Seduced by Grace (6 page)

“Alas, so few are equal to the challenge. But then there is David.”

Her eyes narrowed as she wondered how much he knew of the vow David had given her. “David?”

“It’s helpful, of course, that he need not exercise restraint with the entire female population.”

“Apparently,” she answered in chill accents.

It seemed clear that Oliver knew all. What was she to make of that? Why, what else, except that David’s promise of chaste servitude to her had become a different kind of jest, an oddity that affected her alone.

The idea pained her in some manner she could not describe, though it angered her, as well. She had thought, more fool she, that he was hers, would always be hers, regardless of the lack of intimacy between
them. She’d assumed the closeness of mind they shared was all he required of any maiden.

She had been wrong, it seemed. It had never been enough for him. Other women might know his kisses, his touch, his powerful possession behind the bed curtains, but not her. Never her.

“Well, but what would you?” Oliver went on in cheerful reason. “The ladies do fling themselves at his feet, you know, as he is ever the champion, the celebrated Golden Knight. To step on them would be unkind. And if he steps over one, there is always another, and another. So tiring, such tribute.”

Astrid entered the exchange with a snort. “So he puts himself to the trouble of picking up the most beauteous, I suppose. No doubt with your help.”

Oliver chuckled and reached to chuck her under the chin. “What else are friends for?”

Marguerite was silent as she tried to adjust her thinking to this view of David’s renown. It was not easy, when he had been so respectful, almost reverential in those long-ago days at Braesford. How far he had come since then, what prodigious feats he must have performed, to reach the pinnacle he now held. What greatness he had achieved that his deeds, appearance and gallant manners, gallant way with the ladies, were touted in the chansons de geste of a thousand minstrels and troubadours.

How changed he was. It was a loss.

Astrid slapped at the Italian’s mailed fist, her face set in lines of suspicion. “You are uncommonly eager to have my mistress know of all these conquests. Why is that, I wonder? Do you seek to puff off your own part
in them? Or would you make certain my mistress cannot overlook them?”

“What a devious mind you have,
cara,
and so busy, too.” The squire’s voice had a pained undertone that suggested the small woman’s words had struck home.

“Better that than the latrine that is yours, oaf. You’ll not put my mistress off Sir David, however, for she knows how to take what you say.”

“A pity, as she’s likely to get him killed.”

“Sir!” Astrid began.

“Such was never my intention,” Marguerite said at the same time. She would have liked to deny the charge, but there was too much truth in it. How could she convince Oliver it would not happen when she could not convince herself?

“Intentions matter little when a man’s neck is in the noose. What passed between David and Henry of England concerning you, I know not, milady. Still, it is a bad day when common men are pulled into the affairs of kings.”

“Yes,” she returned in laconic agreement.

“The hold you have upon him is uncommon strong. I’ve never before seen him so harried as on our journey to reach you. Still, it’s plain as a wart on a pig’s bum that this rescue was a trap. I fear it’s one that will entangle us until there is no hope of escape.”

“Your concern for him does you credit,” Marguerite said, keeping her voice even with an effort.

“He is too good a man to die for no reason. Yet make no mistake, milady. As I am under his command, my concern is for my own neck.”

She turned her head to search his face, studying the
set of his mouth under its line of mustache, the tilt of his chin, the grim look in his black eyes. The cynicism was there, as expected. Beneath it, however, lay brooding edginess that suggested real anxiety for his friend. She liked him the better for it, in spite of herself.

“What would you have him do?” she asked quietly. “Turn about at once and ride for the nearest port?”

“If I thought he would.”

“You must know it’s too late for that.”

He turned his head to stare at her, his face set with anger. “I don’t know it, no. Here I am, jaunting merrily down the road to what may be a slaughter at the end. As far as I can see, it’s all for your sake, Lady Marguerite. What should I do, do you think? Shall I join your noble cause or knock our good David senseless and remove him from the king’s clutches. And yours.”

The idea was so beyond reason that Marguerite jerked on hearing it, causing her mare to dance away a step or two. Bringing the palfrey back around and under control, she spoke over her shoulder. “That is your decision, sir.”

“So it is,” he muttered as he swung his charger away from where he matched her pace in the line of march. “So it is.”

Marguerite frowned as she watched the Italian gallop forward again. Was his lack of commitment a reflection of the attitude of David’s men toward the undertaking that lay ahead? She did not like to think so, as it could mean trouble in the ranks. That was David’s concern as their commander, of course, yet she felt responsible in some fashion. They would not be here but for her.

The business with Warbeck seemed headed for yet
another confrontation between York and Lancaster. Some declared the eternal strife between the forces under the white rose of York and red of Lancaster, called by some the War of the Roses, had ended after the Battle of Bosworth Field, which brought Henry Tudor to the throne. Certainly he had held sway since then. Regardless, the jockeying for position and final supremacy had never really ceased. Nor would it, so it seemed, until the last drop of Plantagenet blood was shed, the last Plantagenet claimant to the throne banished or dead.

Here was David, now, set to proclaim himself a new contender for the crown at Henry’s behest. To successfully divide the forces of the York contingent, he must attract a sizable following. Yes, and what then? She had not dared breathe the thought in the king’s presence, yet her great fear was that David’s campaign as a rival York leader might succeed too well. He could become such a danger to Henry’s Lancaster regime that he must be eliminated. If that happened, she could not bear it.

David was far too good to die for no reason. She and Oliver could agree on this if on little else.

The muffled thud of hooves dragged her from her morbid preoccupation. David was riding toward her down the line, the sun glinting on his chain mail he wore without helm or armor here among friends, catching random gleams from the trappings of his destrier. As he drew closer, he smiled with a flash of white teeth in the sun-bronzed planes of his face. And her heart smote her with so violent a blow that she lost her breath.

“Why so glum, ladies? Oliver is a fine one with a compliment, but you can’t be missing him already.”

Astrid made a sound of disgust. “Yon cockatrice? Never!”

“No?” He slowed, turning his mount to come up beside them. “I was sure the journey would go more swiftly for his presence.”

He spoke to Astrid, but Marguerite thought his gaze was upon her face. “He is well-spoken,” she said with care.

“Is he not? He has held the men enthralled on many a night, reciting some song of Roland or Richard the Lionhearted.”

“Did he, by chance, compose those about you?”

David looked away while a hint of color flared in his face. “Mayhap one or two, though only in jest.”

“Little comedy and much derring-do marked those I heard.”

“All greatly exaggerated. But have you all you require?” he asked in a firm change of subject. “Your mount is carrying you all right? You’ve no need of another, no need to rest for a few minutes?”

“We go on quite well.” To abandon the subject of his fame seemed best, as it discomfited him so.

He glanced at Astrid then back to Marguerite. “Oliver was not being a nuisance? I mean, he shines in female company, but can sometimes be forward.”

“Not at all,” Marguerite answered. The man was his friend. Nothing Oliver had said was reason to cause a problem between them.

“Preening ape,” Astrid said at the same time, though under her breath.

“If he was too encroaching…”

Marguerite could not prevent a smile. “I would know what to do, I promise you.”

David gave a hard nod. “You have nothing to fear from his blandishments. He means little by them, you know.”

“Certainly.” She felt sure what Oliver might mean if a female chanced to be a maidservant or tavern wench was something else again, but that was neither here nor there. What was interesting was the suspicion that she was being warned away from him. It was unnecessary, but David was not to know that.

He studied her for an instant longer, then began to speak of when and where they would make their next stop, and what they could look forward to as their midday fare. From there, the two of them moved on to the many changes that had taken place at Braesford since he went away, and continued with the health of Madeleine, the girl-child Rand and Isabel had adopted at the behest of the king, as well as their other offspring. They also spoke of the keep where Cate and Ross now lived with the four babes born of their marriage.

Marguerite answered questions, smiled and told of petty happenings within her family, but her attention wandered. Her gaze rested upon David again and again. He had been a handsome youth, fair of face and form. The years had added weight and height to his frame. The width of his shoulders, with their musculature perfectly defined by the steel mesh draping of his chain mail, made her long to smooth her hands over them. The sensual yet intensely masculine molding of his bottom lip caused a pool of heat in her lower body. His eyes gleamed richly blue, yet gave away nothing of his
thoughts. Such a powerful figure he was upon his great destrier, armored in intelligence and tempered resolve, so self-contained it seemed nothing could touch him.

It was impossible that she had ever thought she knew him. Impossible, too, that he had answered her summons from past friendship alone.

Yet if that was not the reason he had come to her, what could it possibly be? What?

In this manner, the miles passed away behind them. And in late evening, as the sky turned violet-blue, rooks called and gloom surrounded them from the deep forest through which they passed, they came at last to the castle where Henry VII intended David should prepare to become a royal prince.

D
avid cursed at length and in heartfelt virulence. He could do many things with ease. He was able to defeat most men at swordplay, to unseat an opponent on the jousting field nine times out of ten, send an arrow flying farther than any of his acquaintance and drink all but the most hardheaded under the table. He could keep his own counsel about his private affairs, and discern the motives behind those of his enemies. What he could not do was remember that he must accept the bows of other men while returning mere acknowledgment, take the head of every procession, and initiate all conversation between him and any other. He kept forgetting to eat slowly so none would go hungry because they must stop stuffing their guts the instant he pushed back his plate, and he must walk without haste because otherwise the bows and curtsies rendered to him looked like the jerky movements of badly constructed marionettes.

It was maddening.

Nonetheless, the instruction in kingly manners and protocol continued by day and by night. It was conducted by one or two courtiers close to the king, for the most part, and in secret. That was, until it came to the
dancing. Every prince was apparently supposed to be able to caper with ease.

If he was to suffer through the indignity of such tutelage, it would not be under the guidance of some aging musician with spindly shanks and no teeth, no matter how discreet he might be. He demanded Lady Marguerite as his instructress.

“Where have you been?” he demanded, his fists on his hips as he watched her come down the long gallery toward him, a sylphlike figure in pale green silk embroidered in a tracery of green vines that made her look as provocative yet illusive as a wood nymph. “I’ve scarcely seen you except at table since we got here.”

“As the castle has been taken over by the king’s hunting party, our host’s good lady and chatelaine, Lady Joan, considers it prudent to keep to her solar. Her daughters and I attend to her, given she is blunt-spoken and with a clout like the captain of your men-at-arms.” Her brown eyes held a bright sparkle of humor. “You would not believe the prodigious amount we have embroidered on a wall hanging drawn to the lady’s design, one destined for the great hall. It’s to be a record of the king’s visit, though the deer look as if they have tree roots growing out of their heads and the rabbits resemble mice.”

He smiled, he couldn’t help it. Her drollery had always amused him, even when it was a trifle sharp-tongued. More than that, she gladdened his heart. He did not remember her being quite so shapely before, or moving with such grace and unconscious allure, but could appreciate it now. And if his wayward body responded with a painful form of enthusiasm, at least his doublet was not
of the ridiculously short mode that would make the results obvious.

“Poor Lady Marguerite, stitching was never a favorite pastime. I seem to recall helping pick out half the stitches you put in.”

“And kind it was of you to lend me your aid,” she answered as she came to a halt before him. “I’m somewhat more accomplished with a needle these days, but dare hope it’s not a skill you require just now.”

He told her what was needful, and waited to hear what she would say to it.

“Teach you to dance?” she asked, the slashes of her brows drawing together in puzzlement. “This is at Henry’s order?”

“None other.”

“I can see that you might have to take an empty floor to lead some merriment, but surely—”

“You can do it?” he interrupted, in no mood to hear objections. “You know the steps and turns in the latest style?”

“Yes, but—”

“Excellent. We will begin at once.”

She gave him a darkling look from under her lashes that made him wonder if he hadn’t become more autocratic than he realized. She did not demur, however. Not a little relieved, he turned and gestured to a manservant standing beside a screen set at the far end of the otherwise empty gallery. Moments later, music began to issue from behind it, a spritely tune played with a will upon viele and lute, pipe and horn.

“Very convenient,” she said as she took the hand he
offered and walked with him to the center of the floor. “But are these music-makers hidden for a reason?”

“I am to remain incognito during this time of preparation.”

Skepticism appeared in the rich brown of her eyes. “Surely they will be curious?”

“They have been paid not to be, I believe.”

“Ah.”

For long moments, he stepped and turned and pointed his toe to her example, walking as if in the midst of a line of other dancers. Her hand in his was slender, with long fingers and well-shaped nails. Clasping it kicked his heart into a faster beat. The brush of her skirts against the calves of his legs was like the sting of a hundred bees. To allow his gaze to rest on the gentle bounce of her breasts under her bodice was a temptation difficult to resist, while the delicate scent of field flowers and warm female that wafted between them when she drew near made him as drunk as a robin feasting on fermented berries.

He had thought Marguerite a lady beyond the ordinary when he was callow and easily impressed. Nor had his opinion changed; she was beauty and elegance personified, and kindhearted withal. He’d also once considered, being an idealistic idiot, that leaving her untouched was his only honorable course. How was it that he’d never realized others might see her as he did, yet have fewer scruples?

When they came together to form a bridge of their hands, pretending to allow other dancers to pass beneath them, she made a wry grimace. “This would be easier with more dancers. Could the king not arrange it?”

“He could, mayhap, but displaying my clumsy attempts to copy my betters is not princely conduct.”

She sent him a frown, possibly for his too modest comment. “But they won’t know you are supposed to be Edward. You would be only the Golden Knight.”

“True, but some may remember my lack of skill later.”

She studied him, her attention so close that he felt the back of his neck begin to burn, as well as other regions of his body. He could see himself reflected in the cinnamon-brown surfaces of her eyes, see the shadows cast on her cheekbones by the sweep of her lashes. He wondered how she would appear in the height of passion, if she would share her joy or hide it away behind closed eyelids.

“Are you certain you want to do this, David? You need not, you know, not if it’s for my sake alone.”

His name on her lips was like a melody he could listen to for hours. So distracting was the sound that it was necessary to cast his mind back over what she had asked to find the sense of it. “I am certain,” he said, his voice firm, “and would change nothing of the agreement.”

She did not appear convinced. “You could leave the castle tonight. If no one knows why you are here, the men at the gate can have no reason, no orders, to stop you.”

“I gave my word, my lady.”

Her open gaze met his for endless moments before she sighed. “So you did.”

“I am honored that you would have a care for my safety,” he said, the words a low murmur near her veil
as he walked beside her to the music, her right hand in his and his left arm resting lightly behind her back. He could feel the warmth of her skin through her clothing, sense silken smoothness that made his mind drift to the silkiness of other parts of her.

“I don’t merely have a care,” she said with a flash of her eyes as she flung back her drifting veil, “I’m terrified for you. This is wrong, I feel it. It cannot turn out well.”

“You have a presentiment?” She had always been the most intuitive of the three sisters, more given to looking for signs and portents. He would like to ignore such things, but had seen them turn out right too often for true skepticism. Besides, he would not annoy her with any suggestion of unbelief.

“You might say so, as I see problems everywhere I turn. This Warbeck has spent years building his base, so is far ahead in drawing followers to his cause. How can you possibly compete? And how will you go forward, given those who will be ranged against you? Spies are everywhere, a traitor behind every curtain and informer under every bush. If you are not killed in the first week you ride out as a new pretender, it will be God’s own miracle.”

His heart thudded against the wall of his chest. The harder it pounded, the softer his voice became. “I have been hunted before, Lady Marguerite.”

“Not like this, surely.”

The muscles of his arm behind her back were like iron, his lower body strained against his hose until there was no give left. That she seemed unaware of her effect astonished him. That is, until it occurred to him that she
might well be as innocent now as when he had left her years ago.

“There are many different kinds of enemies,” he said with artful intent. “You must have discovered that much for yourself.”

“What do you mean?” Her gaze was clouded before she separated from him in the dance, skipping around an imaginary corner couple and returning again.

“Surely you were pursued while at court? Men would have to be blind not to be drawn to you.”

“Don’t forget my portion of my father’s estate,” she said tartly. “’Twas a more powerful attraction by far.”

“Still you are unwed. Was there no man who appealed, none who could tempt you to abandon your sisters—or at least taste forbidden pleasure in some dark corner?”

Her gaze turned suspicious. “You are forgetting the curse of the Graces, not to mention the safeguard provided by the formidable gentlemen my sisters chanced to marry.”

“No daring flirtations, then? No midnight trysts? Nothing to regret?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Those desperate enough to pay serious court were pox-ridden, spavined or graybeards willing to risk shorter lives for the sake of fatter purses. For the rest, I was of no mind to be pursued as a mere novelty.”

“You do yourself an injustice,” he answered at once. “There would have been much more to it.”

“But not enough to tempt me,” she returned with simple candor.

She was untouched, she must be. The miracle of it
took his breath. It also sent a shaft of fierce, protective joy through him. Stupid and ignoble it might be, also less than generous, but he could not prevent it. She was untouched and would remain that way for all time if he had any say in the matter. If he could not have her, then no other man would take the prize.

“You have done this before,” she said with a glance from under her lashes. “Dancing, I mean. I think you are not so ill-prepared to lead out a set as you wish to appear.”

“Do you, now?” He had forgotten the role of novice he was playing in his preoccupation with her lack of experience. He could pretend to trip over the train of her gown, but wasn’t sure she would be fooled.

“It stands to reason, now that I think of it. You could hardly cut much of a figure at the French court otherwise.”

“Supposing to cut a figure was my aim.” He whirled her around at the end of the room and started back the other way.

“And why would it not be,” she asked in light disdain, “considering the plenitude of French ladies available for your pleasure?”

He almost laughed, but swallowed the surge of mirth as he realized she could not mean that as it sounded. Jealousy had never been a failing of hers. His hold tightened, nonetheless, and his gaze caught and held on the curves of her mouth with their lovely fullness. He felt his own mouth water with the need to taste that sweetness, to probe for the source of it.

A tremor ran through her there in the circle of his arm, for he felt it, felt it drive into him like a stake. He
glanced down to plumb the soft brown depths of her eyes. In them swirled such an enchanting mixture of doubt and awareness, candor and unconscious invitation that he dipped his head toward her. Stopped. Lowered it again.

She swallowed, and the edge of her tongue, moist and pink, flicked over to leave a moist sheen on her lower lip. The sudden heat and swelling ache in his loins was so vicious it made his eyes sting. She was innocent but not ignorant of the animal needs of men, he thought. She knew to beware the tightening of his muscles, the heat in his face. God’s teeth, but what was he thinking to let her see?

He had grown used to responding to female charms, used to expecting glad welcome for his rampaging desire. That was not the case here, and he’d best remember it. His responses must be controlled with iron will.

Coming to a halt so she was forced to do the same, he straightened, removed his arm from her waist and stepped in front of her. When he spoke, his tone was as light as he could make it. “Could be I learn quickly. Have you thought on that, Lady Marguerite?”

“Could be you’re a master of deceit, or else you’ve been watching the dancing with particular care since we arrived here.” She gazed up at him, scanning his face, searching his eyes as if only half-convinced he was blameless in what had just passed between them.

“Oh, aye, that would be it,” he said at once. “I’ve been watching you, you see, and with the greatest care possible.”

The color that sprang to her cheekbones was caused
by something more than the exertion of the dance. “Is that why you asked Henry for me as a teacher?”

“Who else should I choose?” He smiled into her eyes while his heart ached at the truth in his answer. “You are the lady I know best, the mistress of my young heart and truest friend. There is none other I would trust so much.”

“You are a scoundrel,” she said with mock severity, “and also my truest friend. Now may we dance again?”

The warm joy of her return to trust so filled his chest that he wanted to laugh out loud, to catch her to him and spin around until she was dizzy or they both fell down. He had done that once or twice, long years ago in the halcyon days at Braesford. He could recall with minute clarity the feel of her in his arms, the press of her firm, young breasts against his chest and the way she had fit so perfectly against him that it seemed she had been made to be in his arms.

Impossible.

Impossible then, impossible now, and he was a fool for letting it slip his mind for even an instant.

David was her friend. Yes, of course he was.