Beauty's Curse (11 page)

“Do I look like a warrior to you?”

Jamie choked. “Nay, lass, ye don't.”

Rather than dwell on what Galiana did look like, Rourke emphasized, “The men won't know that I can't see—not if we stay with the plan. My sight will return. This is nothing more than an obstacle. If a tree falls in your path, you don't turn back, do you? No!” Rourke rubbed his hands together, remembering the queen's teachings with relish. “You cut the tree from the road and make firewood.”

“Not only vanquishing the enemy, but gaining power from his demise,” Jamie finished the lesson while Rourke chuckled.

“You both are demented,” Galiana pronounced. “Tell me again why I'm aiding your cause?”

“Your rascal of a brother,” Jamie said.

“Ned,” Rourke agreed.

“Nay, you told me if I married you, he wouldn't have to go to the tower.”

Rourke, knowing he was adding fuel to her fury, paused before explaining. “It's true. You agreed to marry me, and I agreed not to send your brother to the tower for treason—the defamatory letter he was writing, in exchange for the royal dispensation.”

“Then my brother is in no danger,” she said clearly. Rourke was impressed by the tight control she held over her voice, which was sensual and filled with promise even as she kept herself a hair's breadth away from yelling.

“Not exactly. You see, he'll still be coming to court with us, and possibly to the tower, depending on your behavior.”

He heard her gasp of outrage but continued, “So that you do what you're told to do.”

“On what grounds would he be admitted, if not for treason?”

She was smart, Rourke conceded, and single-minded. From his seat before the fire, he pronounced the death knell. “Theft. He pilfered my sack—gave my, well, your ring to the priest.” He patted the spot beneath his tunic where the ring rested, safe on a leather thong.

“Saint Vitus help us, for you're insane.” Galiana's voice finally rose, and he imagined that losing her decorum really pissed her off. He didn't bother hiding his grin.

“I'll go get the men,” Jamie said before wisely leaving the room, the door slamming closed behind him.

It was no hardship to keep his grin in place as the delicate clicks of Galiana's footsteps stalked toward him. He wished he could see her, but everything was a grayish black. Since it wasn't complete darkness, he didn't complain.

Galiana stopped abruptly, then leaned over so her face was in front of his. Mint-scented words bathed his flesh as she spoke with enough charm to rival the queen. “You hold all the power. For now. Be warned, my lord, that if I see a chance to thwart you without harming myself or my kin, I will take it.”

Amazed, amused, and aroused by her audacity, Rourke reached up, trapping her face between his hands. He brushed her cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs, then lowered her face down, as if for a kiss. But instead of pressing his mouth to hers, he brought her cheek to his. She sighed softly at the contact and didn't move away when he released her.

Galiana was sweet innocence, the exact opposite of the women who had raised him, in more ways than one, at court. He felt the pulse in her neck jump as her body reacted to his, and yet she remained still instead of giving in to virginal nerves. Intriguing.

“The first rule at court, my lady, is to never reveal your strategy. Keep your moves close to your”—her breath quickened—“breast. Else your enemy will pounce.”

“I have no enemies.” She lowered her voice to a sensuous whisper that had Rourke longing for the evening ahead. They'd be married, and he'd make sure no other man would take what belonged to him. Fair or no, the lady was a prize. He could learn her body with his fingertips. Who needed eyes in the dark?

“Except for you,” she added softly.

“We needn't be at war, my lady,” Rourke promised.

Galiana slowly pulled away from him, and he immediately missed her heat.

“We already are.”

He heard the low jingles of the chains girdled around her waist, and he wondered what she wore. A bland tunic of semi-fine linen, in a demure brown or gray … His body tensed with need, and he didn't know if the lady he lusted after was fat or thin or plain or pretty. What's more, for the first time in his life—it didn't matter.

She was compassionate, brave, and adventurous. Reared to be a lady, but her nature cried out for more than the confines of sedate womanhood. He understood too well what it was like to be trapped by circumstances of birth.

“I don't know who you are,” she told him.

He could be anybody. Whoever she wanted him to be. “It's complicated.”

“Complicated.” Her laughter seemed self-directed, and Rourke wondered why. “My parents will be back by the end of February, at the latest. We can announce the engagement then.”

“Nay,” Rourke tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair. “We'll have the priest marry us tonight.”

Galiana made a strangled sound at the back of her throat. “Nay.”

“It's for your own protection.”

“How so?”

“My men are excellent knights, but we live in turbulent times.”

“You don't trust your own men?” The fear she'd valiantly tamped down rose to the surface as she spoke, and Rourke wished he could explain more.

“It's complicated.”

“I see.” Her light footsteps were muffled as she paced the carpeted area of the floor. “So you've been ordered to marry me because Prince John wants control of my father and my father's knights—in case there is a war between the rightful king and those who want the throne?”

Rourke stopped tapping his fingers. “Caution, lady.”

“What? I am but speculating as to why my future is to be laid in ruins at the whim of a prince.”

“You've heard King Richard may be dead?”

“A vile rumor, my lord, as you must be aware.”

His blood cooled. “What do you think has happened?”

She sniffed. “Queen Eleanor and William Marshall have taken great pains to send runners all over the country, defying the gossip with truth. Emperor Henry VI is holding King Richard for ransom. We are not so backwoods, my lord, that news doesn't reach us eventually. That vicious rumor was started by John, so that he could take advantage of our king's absence.”

“Choose your words wisely, else your brother will not be the only Montehue in the tower.” He forced his words to be harsh—for her sake.

“You threaten me?”

“I am warning you.” His life was a game of chance, and now by knowing him, so was hers. She'd best learn to guard herself, lest she get hurt.

“Still, I would see Prince John before we wed, and put my case before him.”

“What?” Rourke's gut tightened with immediate trepidation.

“He can't know about the royal dispensation; it will take but one meeting to explain.”

“I can still burn the damn thing, and he need never know.” Should he tell her now that in this particular game of chance, she'd lost three times over? Aye, it had been Prince John's wish that one of his vassals wed the Montehue daughter immediately. Prince John needed the Montehue warriors almost as much as he needed the Montehue coin. For what nefarious purpose? A chance to take the power for himself.

Rourke drummed his fingers atop his knee. Three of the prince's men had been given the challenge. Rourke had arrived first, gaining entrance, albeit unconsciously, to the manor, thereby claiming the lady. In what had been a typical Prince John move to catapult his men into action, things had become personal. He couldn't give Galiana up.

Lord Christien was an oaf—uneducated and crass. Lord Harold was crude and didn't believe in bathing. The sweet-scented Galiana would wither amongst his stench. Neither man had scruples—well, neither did he—but they were ruled by coin, whereas he was ruled by loyalty.

Besides, she provided the best cover for him on his mission. He would bring his grateful country bride to court, having saved her from the clutches of both Christien and Harold, very publicly cementing his loyalty to John.

“Excuse me?” Galiana's tone chided him for not paying attention. “You think there aren't copies of the dispensation?”

Outraged, Rourke rose to his feet. “You lie.”

“I don't lie, and I dislike that you are so quick to malign my character.”

He couldn't miss the haughtiness in her words, and he helplessly fisted his hands at his sides.

“Do not mistake us for country peasants, my lord, just because we are not at court. My father was recently given more land, but he'd held plenty before.” Her voice was controlled. “All that changed is that he now swears fealty directly to the king. 'Tis true the manor has few knights in residence, but our resources are spread thin due to the newest acquisitions, and my parents' travel. We are educated, and we Montehues do not value deceit as an honorable asset.”

He imagined her, with long, brown hair, and brown, no, maybe blue, eyes. She would be determined to win his respect, aye, and she deserved it, no less. Could he take the maidenhead of a woman such as this, knowing he'd be setting her aside once this latest intrigue had passed?

Lust had no honor, and he knew he had to have her.

“You speak scornfully, my lady.”

“You give me a headache, my lord, and that causes wrinkles.”

She sighed, and then the click of the heels on her shoes told him she'd moved from the carpet to the wood floor around the edge of the room. He'd memorized the layout of the chamber—the large bed against the wall; if he walked five steps to the left, he'd be at the window. The fireplace to his back, and the door leading to the hall to the right. It was thirty steps from the fireplace to the wall the bed was on, and to the right of that was a small chair and writing table.

“You worry over wrinkles?” How old was she? She sounded too young to be worried about such things—but with women, one never knew.

Straining his ears, he heard her pick up something from the table and set it down again. A book? Bible verses, more like.

“I do my best not to frown, my lord, but you try my patience sorely. I'll have to rest for an hour or more with a lavender compress over my eyes.”

He snorted. “Now you seem angry.”

“I do not like wasting my time on napping, not when there is much else to be done.”

Rourke laughed. “Like what? We're snowed in, as you keep reminding me.”

“I write my own music, and I embroider. I make perfumes and lotions.”

Feminine frills. “You sang to me, while I was recovering.” He remembered how much her soft voice had soothed him.

“Aye,” she agreed dismissively. “I wish you would listen to me. I think it would be fair to take this case before the prince. I have no desire to marry you.”

“You already agreed.” Rourke clenched his jaw, then unclenched it. She was not the only one with an aching head. “What is wrong with marrying me? We've already established that neither of us believes in love.” Women liked him; they wanted to marry him. Multiple women, from serving wenches to nuns, had proposed to him. What fault could this innocent girl see in him? “My blindness is temporary.”

“Pah—I don't care about that. What do I get from the arrangement? I agreed, aye, but not to such a hasty tie! I want to wait. You should meet my parents first.”

“We can't do that.” Prince John would be at Windsor soon, and that's where he needed to be, as soon as humanly possible. King William's servant had sent the ring with a veiled message the same day the prince's man had arrived.

While King William didn't know, yet, that Prince John had demanded Rourke marry Galiana Montehue for the sole purpose of gaining warriors and a lord's support, the king was aware that Prince John was planning a royal take-over. The ring, a magical ring worn by Scots rulers since before there were kings, belonged to William and was the key to finding the stolen Breath of Merlin.

Then there was the matter of Galiana's other two suitors. Being blinded was damn inconvenient, and while the lady didn't know how much she needed his protection, she knew very well how much he needed hers. Rourke hated being at a disadvantage.

“I don't understand your hurry. My sister was rushed into marriage by our former liege—he was a rotten thief; the baron was.” The sound of her hand slamming down on the wooden writing table startled him from his deep and worrisome thoughts. “Which is the reason we now owe direct fealty to King Richard—we were given the written dispensation so that such an instance couldn't happen again. And yet, here you are, demanding marriage.”

“The ways of royalty are strange, but it isn't our place to question.” Her sister's forced marriage explained much.

“Why are you so amenable to this fiasco?” From the way her voice carried, he knew she was facing him. “My dowry is adequate, but an obvious royal favorite such as yourself could climb higher.”

Intelligent girl, for all her talk of lotions and perfumes. Rourke kept his expression sincere. “I owe my allegiance to England.” True enough. “I have no family I need to please. My holdings are mine from victory.” Of sorts.

“You have nothing to lose, and a prince's gratitude to gain. Is that what you are saying?”

No—but he liked it. She had to think he was firmly ensconced in Prince John's royal camp. “A man must eventually choose sides.”

“The correct side, else you might lose your head.”

“You have the right of it, my lady.” Rourke rubbed the back of his neck against a sudden chill.

There came a loud rap at the door, and it opened wide. Rourke carefully kept his gaze toward the sounds of his men as they filed inside. He greeted them with a gruff, “Stop shuffling your feet, Robbie, else you'll scuff the floors.” Robert laughed, and Rourke was able to place him as standing next to the window.