By His Majesty's Grace (10 page)

“The Master of Revels seems well known to you,” Rand said when they had walked a few yards.

She had been waiting for some such comment. That it was rather more subtle than expected did not make it less annoying. Removing her right hand from his arm, she used it to cradle her injured finger at her waist. “He is pleasant company and has proven himself a friend.”

“Your brother must have warned you against such friendships.”

“You don’t know Graydon if you think so. He takes little thought for the welfare of a mere stepsister. Cate, Marguerite and I have been left to find our own way at court. But if you mean to suggest Leon would take advantage of any of us, you malign him.”

“Any man may take advantage under the right conditions.”

A vision of the two of them enclosed inside the litter rose in her mind’s eye, and she was suffused by the heat of a flush. Through stiff lips, she said, “Your warning is no more necessary now than it was before. I am quite aware of the conduct required of a wife.”

He gave a brief nod, and they walked on in silence. Isabel glanced at his set features and away again.

How very imposing he was when measured against Leon. Not only was Rand taller and broader, but he seemed more essentially male, more virile in his aspect. He was also, she had to admit, extremely attractive in a hard-edged fashion. Not only had Cate been impressed, but Isabel had noticed other women turning to stare after him as they left the great hall.

Braesford had paid not the slightest attention. Ego was not one of his faults, it seemed, though it was possible he had been too intent on removing her from Leon’s presence. Watching a gray kitten that sat cleaning an outstretched leg at the side of the path ahead, she considered the idea that her groom might be jealous. She abandoned it almost at once, as she could conceive of no reason why he should be. He had no fondness for her, after all. Did he?

“It’s late to ask, but it had not occurred to me before,” he said after a moment. “Your heart is not engaged elsewhere?”

She gave him a small frown. “Are you still thinking of the Master of Revels? If so, you may rest easy. Leon prefers widows and adventurous married ladies for his amours.”

“Wise of him,” Braesford said in dry comment, “though you make it sound as if his conquests are legion. God is subject to odd humors in that he makes some men so much more appealing than others.”

“Mayhap it is Leon who makes himself appealing.”

He turned to rest his gaze upon her again for a frowning instant, but did not contradict her. “In reality, my thought was for a lover of a different sort, possibly some nobleman met here at Westminster.”

“There is no one, has been no one, past the foolish infatuations of a young girl. Such attachments are discouraged as they only lead, so the good nuns assure us, to disappointment.”

“You are heart-whole, then.”

“It could be put that way.”

“Amazing, that no one has taken the trouble to draw close.”

“There is the curse, you will recall.”

He lifted an indifferent shoulder. “Even so.”

Such oblique flattery did not require an answer, particularly as she could not be sure what he meant by it. They strolled on, past the kitten, beneath an arbor where a climbing rose released its sweetness upon the evening air, alongside a bed of vivid green parsley. She asked finally, “Is that what you wanted to discuss, the state of my affections?”

“In part.” His voice was without inflection as he answered, though he gave her a swift glance. “You are holding your hand. Does your finger pain you still?”

“No more than you might expect.” She immediately lowered the injured member to her side. Protecting it had become such a habit that she had hardly noticed what she was doing. That he had been attending was gratifying in some odd manner she did not care to examine.

He stopped, held out his hand. “May I?”

Isabel came to a halt at his side. As if compelled, she surrendered her fingers to his grasp.

His touch was as gentle as when he had set the break with a rush stem, and as impersonal. Regardless, it set her heart to hammering in her chest. Holding perfectly still, she watched as he inspected the bindings, turning her hand this way and that before tightening the ribbon that held that splint in place. The fading light slanted across his face, softening its hard planes, highlighting the curves of his mouth, leaving his eyes in shadow.

With his gaze upon what he was doing, he said, “I wanted to ask if you have changed your mind about the charge lodged against me. After our audience before the king, I mean.”

“What does it matter?” she asked with difficulty. We…we are to marry, regardless.”

“You seemed… I would like to know what you think.”

It was a novel attitude in her experience. Certainly, neither her stepfather nor Graydon had ever sought her opinion. Wary of the gratitude and warm softness that rose inside her, she answered with care. “I see no reason why you should wish to harm the child delivered at Braesford Hall.”

“I am obliged to you for that much, at least,” he said with a trace of huskiness in his voice. “And the rest?”

She swallowed, looking away from him. “Men-at-arms must have come for the mistress afterward, as you said, for too many can attest to it for it to be otherwise. As for who sent them, it seems impossible that it was other than by Henry’s order.”

“Yet you heard him deny it. Do you doubt the king’s word? Can you believe him capable of destroying his own flesh and blood?” He gazed down at her with a frown darkening his eyes.

“What a man may do with his own hands and what he may order done by others are often two different things.”

“You think I would lend myself to such an act?”

“Many have done worse to retain royal goodwill.”

“Not I,” he said, his voice like forged steel.

She would like to believe him, yet how could she? The numerous treacheries of the past few years gave her little faith in the sworn word of any man; it sometimes seemed honor and chivalry had died in the bloody battles between York and Lancaster. Nor would she take the easy way and assure him of a belief she did not hold. Let him prove his innocence if he wished to have her good opinion.

Nevertheless, he was such a powerful presence as he stood so close in the waning light that it seemed unbelievable he could be taken by men-at-arms and hung upon some scaffold. A great emptiness echoed inside her at the thought that he could die.

“You are forthright, and that pleases me,” he said after a moment, though his voice did not sound like it. “There is another matter I would present, however. The king has offered a chamber not far removed from the royal apartments for our use. It is larger than those either of us occupy now, but puts us under the surveillance of the king’s household guard. We could, if you prefer, lodge beyond the palace walls where we might be more private and less at our sovereign’s beck and call. The difficulty is that Henry may consider it an insult if we refuse his offer. He could also insist that I accept this billet as a form of house arrest.”

“What is in this to discuss?” she asked in frowning confusion. “You seem to have the matter in hand.”

“I desire to learn your pleasure, will convey it to Henry, either way.”

It was another peculiar pass, being consulted about where she would reside. She was not sure she liked it, considering the responsibility attendant upon it. “I own I would prefer a less public lodging,” she said finally. “Yet it seems folly to refuse the king’s generosity.”

“Shall I accept for both of us, then?”

“If that is what you prefer.”

A short laugh left him. “What I would prefer is to set out for Braesford as soon as our vows are spoken, deserting king, court and celebration. Or better yet, never to have left there.”

“But you cannot. We cannot.”

“No.” He held her hand in both his for a moment longer. Then he bent his head to press his lips to her palm in a tingling salute. “In which case,” he said as he released her, “it hardly matters where we lie abed tomorrow night so long as it is together.”

That last was an important caveat, she thought, one that had lodged in both their minds while they discussed sleeping chambers and the king’s will. Hearing it spoken aloud made it seem more real. Her stomach clenched while apprehension swirled in her mind. With it, however, ran a disturbing vein of heated curiosity for what it would be like to lie naked in this man’s arms, subject to his will, his touch, his possession.

She wished he had not spoken of the bedding aloud. She really did.

6

A
smile spread across Rand’s face when he saw Isabel coming toward him, one made up of relief that she had appeared, of possessiveness and, he feared, sheer randy anticipation. She was every inch the beauteous and noble lady in her wedding finery of green-and-white silk set off by gold thread and emeralds, and soon she would belong to him. He almost felt worthy in his matching garments of lustrous fabrics. Almost, but not quite.

By His Majesty’s grace, their vows were to be spoken in the king’s private chapel of Saint Stephens, as Henry had indicated last evening. The setting could be considered either a high mark of favor or a ploy to make certain their vows were spoken as commanded. The dim and stately space was gilded and painted with vermilion, bejeweled with windows in ruby, sapphire and emerald. Its very stones held the scents of stale smoke, dust, incense and holiness.

Isabel’s hand was cool and not quite steady as she placed it in his. Rand held it with firm support as they faced Bishop Morton for the ceremony. Behind them sat the few witnesses—the king, the queen, the king’s mother, Isabel’s two sisters, Catherine and Marguerite, her stepbrother, Graydon, and his own half brother, William McConnell. That was more than enough in Rand’s opinion.

Nothing impeded their vows. There was no armed assault, no divine intervention, certainly no manifestation of the notorious Graydon curse. Rand had not expected it, but was nonetheless relieved when they were done.

Afterward he walked beside his bride along the gallery that led from the chapel to the palace, breathing the fresh evening air as a married man. And he could not stop looking at his wife as she moved beside him, surveying her calm, pale face, the rise and fall of her breasts beneath their covering of soft silk, her unbound hair that made him want to bury his face in its shimmering length. He could not stop the exultation that rose inside him at the night that lay ahead, no matter how insecure his future.

He thought Henry should have included one of the new codpieces with his gift of a wedding costume. Though an awkward bit of equipment in Rand’s opinion, that mock erection could have helped conceal one that was uncomfortably real.

“What is it?” Isabel asked, speaking softly enough to escape being heard by the king and queen and the bishop, who walked ahead of them, or their relatives, who followed behind. “Have I dirt on my face that you look at me so?”

“You are perfection, as you must know,” he returned with strained humor. “I am merely admiring my bride. Well, and trying to think how to ask for her favor.”

“My favor,” she repeated while her eyes widened and wild-rose color stained her cheeks.

A crooked smile tilted his mouth while hot anticipation slid down his spine. “Not that kind, though I will accept it willingly and anywhere you care to name. No, a token to wear for the tournament that has been ordered, or rather the melee.”

“Melee?” she inquired, seizing on the subject, doubtless to avoid his suggestion. “Is such mock combat not forbidden?”

“The king has decreed it as a special event. Have you not seen the preparations being carried out in the courtyards?”

“I thought they must be for some military expedition he would send into the countryside.”

“I will grant there is not a lot of difference.”

The floor-length, bell-mouthed sleeves attached to the shoulders of her gown caught the breeze as she turned to him. “You will not participate? Surely a new-made groom is exempt.”

“I am ordered to take the field,” he said evenly. “Henry, I do believe, sees it as a trial by ordeal.” Rand thought of it, rather, as a good way to speed the long day of celebration that lay ahead so the night might come sooner.

“You can’t mean…”

One corner of his mouth lifted in mirthless acknowledgment of her amazement. “If I am killed or seriously injured, then I must be guilty. If I live, it will be a sign from God of my innocence. Victory will not, you understand, preclude a legal trial in the King’s Court at some later date.”

“That is barbaric!”

“It is tradition, though I may be giving myself too much importance, and the royal purpose is merely to provide entertainment for the common folk who will crowd the field to watch. Henry is learning the uses of public display, you see. Nothing so convinces the populace of a king’s might as seeing his knights ride out onto the field.”

“Or dressing those he favors in silks and satins,” she said with a brief gesture toward his wedding costume that, like hers, was a study in Henry’s white and green.

“We make a fine pair, do we not?” he drawled. “Like matching tomb effigies.”

A choke of laughter left her. At the sound, Henry, walking ahead with his queen on his arm, looked back. Isabel was immediately solemn again but the king was not fooled. He smiled benignly, no doubt pleased at the sign of accord between them.

Rand was also glad to see some of the stiffness leave his bride. Her hands had been like ice in the chapel, and had not warmed during the entire ceremony. Her touch through his silk sleeve was warmer now, almost too warm for his ease of body or mind, and soft color tinted her face where it had been deathly pale before.

They walked on a few steps. Isabel stared straight ahead while the amusement faded from her features. She drew a quick breath after a moment, speaking without looking at him. “Some newly wedded couples, so I am told, observe the custom of Tobias Night.”

“They may in the country.” Rand hoped Graydon and McConnell, trailing somewhere behind with Isabel’s sisters, were not listening to this exchange. It could too easily spread through the court as a coarse jest. Tobias Night was an ancient rite sometimes observed by the devout. In addition to fervid prayers while kneeling on hard stone floors, it involved refraining from intimacy on the wedding night in honor of Saint Tobias, known for his stringent celibacy. The prospect did not recommend itself to him.

“To become used to each other under its influence seems civilized,” she persevered.

“It seems very torture to me, if you mean sharing the same chamber, the same bed, without touching.”

“Such trials are good for the soul.”

“Whose soul would that be, mine or yours?” he asked. “Yours, I daresay, requires no purification, and the blasphemy I’d surely commit would blacken mine. Besides, the king commanded a bedding as well as a wedding.”

Her glance would have scalded the hair from a boar’s hide, though a flash of something like dread struck through it. “You will obey his will, in spite of the possibility of leaving a child behind should this charge of murder go against you?”

“Or because of it,” he replied evenly. “Braesford will be yours if there should be a child of our marriage to inherit it, and I have come to think you will be able to hold it.” He had thought, for a short while, of protecting her in that regard. Henry had decreed otherwise. Now he longed to see her large with his child, as serenely beautiful as the Madonna herself.

If she appreciated his confidence in her, or recognized his dream, she did not show it. “So you will not agree.”

“I will not.” The words were calm, though he could, if required, be more forceful.

“Then I don’t believe I can present my favor to you for the tourney.”

She thought to reserve her public favor if he would not agree to forgo the private one accorded him by their vows. Anger at the threat heated the back of his neck, pounding in his blood with an odd roiling pain.

It would avail her nothing to spurn his request, or him. He realized she would have misgivings and fears about the bedding, but he was not a brute to take his pleasure while giving none in return. He had waited longer than he wanted to make her his wife. Did she not realize that he could have had her the night before, taking her there in the castle garden in a bed of mint or parsley? He had delayed for her sake, because he thought she would prefer comfort, privacy and sanctity. He would wait not an instant longer than necessary.

She had miscalculated if she thought to withhold anything from him. He would have her favors this day, all of them, one way or another.

Isabel seethed quietly as she sat in her place of honor at the high table for the wedding breakfast. How she despised being a pawn in the king’s game, moved here and there, sacrificed at his royal will.

Properly wedded and bedded.

Those were the words Henry had used during the audience in his Star Chamber, the words which gave Braesford such authority over their wedding night. It was the king’s command that the union be consummated. That and tradition, of course. Women were supposed to be accommodating in these matters, giving their bodies into the hands of their husbands without the least protest or repining.

It was insupportable.

Nevertheless, she must support it. What else was she to do? She could not run away, for a woman alone on the streets or roads was at the mercy of every man. If she requested protection, any gentleman strong enough to snatch her away from her new husband could well be worse than Braesford. An appeal to the king was useless since it was he who commanded her to submit.

The only person she could count on was herself. She might yet find a way to avoid what was to come. But if not, then she could at least make certain she was not the only one to suffer.

“Wine?” her husband asked, offering the gold goblet they shared as the guests of honor.

“Thank you, no,” she said shortly. It was impossible to eat, and she would not drink on an empty stomach. She needed her wits about her.

“You have not swallowed a morsel. You will make yourself ill.”

“I am touched by your concern, however belated.”

His smile was as cool as her tone had been. “Your well-being is of great interest to me. I would not have a fainting bride.”

“Then mayhap you will look elsewhere for a bed-mate.”

“Or use extra effort to revive you. I wonder what it would take beyond a kiss. I could, for instance, bare a breast and lick my way from—”

Shock, and something more virulent, coursed along her veins. “Please! Someone will hear you.”

“And be entertained, I make no doubt, but what odds? We are wed, after all.”

“I require no reminder,” she said with an edge to her voice.

“I cannot agree. You seem in frequent need of it. Having Henry’s blessing, it will be my great pleasure to supply the lack daily, nightly, morning and noon. Come with me now and I will show you—”

“Nothing! You will show me nothing, for the day has far to run before we must—”

“Not so,” he corrected her, his features set and dark. “There is no appointed hour. And it is you who
must,
while for me it is otherwise. I will it. I long for it. I die for the lack.”

It was not the morning heat of late August in the hall that suffused her. “Don’t be foolish.”

“It is you who are foolish for depriving both of us, though not for long. Have you no curiosity as to what you are missing? Do you not crave a taste before the midnight feast?” He reached under the hanging edge of the table’s cloth to place a firm, warm hand on her thigh.

The muscle of her upper leg leaped as if jolted by lightning. She thrust beneath the cloth also, clutching at his wrist. “I…I am content to wait.”

“Why, when there is no need?”

He was moving his fingers, gathering folds of her skirt under his hand, inching it higher with amazing dexterity. “Stop it,” she said in a desperate, hissing whisper.

“Give me a forfeit and mayhap I will,” he suggested, the daring in his eyes like the flash of a steel blade. “A kiss would be acceptable.”

“Is that a threat?”

“You should recognize the ploy.”

She did, though that did not make it more tolerable. He had reached her hem, for she could feel his warm fingertips gliding up her inner thigh. A heated shiver ran over her, along with a species of panic. She caught at his fingers but he eluded her grasp, inching higher toward the juncture of her thighs. It seemed everyone was watching the two of them, smirking a little as if they guessed what was taking place at the high table. They could not see for the overhang of heavy cloth on the side which faced them. Surely, they could not.

“Desist at once!” she said a trifle breathlessly. “I beg of you.”

“Kiss me,” he said, his voice a low murmur, his eyes holding hers.

She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. It was too demeaning. And yet he was brushing across the sensitive bend between her thigh and upper body, questing toward the fine curls unprotected by braies in the summer heat, grazing the top of the small mound from which they sprang. Driven by desperation, she made a claw of her hand and dug her nails into his skin.

He smiled. “So you are a scratcher in the throes of passion. Do you bite?”

She could guess what he meant, but had not the knowledge to be certain of it. “No, I could not…”

“Kiss me,” he whispered, his eyes turning darker as he touched her, burrowed gently into the small cleft he had found, pressing into soft folds with a small, insinuating motion.

She caught her breath, sank her nails deeper. He seemed not to feel the pain. Appalled by the race of excitement in her veins, the peculiar sensation as if her very bones were dissolving, Isabel searched his face. Perspiration gleamed on his forehead and his chest rose and fell in deeper rhythm with his breathing. He was not unaffected by what he was doing under the table. It was some consolation.

Holding her gaze, he probed deeper with a single long finger, there in plain view of the gathering of nobles, mere feet from the king and queen. Isabel could bear it no longer. She closed her eyes, made her decision. With a small sound between a prayer and curse, she leaned to press her lips to his.

He opened his mouth to her, swept her lips with his tongue, slid between her teeth. And his invasion matched the small, twisting movements he made against the very center of her body. She gasped, shuddered, as fire raced over the surface of her skin. An instant later, the sensation coalesced below her waist, seeped in liquid heat against the palm of his hand.