Rexanne Becnel (26 page)

The question she could not answer was why Rylan was cooperating with the king. Why was he at court, allowing himself to be humiliated in so public a manner? Though a fanciful part of her wished to believe it was guilt and shame for his wretched behavior toward her that had brought him here, she quickly squelched that foolish notion. More than likely, it was only that he still disbelieved that his prize had slipped through his fingers so easily.

“The king would have you sit beside the queen,” a young serving lad murmured politely. Joanna moved dutifully to the chair he indicated, then nearly stumbled when she spied Rylan waiting just beyond the king’s own chair.

Despite all the reasons she had for despising him, Joanna’s strongest emotion at that moment was a dark and painful yearning. Like a wound that lingered near the edges of her consciousness, the pain of it leapt until her heart fairly ached from the intensity.

His face was closed against any display of feelings, but not so his eyes. They were dark, glittering with emotion as they ran swiftly over her. Joanna swallowed, then took a shaky breath as she lifted her chin bravely against his consuming gaze. But no words came. Her mouth was too dry, and her mind was a blank. Their gazes met and clung another long moment. Then he shifted slightly and cleared his throat.

“I knew court life would agree with you,” he murmured as his eyes once more ran over her elegant appearance. “But I never suspected how well.”

That arrogant comment, ill-disguised as a compliment, brought Joanna’s anger bubbling to the surface. “You ‘knew’! You ‘suspected’! ’Tis more than clear that you know nothing at all of me!” she hissed furiously. She started to advance upon him, prepared to vent all the anger, frustration, and confusion that seethed within her, but the timely appearance of the queen at her elbow prevented her further outburst.

“Now, now, Lady Joanna. This is not the place to vent your feelings toward Lord Blaecston. Such discourse is better served in more private surroundings.”

Joanna fought down her bitter words, unaware that the queen’s clear tone carried to the first row of tables beyond the dais. Then the king also moved between her and Rylan, and with a broad smile on his face addressed Isabel.

“Do not be too hard on her, my dear wife. ’Tis only natural that she feel this antipathy for the man who sought to abduct her so cruelly.” He sent Rylan a deliberately forbearing look. “Were it not for Lord Blaecston’s high regard among my barons, I would feel compelled to exact a severe punishment from him for such a dishonorable act.”

He raised one hand to forestall any interruption from Rylan. “As it is, since no real harm was done—my own guards rescued her in a most timely fashion—I think an apology from Lord Blaecston shall suffice.” Once more he smiled, well aware that every ear in the vast bishop’s parlor strained to hear. “What say you, my dear Joanna? Shall you accept his apology with the graciousness of a true lady?”

Joanna stared at her king, unable to fathom his motives. Was that all he would exact from his errant lord, an apology? Her gaze moved to Rylan’s implacable face, so hard and menacing even in this, his public humiliation. Yet what she saw there was not repentance. Far from it. He seemed almost to dare her—and the king—to cross his will. Could he truly be so foolish?

But perhaps it was not foolishness. Perhaps he was even more powerful than she suspected. After all, the king’s men
had
hesitated to kill him when they might easily have done so. And now the king did not demand any punishment from him beyond a public apology to her.

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she stared at the man who had stolen her maidenhood. Powerful he might be, and intimidating even to kings. But he could no longer hurt her. She, however, could at least enjoy seeing him squirm.

She raised her chin a notch and sent a faint smile to King John. “If he should make apology to me—sincere apology,” she quickly amended. “Then I shall accept it.”

Rylan stared at her. “Graciously accept it?” he asked with a sardonic curl to his lips.

She had to clench her teeth against a furious retort. “Graciously accept it,” she repeated, although her glittering stare said otherwise.

The king’s gaze veered from Rylan to Joanna and then back to Rylan. “How pleasant. We are all in agreement. I do so prefer harmony to discord.” His smile broadened to show his long teeth and his eyes shone with triumph. But it was more than merely triumph over a baron who plagued him. Joanna recognized the light in the king’s eyes for what it was: hatred. A shiver of apprehension swept down her spine. She knew with a sudden certainty that the king was hardly likely to let a simple apology end this cat-and-mouse game he had embarked upon.

“Well, Blaecston,” the king prodded. “Shall you make your apology or not?”

As Rylan stared coolly at the king, Joanna was convinced he would far rather strangle John than accede to his demand. But he steadfastly turned his icy gaze on her.

Beneath his unwavering stare, Joanna felt as if he shut out everyone else in the crowded hall—king, queen, nobility, and servants alike. He stepped nearer and reached for her tightly clasped hands, taking them between his own warm palms.

“Lady Joanna,” he began quietly, all the while staring deeply into her wary eyes, “I profoundly regret the circumstances of our previous association. Had I the power to change the past, I would most certainly do so.”

Joanna’s pulse had more than doubled at the initial touch of his hands. Her first instinct had been to pull away, for self-preservation was a powerful motivation. But with his tender touch and intense gaze he compelled her to remain. Even more so, the husky quality of his voice started an unwelcome quiver of longing somewhere deep within her.

Was it true? she could not help but wonder. Did he indeed wish they had met under different circumstances? Did he mean what he said—and all he left unsaid, save for the potent look in his eyes?

“I … You …” Joanna stumbled over her words. “Thank you, Ryl—Lord Blaecston,” she finally managed to say. Then he disengaged her hands from their rigid grasp upon one another, so that her fingers lay very naturally within his hands. He bent over to kiss her knuckles, displaying the most correct and courtly of manners. But as his lips caressed the back of one hand, she felt his fingers move in a warm circle against her palm. Then his tongue stole out to stroke across the ridges of her knuckles and she had to stifle a gasp of shock.

“Milady,” he murmured with every appearance of humble respect as he straightened up. Only the burning heat of his eyes gave away his real feelings.

“Mi—milord,” she barely was able to stammer.

As Rylan released her hands and stepped back from her, the king smiled his satisfaction at Rylan’s obeisance to his will. A ripple of gossip swept through the hall as the story of Sir Rylan’s attempted abduction of the Lady Joanna of Oxwich spread like wildfire. Everyone knew of Rylan’s antagonism toward the king. Now they had witnessed how their king had brought him to heel. John’s complacent expression indicated most clearly that he was well pleased with this, the first round of humiliation for Rylan Kempe.

The only observer who seemed less than satisfied with the little scene was Queen Isabel. Her perceptive gaze flitted from John to Rylan, and she tapped one long, manicured fingernail against her pursed lips. She did not speak, however, but only moved regally to her chair, then waited for John to sit. But during the ensuing shuffle of feet and scraping of chairs and benches, her doelike eyes were bright with speculation. And anticipation.

Rylan ate the meal before him with studied nonchalance. Spring lamb in sauce on a trencher of fine-grained white bread was a particular favorite of his, and a part of him recognized the talent of the king’s cook. But today his enthusiasm for the meal was forced. King John denied himself nothing. Not the finest food and drink, nor jewels and fine garments and furs. He taxed his people to the point of penury, yet lived as if his treasury would never empty.

Yet Rylan well knew it was not the king’s excesses that caused the food to stick in his throat. Not this time. His appetite had abandoned him because Lady Joanna Preston sat so near and yet was denied him. She ate not five feet from him, but he could neither speak to her nor touch her.

His entire body tightened at the thought of simply touching her, even as he knew it was madness.

Squelching a particularly vicious oath, he reached for his goblet and swiftly quaffed the fine red wine it held.

“You approve of the wine?” John asked in dulcet tones. He stabbed a well-done slice of lamb and brought it to his mouth before he turned to look at Rylan.

“’Tis good,” Rylan muttered.

“I have it from Lord Fulton. In lieu of increasing his knight service, I accepted four casks of his finest wine.” He laughed at Rylan’s stony expression. “I see you disapprove. Perhaps you will not frown so to hear that Sir Harold of Gimsby provided me with two cartloads of the finest fabrics from France. Bolts upon bolts of chaisel, flurt silke, and branched velvet. He wishes license to enlarge his castle on the River Wye, and courts my goodwill in this manner.” He stabbed another piece of the lamb. “Though I have not yet decided in the matter of his castle, I have decided to make a gift of several bolts of cloth to Lady Joanna.”

At the sudden tension in Rylan’s bearing John’s smug grin broadened. “She will need a fine gown for her wedding. I think celadon green.” He looked past Isabel to where Joanna sat, hardly eating at all. “With those lovely green eyes of hers, a gown of green silk would be most pleasing indeed. Of course, such a beauty as she will look her very best bare and stretched out upon sheets of white linen.” He laughed coarsely and reached for his goblet. “No doubt any number of our randy young lords shall flock to her side, hoping to be the one to see her in just such a lack of clothing.”

Joanna gasped out loud, and it took every ounce of Rylan’s willpower not to silence John’s vulgar laughter with a fist to his face. Isabel, however, needed no such restraint.

“Your crudity is better suited to the stables,” she hissed, though not so loud that those below the salt could hear.

John did not apologize, but he did have the good grace to stifle his humor under the guise of a fit of coughing. When Isabel was reassured that he would behave, she turned her gaze upon Rylan.

“So, Lord Blaecston. You have eluded the king’s wrath once more. How fortunate for you that he receives more pleasure in besting you than in casting you into the donjon.”

“Yes. How fortunate.” Rylan took a bite of the lamb.

“I must say,” the queen continued, “that it is far more pleasant for us to meet in this quiet harmony than has been the turmoil of the recent months—nay, years—of discontent. Discontent, I might add, that you seek ever to foment.”

“I seek only to ensure a lasting prosperity—and peace—for England.”

Isabel’s gaze swept over him with a woman’s eye for detail. Had her husband not sat between them, Rylan might have thought by the speculative gleam in her gaze that she contemplated some clandestine meeting between them. But her next words dispelled that notion.

“I should think you would concern yourself first and foremost with the prosperity of Blaecston and your other holdings. As it now stands you are without wife, and therefore without an heir.” Her finely plucked brows arched high in question. John also waited for Rylan’s answer.

If the circumstances had been different, Rylan would gladly have revealed the advantageous arrangement he’d so recently concluded with Sir Egbert Crosley regarding his daughter, Marilyn. But Joanna’s averted profile beyond the king and queen somehow forced him to hold his tongue.

“I assure you, I will not long ignore that situation.”

“We are most interested in any such negotiations you should embark upon,” John inserted. “Of course, there are certain maidens quite hopelessly beyond your reach.” Here he glanced pointedly at Joanna, then smirked at Rylan.

Rylan met the king’s scrutiny with a carefully blank expression. To the queen’s intent look he offered a faint smile. But then his gaze moved beyond them both to Joanna, and his composure slipped. She too was looking at him, but her emotions were far more difficult to read than John’s and Isabel’s.

The king hated all who opposed him. He wished to humiliate Rylan and therefore effectively strip him of all influence with the other barons. The queen, though not so vindictive as her husband, nonetheless knew that any lord who was powerful threatened the kingship. She was extremely sly beneath her sweet and smiling exterior.

But Joanna … Joanna was an enigma to him.

Her face was pale and somber, her expression not unlike it had been that first day at St. Theresa’s. As it had then, only the light in her startling green eyes gave any indication of the emotions that stirred within her. But what those emotions were he could not say. Their eyes met and clung. Clashed was a better description, he decided ruefully. His clung. Hers clashed. He sought to know her very thoughts. She sought to repel his every try.

But she did not turn away. Only the interruption of the queen’s favorite confessor, the Bishop of Ely, ended the silent sparring of their eyes.

“A wedding at court. ’Twould be a most welcome break from the routine, would it not?” His round face and balding pate shone with ruddy vitality and his quick darting eyes jumped back and forth among those at the high table. “You recall, milady, the gaiety when Fitzpatrick wed at Christmastide? And what of the festivities at harvest when Lady Helen wed that northern lord, Sir Kendrick? Ah, but that was a time. Such feasting. Such games and sport. And the wines that flowed!” He broke off his ecstatic recitation to grab up his cup and drink deeply. “Yes, a wedding would be a great diversion. Shall it be Lady Joanna’s? Or perhaps Lord Blaecston’s? Or better yet, two weddings. A double wedding!” he pronounced.

“Neither Lord Blaecston nor Lady Joanna have contracted their unions yet,” the king observed dryly. He lifted his goblet to his mouth to sip, then paused as if a thought had only just occurred to him. “Lord Blaecston’s contract for marriage is in his own hands. Lady Joanna’s future, however, is entrusted to me. What say you, Isabel? Shall we turn our thoughts more quickly to settling our ward’s affairs, and thereby add some gaiety to our visit at Ely?”