Beauty's Curse (21 page)

“Hardly cold, my lady,” Rourke said as he stepped from the tub. Water ran in trails down his skin to the rushes on the floor.

Galiana remained rooted by the fire, clutching his towel in front of her.

“I,” she began, unable to find a single spot on which to rest her eyes. He was magnificent and much better endowed than the statues she'd seen from Roman times.

“The towel?”

“Oh!” She handed it to him, slayed by his slow smile as surely as if he'd stuck a knife betwixt her ribs. Once again, he was the victor in a game she didn't understand.

“Lady Galiana, forgive me for being blunt. But if you don't leave this room right now I will have you, on the floor, in the water, and I don't care who walks in.”

For one tempting second, Galiana thought to rip her gown from her body and let him have his way.

But her mother's voice reverberated through her head—a lady would never do such a thing.

Rourke's gut clenched with unspent desire as he watched his tall, proper lady run from the chamber.

She obviously had no idea her plain, gray gown, when wet, showed through. And the place where she'd clutched the pitcher circled her pert nipple beautifully. He didn't need to see colors—nor clearly—to get felled by lust.

Jamie's words echoed around his head like bats in a belfry. He could ignore Prince John's order and let one of the other knights win the lady's hand.

Lord Christien, or worse, Lord Harold? Touching that long, brown hair, or kissing that soft, pliant, and eager mouth. Nay.

Priest be damned, he thought as he dried his body before the fire. How would he explain his actions to King William? I'm sorry, my liege. I wanted her, and so I took her, and Scotland and England be damned, too!

Exhaling, he stalked over to the low table where a small plate of biscuits and sliced beef awaited. The ring winked at him from its leather binding—accusing?

What to do? What in God's name was he to do?

He needed a drink.

Rourke dressed, grateful he could see well enough to clothe himself. Hose, shirt, tunic, half boots. The entire time the image of the lady's nipple teased him until he was ready to howl like a kenneled hound. This was madness. He could forgive the lady for doing her best to protect her brothers. It was hardly her fault Prince John had made her the prize in a mad quest. Marrying off all the marriageable females to men he considered loyal, in a mad scheme to tie their families to him for when he made his bid for the throne.

Considering her prim and sheltered upbringing, Galiana was handling herself quite well. Remembering her ruse to teach him patience, he had to release the anger he'd been holding against her for her innocent lies.

God's bones, but she fired his blood—if he'd been coldhearted, as she'd accused, then she had melted him down to bright embers that would kindle at her touch.

He picked up the ring, knowing he should give it to her. He'd said it was hers, a betrothal gift. Would she give it back when he asked? He needed it. Britain needed it. Could he explain he would buy her a new one, once they were honestly wed? Something she could keep whence he set her aside.

She was intelligent, his plain miss. Galiana would jump ten moves ahead in her irrefutable logic and want to know why the ring was so important. She'd know that it had nothing to do with a woman. And if she noticed that the ring was more than just a piece of gem-stone, what then?

Mayhap he could appeal to her intellect?

His study of human nature had taught him that women liked to be appreciated, and he'd be wise to treat her with respect. Flattery, also expected, but not overmuch—not for her. Galiana's looks, not her strong point as far as he could tell, would not garner many compliments, and she'd no doubt be suspicious if he was to overdo the meaningless flattery.

It irritated him that her looks should matter—when she was so much more than what Fate had given her. Small, dainty women abounded at court. He'd had his share of them. Lady Magdalene came to mind. Pretty, nay, beautiful, they tended to be shallow and concerned with gifts and posies.

He remembered Galiana's disdain when he'd told her not to peddle her wares at court—and grinned. Her feathers didn't ruffle easily, but he'd scored a victory there. For certes, she would be a popular one with her lotions and perfumes.

Rourke pressed his fingers above the neat row of stitches along his temple. It was possible that she could be made into a favorite. Cloak and dagger mystery was his specialty, after all, and he could help her.

What would it get him? Would it protect her from the vicious gossips who might not see her for the woman she was?

He shouldn't care, bugger all.

His orders were clear.

His feelings weren't.

Since when did anybody give a royal god damn about Rourke Wallis's feelings, anyway?

A pounding on the heavy wooden door captured his attention. Not Galiana, with a knock like that. “Come in.”

Jamie entered in a rush, his hair a rumpled, wet mess, his shirt untied at the neck and hanging off one shoulder.

Rourke crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Is something the matter?”

“Aye, Robert's gone missin'.”

“Missing.”

“That old woman dropped it in the conversation while she was scrubbin' the skin off me back with a wire comb, the old dog.”

Worry over the man who'd been a member of his party for two years settled in his belly. “Was he sick, with the others?”

“She said they searched the manor, every room, and he's simply disappeared.”

“Could he have followed the priest and the boys?”

Jamie shrugged his shirt up and tied the neck. “What, and when the boys went on to the village, he tracked the priest? He's a fine knight. He could have done—but it's too damn dark now to go after him, and the blasted snow hasn't stopped falling all day.”

Rourke slipped the leather thong over his neck, careful to keep his hands away from the blue chip of stone as he tucked it beneath his tunic. “Tracks would be covered.”

“I don't like this, Rourke.”

“Nay, it doesn't bode well.”

“Ye know we have someone in our group who is workin' fer Prince John, and possibly King Philippe,”

“And, more than likely, one of us is working on King Richard's behalf, as well. 'Tis left to you and me, Jamie.”

“Yer not fit to go to court. Not yet.”

“Why?” Rourke bristled at the implication.

Jamie pointed at Rourke's clothes with a snort. “Yer clothing is usually impeccable—yet ye've two different colored boots on.”

“What?” Rourke looked down, but all he could see was the same shade: grayish brown.

“Ye'll not be able to go anywhere alone. Since ye can't wed the lady, that leaves me to be your constant companion, which will cause rumors.”

“Ach, I'm no man's man, and everybody knows it.” Rourke grimaced.

“And I am? Piss off! I'm sayin', with all the different intrigues goin' on, that anything unusual had better have a damn obvious reason.”

Rourke went to the trunk, where his clothes were folded, and lifted up another half boot for Jamie's perusal. “This?”

“Aye. Change the left one.”

“What color am I wearing?” Rourke hadn't considered the challenge of dressing, but a wife, for certes, would be handy. Until his sight returned completely. It had to.

“One brown, one red. Nice choice, if ye're a court jester.”

Rourke muttered a curse, then changed so that he was wearing two brown leather boots. “My tunic?”

“Black, and your hose are brown. Ye look right dashin' now, me lord,” Jamie sneered.

“Hold your tongue, man. I'll wed the woman”—he held up one hand to forestall any argument—“as soon as we find a priest. And then—well, King William urges us to get to court.”

“But our liege cannot know that ye'll be bringin' a wife. Not when he's expectin' ye to be free to wed another!”

“It's horse-tied I am, and what can I do? King William charged me with following Prince John's orders.”

“As much as ye were able,” Jamie scoffed. “Ye don't need to win the lady's hand. Let one of the other knights do it, and we can hurry to court without this woman in tow. She'll slow us down.”

“Prince John wanted me to marry her. Why else would he have given me the edge? Perhaps it's his way of seeing which camp I'm in. He's forcing me to declare my loyalty. He trusts no one.”

“Aye.” Jamie scratched his smooth-shaven chin. “Being a snake in the grass makes a man suspicious.”

Rourke laughed. “I can set Galiana aside, later.”

“Ye want her in yer bed; just say it.”

He paused. Jamie knew him better than any other man alive. “'Tis true. But I'd not ruin her reputation and leave her a whore, just to slake my desires. If I marry her, then set her aside, she'll have property to compensate for her lost maidenhead. Surely some man will marry her for that alone and give her babes and family.”

Jamie broke out into loud laughter. “Ye've got it all worked out in yer head, eh?”

“What is so damn funny?”

“You. But I'll not ruin the jest by telling you the end of the joke before 'tis time.”

“Arsewipe.” Rourke knew no amount of bribery or boxing would make Jamie give up his secret. He also knew the omission wouldn't harm him—not overmuch.

“Yer over-complicating things, Rourke, thinking with your cock instead of yer brain.”

“Do explain it to me, then, Jamie, in simple words.” Rourke glared at his foster brother.

“Don't go to court; not yet. Take the lady back to yer keep. Wed her, bed her, and leave her there to adjust to wedded bliss—without ye. We go to court, make Prince John happy, woo the lovely lady Constance, and find the damn Breath of Merlin afore King Richard loses his power forever, which, in turn, will make King William happy.”

The air left Rourke's lungs in a whoosh. “Christ's blood, Jamie, that's brilliant. Why didn't I think of it?”

“Ye've been knocked about the head too many times?”

“Now who's the jester?”

“We can leave as soon as it stops snowing,” Jamie planned.

“Just three days is all we need to reach home.” Won in a game of chance, the keep didn't have much in the way of frills, but it was solid in its construction, and he was trying to bring the village back to life. His home would need a mistress, he realized with a grin. The idea had merit. He could keep Galiana to himself, and love her until he'd had his fill. Nobody at court would know who she was—which guarded her and protected him. He'd prove his loyalty to another quick-tempered Plantagenet, while appeasing his own Scottish liege.

“We leave in the morn.” The ring gave a zinging hum against his chest as he contemplated riding pillion with Galiana.

“Yer bride to be is a lady, Rourke, not a warrior, nor a squire, to be facing the elements.”

“What if Harold and Christien are on their way?”

“We're snowed in!”

“Her brothers, mere lads, and an ancient priest, and possibly one of our own knights have managed to leave this manor.” Rourke ticked the escapees off by folding a finger down for each on his right hand.

“She's a lass of quality, Rourke, and see that if ye see naught else.”

“She's tough.”

“She'll die, or lose her nose to frostbite.”

Rourke stretched his neck from side to side. “That would be unfortunate,” he said dryly. The last thing his tall, brown-haired lady needed was no nose above her pointy chin. “The hour it stops snowing,” he conceded.

Jamie nodded.

“I'll marry the wench immediately—we're sure to have a priest around somewhere—and stay a fortnight with her before leaving for court. Mayhap Will”—no, not his squire—“or Godfrey, yes, Godfrey”—who was already married with bairns—“can stay with her.”

“Will ye be able to set the lady aside?”

“Of course! She's gotten under my skin; that's all. It's happened before. And once I take my fill of her, I'll be fine.”

Will she? He ignored his subconscious.

Jamie made a loud, doubtful noise from the back of his throat, which Rourke ignored, as well.

“Never mind all of this, Jamie. We've more important things to think about at the moment,” Rourke stated.

“Aye. Robbie had to have left a trail.”

“My fortune lately?” Rourke said. “It's bloody cold.”

Galiana sat at the table on the dais and sipped at a goblet of mead. The manor was clean, and so was she. The bath she'd finally gotten had not soothed her spirit, though, despite the chamomile flowers she'd added. This was her home, and yet she was the only Montehue left in it.

She had lost all control of the manor.

Rourke, with his bossy ways, had easily included the Montehue knights when he'd delegated duties. Two men in the gatehouse at all times. Knights, his men and hers, posted at all the entry doors.