Heather Graham (13 page)

But it hadn’t been Anne. It had been Rose. And he had thought that he was dreaming. But all the while, he had known that it was her. And he hadn’t felt guilty during the consummation at all, just hungry.

How he had desired her. The taste and feel and scent of her. The silk of her flesh beneath his fingers, the undulating movement of her hips, and the exquisite feel of the perfect shape of her body. He had admitted to himself just that day that he had wanted her, that despite the sparks that seemed to fly each time they came near each other, or perhaps because of them, he wanted her …

Waking beside her had been such a shock. Seeing the king. Seeing her. The length of her. The deep, dark fire of her hair, spread out over the pillow. The perfection of her size and shape, the rounded curve of her hip, the fullness of her breasts, the dark rouge of her nipples …

He groaned aloud. She hadn’t disappeared with Jerome and Jamison. Perhaps that in itself should have signified her innocence. But not necessarily.

He lay a steaming cloth over his eyes.

“Uh-hum! Your Grace!”

He heard the words, then the cloth was pulled from his face. He stared into the old, crinkled face of Garth McCandrick, his father’s manservant and now his own, though Pierce had spent so much time preferring his privacy that Garth had remained at Castle DeForte, seeing to the estate along with the reeve. Pierce stared at him, startled to see him. He had assumed that the king’s own servants had seen to his bath. He was glad enough to see Garth. The man had the warm, gentle brown eyes of a hound. He was one of the kindest humans Pierce had ever met, loyal to the core, and of all blessed things, quiet and soft-spoken, as well as wise.

“Garth, old fellow! ’Tis good to see your face!”

Garth shook his old head wearily, stretching out a big linen bath sheet for Pierce. “Yours is worn and haggard, milord.”

Pierce’s eyes narrowed quickly. “Well, there’s good reason for it.”

“So I’ve heard. Good King Charles summoned me, milord.”

“Did he now?” Pierce leaned back in the tub, surveying his servant. “Hmm. I wonder why.” The king was up to something.

Garth shook his head, stepping back as Pierce lifted his tall, muscled frame from the bath, water sluicing from his body. “His Majesty will surely share his reasons with you, Lord DeForte.” He made a
tsk
ing sound, shaking his head again. Pierce thought his jowls shook, just as a hound’s would do. “But looking at you, begging your pardon, milord, I’m glad enough that I’ve come! I’ll have you shaved and trimmed in a blink, and ready to meet with His Majesty once again. Your clothes are set out, and I’ll await you for a shave in the chair by the fire.”

Pierce dressed quickly, remained silent as Garth ran his razor over his Adam’s apple, then explained as calmly as he could that Anne had disappeared along with her brother and Lord Bryant. He realized that he refrained from doing so much as mentioning Rose Woodbine’s name, but then, in truth, he did not do so out of hostility, but rather because he was certain that Charles had not mentioned Rose’s role in all of this to anyone, and he was not going to do so himself.

“God is your right, milord!” Garth assured him. “And I know, sir, that the king will lend all his aid to your plight!”

“Yes, of course,” he told Garth simply. He buckled on his scabbard, loath to be anywhere without his sword, as he had been since the days of war. He set his wide-brimmed and heavily plumed hat atop his head, bowed to Garth, and left his chambers. He strode the hallways, passing friends and acquaintances, and nodding to each, gritting his teeth with the awareness that people whispered as he passed by.

All of England must know now that the Lady Anne had been spirited away, that Lord DeForte was raging like a lion, and that their fairy-tale lives had been ripped apart at the seams.

The king, he discovered, was awaiting him in his own chambers. Pierce hurried there without pausing to speak with anyone. A manservant met him at the king’s inner door, and bade him enter. To Pierce’s surprise, he found Charles supping at a table drawn up to a window—alone. There was a place set across from him. Pierce hesitated, looking at the empty seat. The king did not always dine with the queen, but when he did not, there was usually someone very charming to take her place.

“Are you expecting a companion, Your Majesty?”

Charles indicated the chair. “Indeed, I am. You, my friend.”

Pierce took the chair. A servant stepped forward to pour wine. Pierce’s fingers curled around the cup, and he stared at the red liquid. They had all been drugged through the wine, he was certain.

“What have you discovered?” the king asked him.

“Not a damned thing,” Pierce said, “Other than the fact that Jerome and Jamison planned this exceedingly well and have managed to disappear completely.”

The king arched a dark brow.

Pierce leaned toward the king. “I need your help to find her.”

Charles sat back, rubbing his fingertips over the snowy napkin on his lap. He looked at Pierce, hesitating. Then he sighed. “I’m sorry, DeForte. I’m truly sorry to refuse you anything. But there’s nothing that I can do for you.”

“I don’t expect miracles. But you’ve so many men in your service. They can help me hunt—”

“Pierce! Please, listen to me. Lady Anne and Lord Bryant were married very early this morning in the chapel at Lord Bryant’s estate. They were married by Father Curry, the Catholic priest who has long served the Papists who reside about Bryant’s estate. From what I can see—whether there was some coercion or not—the marriage appears to be quite legal.”

Stunned, Pierce swallowed down the last of his wine.

He shook his head. “They were married without your permission! And you just said it! In a Catholic ceremony. You can see to it that she is granted a divorce.”

“A legal divorce is not easily acquired, even when your king is your loyal friend. I must go through the Catholic Church and the Church of England—”

“Damn the church—”

“Pierce! I cannot damn the church. Any church! Hear me out on this one. I intend to respect our church and all others. When I think of the men and women beheaded and burned in this country over battles because of the church, I grow ill. I cling to the Church of England because I’d not risk my throne to those who’ve hated the Papists since the days of Bloody Mary. But neither will I have the Catholics of this country ready to see my head roll! They were married in a legal, binding ceremony, Catholic or otherwise.”

“Whether he wed her or not,” Pierce cried, “I will go after her! She cannot have gone willingly.”

The king leaned forward. “I forbid you to go after her.”

“Forbid me! I followed you from England to Scotland to the Continent, Your Majesty. And now you would refuse me—”

“I’d keep you alive, man! If either of those cowardly fools can find a way—and any man can hire mercenaries!—they will murder you in cold blood. And if you manage to find them in your present fine humor, you’ll be guilty of murder, and even I might not be able to keep you from hanging!”

“Jesu!” Pierce slammed a fist on the table. Charles didn’t bat an eye; his servant jumped back. Pierce stood. Hands clenched behind his back, he paced before the royal bed. “What would you have me do? Forget everything, stay here at court, dance and laugh away the hours while Anne—”

“Anne has written to you.”

He turned to the king. “What?”

From a huge pocket in the front of his long brocade coat, Charles produced a letter. It had been sealed with wax, and Pierce instantly recognized Anne’s signet in the design upon it. He stared at the king, then ripped it open.

His heart thundered. It was Anne’s flowery script. In silence he quickly scanned it.

Dearest Pierce,

Forgive this message! Trust in the fact that I did love you, but life has now changed. I am about to marry Jamison, who had declared his heart to me in a true and honest manner. As my brother so applauds this union, and for peace among the men I love, I am going to enter into it. I pray that you do not seek revenge, for I could not bear any man’s death to come because of me. With my highest regards, always,

Anne

Pierce let the letter fall. Had they forced her to write it? Perhaps not. Anne wouldn’t want them all trying to murder one another. He knelt and picked up the letter again, studying the writing. Her script was clear and flowing. There wasn’t the least waver in her letters. She hadn’t been in any pain.

“Do you know what is in this?” he demanded of Charles.

“Knowing Anne, I think that I do. She begs you to forget her, to get on with your life. And that’s exactly what you must do.”

“Dear God! And let them get away with what they have done!”

“Marriages,” Charles said flatly, “are arranged all the time. I will remind you, my own wedded bliss is due to arrangement!” He hesitated a moment, taking care with his words. “The Lady Anne is also a mature woman who has known—men.”

“What are you saying!” Pierce demanded.

Charles sighed. “Only that she has known many lovers—”

“That gave no man the right to kidnap her!”

“No. But she will manage Jamison well enough. By her own hand, she is reconciled. You can do nothing but create tragedy if you seek to avenge this wrong. And I want you to wed, for the sake of peace and propriety, just as the Lady Anne has done.”

Pierce inhaled sharply. “Jesu!” he exclaimed. “And I am the king’s friend! Pray, how does he manage with his enemies?”

“Being the affable and wise monarch I am,” Charles said shrewdly, “I will ignore that. Yet you, who swear to be my ever faithful and valiant soldier, are blind! You have torn about the countryside for Anne. A good and noble gesture, and you did love her, Pierce, aye! I am aware of that! I despise what those wretched fools did to you both, but it is done. And I am left with a quandary. There was another injured party in this matter.”

Pierce started. “Rose Woodbine?”

“Good, good! You remember the girl!” Charles applauded wryly.

Pierce stiffened. “She might well have been a part of it.”

“Oh, come!”

“Her father is a shrewd old merchant. He intended to sell her to me all the time.”

Charles arched a brow. “He is richer than Midas. And she is not an ugly old hag. Indeed, the girl might well be the most beautiful creature I ever saw in court.”

“Then perhaps, Your Majesty, I should take the gravest care not to come too close—”

“You’ve already come too close. The girl was virtuous,” Charles said. He stared at Pierce hard. “As your king, I’m asking you to marry the girl. I cannot afford the scandal that will come about if the fact that you deflowered and deserted her all in one evening comes out!”

“I didn’t desert the girl! I—”

“But you did!” Charles said softly.

Pierce sat again, staring furiously at the king.
I will have you if I want you!
Had she or hadn’t she been a part of this?

“I’ve no wish to marry.”

Charles watched DeForte, his heart in deepest sympathy. He was not a man who gave his love or loyalty easily, but when he did, he did so deeply and well. Charles knew that he had profited greatly from Pierce’s loyalty himself. He closed his eyes, very sorry to cause such a good friend any discomfort, much less this pain.

But he was king. A king asked back to England, after years of wandering the Continent. He’d watched the path that the wretched war had taken, fought for his father and himself. He could remember the very moment that he had heard the news of his father’s death, the cold feel of the air against his face. There was so much that he remembered!

And Pierce had been involved with much of it. He knew DeForte, he thought, better than his own brother, better than much of his own family.

He hadn’t reclaimed his throne all that long ago. And above all else, he wanted to keep it. And it was definitely a new world, one in which the merchant class was rising, making men like Ashcroft Woodbine extraordinarily important. The king’s wandering days had been expensive, among other things.

Charles wouldn’t have minded seeing men such as Jamison and Jerome in the tower. But there were always those who would rush to their defense. Many could die over this.

He was weary of intrigue and fighting.

Watching Pierce, he drummed his long fingers on the table. “I have known you most of my life. I have seen you be loyal, generous, and kind to the lowest urchin walking the streets. Yet now it seems that you have forgotten kindness and decency. How can you be so callous! Rose Woodbine was truly wronged.”

It was Pierce’s turn to arch a brow. “That might well be debatable.”

“How so?”

He waved a hand in the air, then leaned low over the king. “That very day, Your Majesty, she assured me that she would always have what she wanted. That if she wanted me, she would have me.”

“You think she was involved?”

“There is the possibility.”

The king shook his head. “I think not. She has not come to me demanding anything of you.”

“The beautiful little innocent!” Pierce exclaimed softly. “She probably knew there was no need!”

The king shook his head. “I am not Henry the Eighth,” he said, “and I am certainly not threatening you. But I am asking you, as my friend, as my loyal subject, and as a man who has fought for my throne with nearly as much rigor as I did myself, to marry the girl.”

Pierce gritted his teeth. His muscles tensed. Fury, deep, intense, shattering, washed through him. He couldn’t marry her; Charles couldn’t expect him to.

Then again, it was the only thing that the king could ask him to do. The girl had been under the king’s roof, and there was no denying the fact that Pierce had been with her. Perhaps they had all kept it a secret so far …

Jesu, but she infuriated him! Half of the time he longed to strike her.

Half of the time he longed …

To touch her.

“You know,” he informed the king dryly, “that she claims to absolutely despise me. If she is as innocent as you say, she would much rather wed an ape. She told me so.”

Charles waved a hand in the air. “I’m sure she will get over any feelings of hostility. And as you know, most marriages are arranged. Rose Woodbine must be equally aware of that.”