Much Ado About Marriage (35 page)

“The truth,” Thomas said dangerously, coldness seeping through his bones and chilling his heart. “I want the truth.”

Robert scowled. “The truth and this man have ever been strangers. I wouldn’t believe him were he to swear upon his own blood.”

Walsingham flicked a contemptuous glance at Robert. “There is nothing left but the truth.”

Robert leaned across the table. “Then speak quickly, old man, else I will slit your gullet.”

Walsingham shoved the casket to the center of the table. “My association with MacLean began the week after Queen Mary’s husband, Lord Darnley, was murdered. As you know, rumors began almost immediately, implicating her and her lover, Lord Bothwell, in the death. However, Elizabeth would not hear of Mary’s involvement without conclusive proof. I had to find that proof.”

“So you approached MacLean?”

“Aye. Repeatedly. At first he resisted, but eventually he came to see how advantageous this arrangement would be. He offered to provide the letters, stolen from the queen’s lady-in-waiting, and I—” Walsingham flicked a nervous glance at Thomas. “I compensated him.”

“How did you buy him? Land?” Robert demanded.

“Nay,” the counselor said. “There are few things the MacLeans holds of value. It would have made our negotiations much simpler had he wanted land.”

Thomas leaned forward, not recognizing his own voice, so harsh and distant. “What was his price?”

Hooded gray eyes flickered for an instant. “I did what I thought was best. What needed to be done.”

“What did you trade MacLean for the letters?”

The minister said nothing.

Robert’s rapier lifted, the slender point resting directly under the counselor’s chin.

Walsingham swallowed, the sound echoing throughout the room, and a trickle of blood dripped down his neck.

“Speak!” Thomas commanded, his fists clenched.

“A bridegroom,” answered Walsingham, gulping air. “I sold him a bridegroom.”

“Mon Dieu!”
Robert’s sword arm dropped, his eyes wide as he turned to Thomas. “’Twas you!”

The truth struck Thomas with the solidness of steel against bone.
He had been sold like a bull at auction.
He felt as though his soul had been shredded. Anger, pure and hot, poured through him.

Trust no one
, his father had said.
No one.

Thomas took a deep breath. “What of the letter I was sent to retrieve from Duart? What of that?”

Walsingham wiped the blood from his throat with a cloth. “’Twas fabricated. MacLean was desirous of meeting you before he sealed the bargain. He swore to deliver the casket to me here, at the inn, the week after you married his cousin. It never arrived. Instead, MacLean showed up at Rotherwood with that damnable army and refused to see me. I didn’t know he had left the casket with you.”

“I was a fool from the beginning.”

“Nay, Thomas.” The minister leaned forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Not a fool. Just loyal. The queen will—”

Thomas shoved the hand away. “I was a
fool.
A blind fool.”
How Fia must have laughed at me.
The thought burned through his soul.

Walsingham sighed. “Thomas, I know you don’t see it as such, but ’tis a compliment of sorts. He could have asked far more and I would have paid. Title, lands, anything. Instead he asked for a noble bridegroom to wed his cousin and take her from his war-ravaged home.” He shrugged. “All in all, ’twas easy enough to arrange.”

The rapier flashed up again, the tip hovering but a hairsbreadth from the pale skin. “Sweet Jesu, Thomas,” Robert cried, “let me slice this evil whoreson!”

“Nay,” Thomas answered, and Robert reluctantly lowered his blade, his visage black with fury. A multitude of images swirled through Thomas’s mind, foremost among them the picture of Fia calmly telling him she intended to go to London whatever the price.

Whatever the price.

It had seemed coincidental that she had been fleeing the very castle he had stolen into. It had seemed equally fortuitous she had been on her way to London as well, he thought bitterly. As was the fact that his horse had been chased off by her dog, leaving the two of them with Thunder, whose slow pace had ensured their capture. Then the chit had stolen his boots and lured him into the hall right in front of her cousin and his guests.

The damning memories piled up, one upon the other.

It had all been planned. All of it. He could still hear Duncan thundering of Fia’s honor and virtue, and how ’twas Thomas’s duty to wed her. But it had been no coincidence that they had been caught in such a compromising position. Duncan and Fia had planned the entire miserable episode.

The minister placed a hand on Thomas’s sleeve. “Thomas, I never intended for the wedding to stand, I knew the queen would grant an annulment. You would have been freed as soon as you set foot in court. I should have arranged for that already, but I’ve been busy dealing with the French and—I vow that before the week is out, you will have your annulment.”

“Thomas, don’t believe him.”

“’Tis true,” said Walsingham. “The Queen will be furious when I tell her how MacLean forced you to wed that little Scottish doxy, and—”

Thomas stood. “Did Fia know?”

The minister hesitated. “From what MacLean said, your lady was aware of all.”

“He lies!” Robert ground out, his fist whitening about his rapier. “Don’t believe him! Fia would never—”

“I have no reason to lie, you fool,” Walsingham snapped. He turned to Thomas. “We were betrayed, you and I. They betrayed us both.”

The words hovered in the air like rank perfume.
Trust no one.

“But Duncan had arranged a marriage for her,” he heard himself say. “Malcolm Davies and his clan had come to Duart Castle.”

“Do you honestly think Duncan MacLean would welcome a marriage with a sniveling whelp like that? He and Fia had to have a justifiable reason for her fleeing the castle so you would be caught with her. Duncan had thought to catch the two of you together in the outer bailey, in front of a host of witnesses. I hear you made it even easier than he had hoped.”

Thomas looked at the empty cask. “But where are the letters now?”

“Perhaps your lady could tell us that,” said Walsingham carefully.

Fia
had stolen the letters? She’d crossed, double-crossed, and crossed him yet again.

Robert made a disgusted sound. “Thomas, I cannot—This cannot be right. Fia couldn’t do this.”

Thomas sat silently. It made too much sense. He remembered
Fia’s face when he had discovered that she had broken into his trunk on ship. And then, when she had convinced Robert to show her the secret panel within the fireplace. Seemingly innocent actions now fraught with meaning.

The minister closed the empty casket. “I can’t pretend I am not shocked by this latest turn of events. I need those letters. Thomas, you must get them from her.”

Thomas had heard enough. He stood up so suddenly, the room spun. With a shuddering breath, he leaned on the table, his head low, struggling against the roaring in his mind.

“Thomas?” Robert’s voice echoed through a long, deep tunnel. “What will you do,
mon ami
?”

Thomas looked into Robert’s concerned eyes. What
was
he going to do? He met Walsingham’s pale, considering gaze, hatred burning within him at the detached curiosity in those eyes.

“Damn your rotten, filthy soul,” Thomas said with quiet intensity. The emptiness of fury burned through each word. He kicked his chair across the room, then slammed his fists onto the table, splitting the wood. “Damn your soul
and
that little Scottish slut’s,” he snarled.

If innocence had a face, it would have been hers. Curled on her side, her hand tucked beneath her cheek, she looked as untainted as a child. The rabbit snuggled against her, curved against her warmth.

Thomas took a long drink from his mug and closed his eyes against the burn of the whiskey as it slid down his throat. He welcomed the pain, savored it. If he did not feel pain at this moment, he would feel nothing.

Nothing but emptiness.

He leaned his forehead against the smooth bedpost and stared at his sleeping wife. Silently, he toasted her sleeping form and gulped down more whiskey. He frowned into the empty mug, then turned to the fireplace, where the bottle rested on the mantel. Zeus raised his head and lumbered to his feet, approaching Thomas with a wagging tail. Thomas growled at the dog, showing his teeth in a feral gesture. Zeus’s ears flattened and he slunk across the room, wiggling under Fia’s bed until only his hind leg showed.

Thomas felt a little shamed at his display. The dog had
done nothing. He tried to coax the dog back to the hearth. “At least one of us should be warm and happy this eve, eh?” he asked the dog.

Zeus wagged his crooked tail hesitantly.

Thomas refilled his mug and returned to the bed, inordinately proud that his steps wavered so little. They could accuse him of having been duped by a Scottish wench, but he could handle his whiskey with the best of them.

He stared into the amber liquid and wondered why he had even bothered to drink. The agony of Fia’s betrayal had disappeared late in the night, leaving a forlorn numbness, as if some part of him had been ripped asunder.

Fia stirred in her sleep. Her hair flowed across the pillow. How he had loved to sink his hands into those silken strands. His loins tightened at the thought and he smiled bitterly. Sweet Jesu, he burned for her even as she poisoned him with her lies. His father had been right. Believe no one. Trust no one.

After storming out of the tavern, he had ridden to his house as though the very hounds of hell were at his heels. Snarling at every servant who stood in his way, he had stormed through the house and thrown open the door to his chamber.

He had wanted to rant and shout and drive her into the street, but she had been asleep. And for some reason, he could no more wake her than he could leave. He felt a wave of disgust for his weakness.

He turned from the bed. It would be light within the hour. The time was swiftly approaching when he would have to speak with her. But what could he say to a woman who had purchased him like a pair of shoes?

Fortifying himself with a swallow of the fiery whiskey,
he threw himself into a chair, willing the creaking of the wood to awaken her. She didn’t move, and he scowled. He smacked the mug on the chair arm, heedless of the whiskey spilling over the sides. She stirred and his chest tightened painfully.

“When did you return?” Her voice, heavy with sleep, had the consistency of honey. He stilled the urge to cover his ears to block out the sultry sound.

He took a gulp and wiped his mouth, staring at his hand with bleary concern when he saw how it shook.
Do not look at her. You will never be able to get through this if you do.
He forced himself to answer, “Before midnight.”

Fia sat up and shoved her hair from her face, wondering at the curtness of his tone. His meeting must not have gone as well as he had hoped. “’Tis late. You said you’d be no more than an hour.”

Thomas flicked a glance at her, his eyes almost black in the shadows. She wondered at his stillness. He slouched in a chair, legs sprawled in front of him, his shirt loosened to his waist. His unshaven face seemed to have aged overnight.

She felt the first flutter of fear. With a concerned glance at the mug he held so tightly, she asked, “Are . . . are you well?”

He laughed, a bitter, self-derisive sound that chilled her. “Perchance
you
should tell me the answer to that, madam wife.”

She scooted to the edge of the bed. He was different. “What has happened? You seem angered.”

He exploded to his feet and crossed the room like a raging storm. He wrenched her from the bed, his fingers biting cruelly into her arms. “Am I not to be allowed even that?”

“Wh-what are you talking about?” She could only stare up at him, her mind racing furiously.

He sneered. “You and Duncan greatly mistook the matter if you thought I was a man of even temperament. Or wasn’t that one of the qualities you sought in your bridegroom?” His breath was laden with whiskey.

“Thomas, I don’t understand. What did you—”

“Lies!” he spat, and shook her roughly. “All you speak are lies! I saw Walsingham tonight, you scheming wench!” Through gritted teeth, he hissed, “Tell me the truth ere I kill you.”

Fia began desperately, “Sweet Saint Catherine, you’re mad! I don’t know—”

“Cease this pretense.” His eyes shot amber sparks, and Fia feared he would catch afire with such fury. Yet in a voice as cold as ice, he bit out, “I am tired of your deceit. I met with Walsingham. I know everything.”

“What’s Walsingham have to do with anything? I don’t even know him or—”

He threw her from him and she fell against the mattress. Though she was not hurt, she cried out in her fright.

He winced. “Sweet Jesu,” he muttered, his voice twisted in anguish. “You have but to cry out and I suffer.” He stumbled to his chair and took a shuddering breath. “How am I to deal with you when I cannot even stand to see you bruised? How am I to send you away when I . . .” He closed his eyes, a spasm of pain washing over him.

Fia gathered the blankets to her, staring at him with concern. Whatever had happened, Thomas was suffering the torments of hell. “Thomas, pray explain what has happened.”

He regarded her with haggard eyes. “I am ill, lady wife.
I am sick unto death at the sight of every lying, manipulative inch of you.”

“Thomas, please stop speaking in riddles and just tell me what’s happened.”

“Tell you?” He turned red-rimmed eyes on her. “Tell you what? Tell you that you have brought your ill fortune into my house and I am now cursed with it?” He shook his head. “Nay. We have discussed enough. You will sit there until I have decided what to do with you.”

He stood and crossed to her desk, pulled a parchment from a cubbyhole, and held it out. “You see here our contract, Lady Wentworth. Let me show you the worth I place on your word.” He wadded the paper and tossed it into the fire.