Rexanne Becnel (29 page)

If she could have called back the shot, Joanna would have. The last thing she wanted was to provoke Isabel’s ire. Quite the contrary. But like a fool she had become caught up in the sport and completely forgotten her plan to solicit the queen’s goodwill.

Sir Evan took his shot, which went a little wide of the mark, much to the good humor of several other players. On the next play Joanna’s ball was nudged by Lady Matilda’s blue-striped ball, but it only helped her position. Then the queen and her partner played their shots.

When it was again Joanna’s turn to approach her ball, long mallet in hand, her brow was creased in concern. One well-aimed shot could place her directly before the end post; Sir Evan’s ball could then
bump hers in for their win. But that did not seem very wise. Her hands trembled slightly as she aligned the mallet and ball, but she did not feel the least hesitation when she took her swing. The ball ran straight and true across the closely cut lawn, directly toward its goal. As Joanna’s ball clipped the purple ball, an excited murmur went up. She tried to look disappointed as her ball careened off to the side and Isabel’s rolled even nearer the final wicket.

Then it was Sir Evan’s turn. He approached his red-striped ball thoughtfully, judging all the angles from bended knee. As he arose he glanced up at Joanna. For a long moment their eyes held, and Joanna had the distinct feeling that he knew her shot had been deliberate. But he was still in a position to stymie the queen’s victory. He could send her ball spinning away, or perhaps block its path to the end post. He had the skill to do either, and no apparent reason to resist the opportunity.

When he finally stood over the ball, Joanna caught her breath, praying that he would not make the shot and thereby provoke the queen’s animosity toward her. The mallet hit the ball with a dull
thwack.
It ran straight at the end post. Clearly he wished to block the queen’s final shot. But as the ball approached the post it curved slightly, glanced off, and rolled to a stop in a harmless position.

A small cheer went up from the queen’s supporters, and Isabel herself tapped Sir Evan’s arm chidingly. “Shall you pass off your poor shot as gallantry, Lord Manning?” She laughed. “Best that you do not, for I shall not allow it.”

All eyes then turned to follow the next play—all eyes but Joanna’s. Had he missed his shot apurpose?

As if he sensed her question, Sir Evan moved to stand beside her. “Perhaps we shall win another time,” he said with a casual shrug.

She stared up into his serious eyes. “You did that deliberately. You might have made that shot but did not.”

He smiled but she could not mistake the curious expression on his face. “I did no more than you had done.”

Joanna looked away guiltily. “’Tis only a game.”

“Yes. Only a game,” he concurred after a pause. “’Tis better to lose when the stakes are no more than a moment of triumph. Especially when it might ensure a greater victory.”

Joanna had no chance to question him on that vague remark, for a loud shout went up from the onlookers when the queen’s ball found the end post. Sir Evan moved away to congratulate Isabel, and in the chattering crowd Joanna could not catch his attention. Sir Guy, however, had no trouble insinuating himself next to her, and as the queen and her entourage made their slow way back to the bishop’s parlor, Joanna was subjected to an endless discourse on his every shot and strategy during the game.

She was near to snapping at him in frustration when she saw Sir Evan ahead of them. For a moment he looked up from his conversation with Lady Adele and met Joanna’s gaze. Then he winked at her—a friendly conspiratorial wink—and she forgot Sir Guy’s presence entirely.

What did he mean by that wink?

Joanna continued to stare at Sir Evan’s handsome red head even after he returned to his conversation with the queen’s first lady in waiting. What did he mean by that wink? she wondered.

He did not mean to court her. Somehow she was certain of that. But he
was
up to something. Though she had no idea what it might be, Joanna was nevertheless certain that beneath Sir Evan Thorndyke’s agreeable surface far deeper currents ran.

M
ARILYN LAY UPON HER
bed fully clothed. Her face was pale and her eyes were dry, yet Joanna knew at once that she had been weeping. She eased the door closed behind her, forgetting her own troubled thoughts in the face of Marilyn’s obvious distress.

“What is it, Marilyn? Have you seen your father? Does he bear bad news?” Joanna sat on the bed beside the girl and took her cold hand in her own. “Are you all right?”

Marilyn swallowed then took a labored breath. “I am behaving most foolishly,” she managed to whisper. “’Tis no more than I expected. And yet … and yet …” She trailed off once more, swallowing the sob that rose in her throat.

A stab of sympathy for Marilyn washed over Joanna, along with a shiver of fear for herself. She and Marilyn were both caught in the same hopeless trap. Before long she too would face this same fate.

“Has your father selected a husband for you?”

Marilyn nodded. Her eyes swam with tears as she stared up at Joanna. “The contract is made and though I should be glad, for the man is at least not old and ugly—” She broke off and turned away, crying in earnest this time.

Joanna was overcome by Marilyn’s consuming sorrow. Was there no way to help her avoid this marriage she so clearly abhorred?

“Perhaps it will not be so terrible as all that,” she began weakly.

Marilyn shook her head. “He scares me! He is so dark and … and so angry.”

“Your father?”

“No. No, Lord Blaecston!” the distraught girl cried. “My father says he is a powerful man and that as his wife I shall be one of the most powerful ladies in the land, but—”

Joanna did not hear the rest. Marilyn was to be the wife of Lord Blaecston? Rylan Kempe was promised in marriage to her?

The shock of that revelation sent her senses spinning, and she stared disbelievingly at the weeping girl on the bed. It could not be true!

And yet, it most clearly was.

A black emptiness welled up from the vicinity of her heart—a hollow ache she could not bury. All the other times in her life when she’d felt abandoned seemed as nothing compared to the overpowering sense of loss that shook her now. Of all the men in England, why must it be Rylan?

Tears started in her eyes but she swiftly dashed them away. It would be worse than foolish to cry for him, she told herself. Who
he
wed mattered nothing to her. She forced back the tears and fought to be logical. It was Marilyn her concerns must be for now. Sweet shy Marilyn was being forced to wed that selfish, hard-hearted scoundrel! The girl was barely more than a child, Joanna thought with rising indignation. Yet she would be subject to the same physical assault she herself had endured from him.

That thought brought Joanna up short. Rylan and Marilyn. She took a quick breath and tried to compose herself, for an emotion closely akin to jealousy had sprung unexpectedly upon her.

But it was not jealousy. She was certain of that. Though the man had a certain winning way about him—though he could kiss a woman and caress her until her will was no longer her own—he was nevertheless a blackguard. Lord Black Heart he was, and not worthy of an innocent such as Marilyn.

She gazed down at the miserable girl and stroked her hair comfortingly. Marilyn should be handed in marriage to a far more deserving man than Rylan Kempe. She needed a well-mannered fellow. Someone gallant and charming, pleasant and mild of manner. Someone like … like …

Joanna smiled, albeit sadly when the name came to her. Marilyn needed someone like Evan Thorndyke. He was young, nice-looking, and pleasant in the extreme. He was no lecher and appeared to have no particular political aspirations.

There had been that wink, however.

Joanna frowned, then determinedly thrust thoughts of Evan Thorndyke and Rylan Kempe—thoughts of all men—from her mind. Marilyn was her chief concern at the moment.

“Come now, Marilyn,” she began anew in a firm tone. “This weeping avails you of naught. What is needed now is a clear head if we are to overthrow your father in this matter.”

Marilyn’s sobbing subsided a bit at that, and after wiping at her eyes with her fists, she rolled onto her back and stared up at Joanna. “What … what do you mean, overthrow him in this matter?” she asked through her hiccups.

As Joanna stared down into Marilyn’s young and innocent face, she suddenly felt old and far too wise in the ways of the world. “It is a hard thing to have no one to rely on but yourself,” she began, picking her words slowly as she collected her thoughts. “Bishop Ferendi believes that a young noblewoman does her duty to God when she marries and bears the fruit of that union, and that may be true for some. But I do not believe it’s true for all. Certainly not for myself. But even if it is, ’tis not for someone else to say who that husband should be. Nor is it right for that husband to treat his wife poorly. Certainly our Lord Jesus loved and cared for the women of his time.”

She took a deep breath as she considered that novel idea. It had been forming for some time in her mind, yet not until now had she attempted to fit words to it.

“I am fully capable of selecting my own husband—if I indeed wanted one. So are you. The decision is taken from us only because of the property attached to our hands.” She lowered her voice to a secretive level. “I am prepared to renounce my inheritance in order to avoid an unwise marriage. Perhaps you should do the same.”

Marilyn pushed up to lean against the high board at the head of the bed. Her face reflected amazement at Joanna’s words. “My father would never allow it.” She wiped a tear that yet clung to her chin. “No, never. Nor will the king easily allow you to abandon your duty either.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I shall nonetheless try to convince him of it. After all, he would still have what it is he truly wants: Oxwich in the hands of one of his own followers.”

Marilyn shook her head. Her voice gained confidence and she spoke now as if
she
were the wise one and Joanna the naive child. “You do not know the king, Joanna. He wants most what he is denied. If you deny him your obedience, then he will demand it all the more.”

“He cannot make me say the words. I will not take the wedding vow!”

“Lady Clara, widow of Lord Moreland, tried as much. When the king demanded that she wed Sir Cuthbert, she refused. King John had her children removed from her care and she was kept a prisoner in her own keep the winter through with no fire for warmth. On the Feast of the Annunciation when she still refused he had food withheld from her. By St. Mark’s feast day she was wed to that vile old man who has lain four wives to rest already.” Marilyn stared intently at Joanna. “Gossip holds that despite her frail condition, he got her with child at once.”

Disconcerted by this new proof of the king’s cruelty, Joanna sat back. How could anyone be so unfeeling? But she could not let this deter her. Though she preferred not to do so, she could still reveal her unchaste state. That ought to give the king pause. But she would hold that bit of news private until she had no other recourse.

She met Marilyn’s resigned gaze. “Be that as it may, I do not see how my situation is made any the worse by an attempt to sway the king. He may ignore my wishes, as you predict. But he might not. If I am careful and present my case well—if I select my words and time them wisely—who knows how he may decide?” Joanna lifted her chin and folded her hands in her lap. “I only know that I cannot be complacent when it is my life that is being decided.”

Joanna clung to her brave words the whole night long, but it was not easy. To her chagrin, it was not the threat of marriage to some baron of the king’s choosing that caused her the most disquiet. Rather, it was Marilyn’s unsettling news about her own betrothal.

Rylan Kempe was to wed Marilyn. It was not fair! She punched the soft featherbed in frustration, then rolled onto her back and tried to calm herself. In the darkness above her, the ceiling could not be seen. No sound came to her save the soft sigh of Marilyn’s breathing. She was entirely alone with her thoughts—and extremely uncomfortable with them.

What a fool she was to feel so desolate at Marilyn’s news. Her sympathy should be for poor Marilyn, who was to be bound over to the hard-hearted Lord Blaecston. Yet all she felt was anger. Anger and jealousy.

Why had he not offered for her instead? If Oxwich were so precious to his political aims, why did he not wish to wed her himself?

Yet just as quickly she vowed that she would never agree to wed such a blackguard as he had proven to be. She would never wed any man, for they were all of a lot: selfish, greedy, and unfeeling.

He had not been so when they’d lain together, however.

That unwelcome memory sent a heated shiver through her. A knot seemed to unfurl in her stomach as she recalled his sultry kisses and unhurried caress. For that short span of time he’d seemed almost to worship her, so assiduously had he addressed her own pleasure.

In a fit of frustration Joanna curled onto her side, pulling the bed linens over her head. She was so confused she could scarcely think straight, and to make matters worse, even her own body betrayed her. The briefest recollection of the intimacies they’d shared on Isle Sacré caused her nipples to tighten and her nether regions to grow wet and warm.

She clenched her eyes closed, willing herself to recall how hateful he’d been, how persistent. Those hands of his had tossed her over his back as if she were no more than a peasant’s sack of turnips. His mouth had uttered taunts and cruel threats. Yet even during her fitful hours of sleep, it was the heated stroke of his fingers and the murmured endearments that stayed with her. Midnight brought her dreams of passion, not of dread.

Morning found her cross and exhausted. Marilyn too was pale, as if her sleep had not brought her much rest, and the pair of them prepared for the day with little conversation. Marilyn donned a close-fitting tunic with full trailing sleeves. The muted blue color flattered her well, yet her glum expression and listless gaze once more dimmed her natural beauty.