find
the courage to step forward over the threshold into his arms. Instead, words
and confidence deserted her completely. She stepped back.

He could not have spoken at
that moment for the world. She was just as he remembered, the image that had
haunted him for the past weeks. The turn of her head, the elegant sweep of
throat, inviting a man to run his fingers down its seductive curve to the place
where he knew her pulse beat beneath her silken skin. His heart swelled with
love for her until he was as vulnerable to his emotions as she. She was
difficult, stubborn, often infuriating, intensely reticent when she sensed a
threat to her composure. But she was totally enchanting, overwhelmingly
desirable, even though she could still not accept it as her right. Outwardly
detached and aloof she might appear, but he knew, with his new insight, that
beneath the surface she was at this very moment dissolving in a sea of
uncertainties and fears that she would say and do the wrong thing. He could see
the shadow of it in her eyes and in her actions as she stepped back from the
open door. It was time to force the issue—for both of them.

'Honoria.'

Through habit she resorted
to the practical, a faint-hearted retreat. 'I came to see if you...if you have
everything you needed, my lord. We did not know if...that is, when you would
arrive.' Oh God, why was it so difficult when fixed with that stern grey gaze,
that uncompromising mouth, the black brows that might meet in a frown at any
moment? 'I will send for wine if you wish...' She would have indeed retreated,
nerves fluttering, knees threatening to disobey her commands, hands clenched
within the satin of her skirts.

'No. You will go nowhere.'
She blinked at the tone and the words. Before she could move, he stepped out,
his hand encircled her wrist. 'One moment.' Keeping her with him, knowing that
flight was uppermost in her mind, he strode to the head of the stairs and
looked down over the balustrade into the hall.

'Foxton?' His voice echoed
in the space.

'My lord?' Master Foxton
emerged, bowed.

'My lady and I are not at
home to visitors, no matter who calls.'

'Yes, my lord.'

'No one, Foxton. Do you
understand?'

'Certainly, my lord.'
Foxton disappeared into the kitchens to regale Mistress Morgan—and Priam
Davies, enjoying a tankard of small ale and an interesting gossip—of the
imminent and hopefully satisfying development between their master and
mistress.

Meanwhile, privacy assured,
Mansell retreated to his room, still holding on to his wife. The wolfhounds
trailed in after them, Morrighan to collapse contentedly at the corner of the
hearth, no longer considering Mansell to be worthy of assault. Mansell watched
her sceptically. Setanta, after a desperate demand for attention, but gently
deflected by a booted foot, retired to sit by Morrighan, with a woeful and
dejected air, guaranteed to move the hardest of hearts.

'He seems to be growing
up.'

'He has a little dignity,'
she admitted. 'But don't leave your boots within reach.'

With a snort of amusement
his lordship closed the door and pulled Honoria towards the fire. 'Sit there.'
He pushed her gently into the chair and took the one opposite, a small
gate-legged table between them.

Honoria sat.

'Are you well?' His eyes
searched her face, registering her pallor and the fragile collarbones above her
costly lace of her gown.

'Yes.'

'I beg to differ—none the
less, it can soon be remedied.' He saw the same strain and lack of sleep that
had concerned Priam. Reaching out, he smoothed his thumb over the delicate
violet shadows beneath her eyes, then let his hands drop. 'No! Listen!' he
ordered as he saw her lips part to deny his observation.

'Yes.' A little ruffled. 'I
had no intention of doing otherwise!'

'Good! There are to be no
interruptions. No pretences. It is time for the truth between us, Honoria. I
have had so many people concerned for our welfare recently—apart from Coningsby,
of course, who rejoiced in our differences.'

She flushed at the memory.

He noticed and regretted
that his words had caused her pain, but pressed on. 'I have been told—ordered,
in fact—that I must talk with you.'

'And I too have been taken
to task.' A faint colour began to creep into Honoria's cheeks and her voice
expressed a hint of indignation that mirrored his.