Seduced by Grace (7 page)

That was what he had meant earlier when he’d said he cared for her. She should have known.

Well, and so she had, Marguerite told herself later that afternoon as she stood at the castle window and watched the king and his male guests ride out for a twilight hunt. He had set her apart and meant to keep her there. His deference had always been apparent, even when he teased her as he might a sister, or when she drew him into the family her sister Isabel and Rand
had created around them at Braesford. It was only for that brief moment a few days ago that she’d thought he might have felt differently.

She should have known better. She faced that now, in spite of feeling strangely bereft by the knowledge.

Why had he made such a point of their platonic affection? Could it be because she had shivered as he clasped his arm around her? She had not meant to; it had just happened as she saw the way he looked at her, a predatory gaze like a hungry wolf eyeing its next meal. Had he hastened to reassure her she was safe from him because he looked upon her as his lady-mistress still, someone above his touch?

Oh, but that suggested he thought she feared his male reactions. He was wrong. It had been a lightning strike of excitement that shook her, white-hot and impossible to deny.

She and David had always understood each other before, being both without parents—he from being left a foundling at a nunnery, she because her father died when she was young and her mother remarried but died in her turn, leaving her and her sisters to the mercy of a stepfather. The misery of that life was put behind her soon after she and David met, yet the effects remained. She had her sisters, but still felt set apart from the greater belonging of a true family circle. That David was even more alone had endeared him to her from the first.

She frowned now as she thought of it. She had felt many things for David in the past, but never anything quite like the near painful awareness of his size and strength as they danced, or his scent compounded of
sun-dried linen, leather and strong, virile male. He had been servitor, guard and near foster brother when they were younger, detailed by Rand, Baron Braesford, to act as her protector when she left the keep. It should have been a task beneath him as a squire, yet he never complained, always acted as if it was his own inclination. They had grown inseparable, the two of them.

It had been an odd companionship, however, for the gulf between their stations had been wide—she an heiress with several castles and villages in her dowry, he a nameless bastard with only brains and brawn to secure his advancement. So good had he been at self-effacement that she’d seldom thought of him as being a man almost grown, never considered him in the light of a future husband. She had been brought up to expect that her male guardian or, later, the king would direct her choice of husband, marrying her off to a lord of power and position who would likely be much older. To contemplate anything else was useless.

It was strange to watch David riding away from the castle now, and see him in so different a light.

“Tell me something, Astrid,” she said over her shoulder.

“Aye, milady?”

Marguerite turned to face her. “What is it a man truly wants from a woman?”

“Now, milady, you know that as well as I.” Her small serving woman looked up from where she was smoothing fresh-washed body linen with her hands and putting it away in their traveling box. A question flickered in her pale eyes.

“No, I mean really.”

“The good Lord made Adam master of the world and all that was in it, but he only sat and sighed,” she quoted in her light, singsong voice. “He made a naked woman then, and Adam smiled.”

“So men want a naked woman?”

“Most of them. Yon Oliver, the whoreson, would no doubt want two.”

Marguerite gave her a wry grin. “You are not fond of him, are you?”

“He’d couple with his own self if he could, being that fond of his manly bits.”

“Oh, Astrid.”

“Well, maybe not, but you can be sure he’d rather dip his wick than eat.”

“Dip his…”

“Have carnal knowledge of a woman.”

“I know what it means!” Marguerite colored as her mind presented the image of a candle wick dipping in and out of warm wax or tallow. Or something doing it. Again, and yet again.

“Aye,” Astrid said in dry accord.

“But he can’t be so bad, not really, if he has David’s approval.”

The tiny serving woman shook her head, obviously disagreeing but unwilling to make a point of it.

“Anyway, I wasn’t talking about anything so obvious. What else is it that men like in a woman?”

“A fine pair of…”

“Breasts?”

“I was going to say legs and what’s at the top of them, but that, too.”

“Surely they think of something else,” Marguerite insisted.

“Not that you’d notice. Oh, some might, like our David. He’s a man, still, for all that others scurry to do his bidding as if he’s a cross between the greatest ogre ever born and a newly crowned king.”

Marguerite sent her a straight look, wondering what she’d heard. Servants’ gossip could be swift and uncannily accurate, and Astrid had a way of hearing whatever was said. However, her small face was calm as she went about her task. “I don’t believe he’s an ogre.”

“No more do I. He’s a leader, though, right enough.”

“Yes,” Marguerite said thoughtfully. Would that be sufficient to see him through the task Henry had set for him? Would the strength and hardihood gained as the Golden Knight keep him safe?

When David had first gone away, she had daydreamed about him returning in triumph. More than once, in the months before he rode away to war, he had spoken of earning his spurs as a knight, then competing in tournament to seek his fortune. It was one of the few ways open to a penniless and nameless squire. Others had done it in the past, so why not he? The knighthood had come at Stoke. The rest would follow, or so she had reasoned.

Now here he was, returned in greater triumph than anyone could ever have imagined. He had returned, and it was all wrong.

Fear for what he was doing, what he meant to do at Henry’s behest, was with her every waking moment. She could not bear that he had embarked upon it for her sake. The idea of him being captured, tortured or
killed was horrifying, the dread of it a constant ache inside her.

“If a woman wanted to stop a man from doing something, Astrid, how would she go about it?”

“Depends on the woman. Well, and on what this something might be.”

“Just speaking in general,” she said with an airy wave of one hand. “Would he, do you think, listen to a woman who surpassed him in rank or was…close to him?”

Astrid paused in the act of folding monthly cloths. “How close?”

“A lover, mayhap?”

“Happens, betimes, though usually in small things.”

“What if he got her with child?”

“With or without being wed to her?” The pint-size serving woman put a fist on her hip.

“Either.” Marguerite paused. “Or both, if he could be persuaded to marriage.”

“Some men might feel it made no difference at all, others that it meant the world. What are you thinking, milady? You would not do anything foolish?”

Would she? Marguerite sought blindly for the corner of her linen veil and put it between her teeth as she considered. She had suggested marriage as a solution and David had refused her. Was it truly from knightly principle, the idea that she was above him still? Or did he have no wish to be her husband? Would he change his mind if convinced it was the only way to keep her safe?

Yes, and could she abandon pride and go to him again with such a proposal? Would it serve if she did? Or must there be something more?

Mayhap if she were compromised in the way she
had suggested, it might make a difference. Still the idea called forth more doubts. He had such strength of will. What would it take to persuade him to put aside his principles and take her to his bed? Would he ever allow himself to be seduced?

Marguerite might be virtuous, but had seen enough of the backstairs affairs between men-at-arms and serving maids to understand the act of coupling. She had never been able to think of such activity with Lord Halliwell, had shuddered away from it in her mind.

This was different. Her breasts swelled under her bodice, tingling at the tips as she pictured David touching his lips to hers, undressing her, caressing her. She ached low in her belly at the thought of being in his arms, her breasts molded to the hard surface of his chest and his weight pressing her down into the mattress as he fitted his hard body and her soft one together, one into the other. Curiosity for what it would be like burned in her mind with the heat of Samhain fire.

She would have to think long and hard about so drastic a venture. But not now. No, not now.

“Is there no other way to make a man do something against his will?”

Astrid pursed her lips. “There’s wine and ale, if you’ve enough of it. Failing that, you’d need a few strong men with cudgels.”

“Really?”

“Nay, milady! A poor joke only. Leave off thinking of this pass. It won’t help and may make matters worse.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re right. I know you’re right. But am I to stand back and do nothing when so much is at risk?”

“Happens yon knight is used to peril,” the serving woman said in tones of acid reason.

“Even so.” Marguerite turned back to the window, contemplating the dwindling figure on horseback.

She was aware of Astrid’s frowning regard upon her for endless moments. Then the little serving woman shook her head. Muttering under her breath, she went back to folding linen.

T
o an outsider, or one who had never commanded men, it doubtless appeared Henry VII had no thought in his head other than pastoral pleasures. David was not deceived. He knew the king worked far into the night, that he received couriers, read dispatches without number and penned answers in his precise hand; that he received visitors who came by the postern gate without being heralded and left the same way. David knew because he was often kept waiting in an antechamber until Henry was ready to hear his report on what he had learned of the statecraft during the day, what he knew of his presumed Yorkist relatives, their titles, habits, appearance and ancestors. He knew because he kept the same hours as the king.

It was not all labor. Every evening now, he was expected to dance with Lady Marguerite in the king’s chamber, displaying his increasing skill at treading a fine measure. As that part of his training proceeded apace, Henry dismissed his original tutors. At David’s request, he wrested the lady from the castle chatelaine’s control, entrusting her with honing his court manners to a fine edge. Accordingly, he was required to show his
ability to raise a lady from a deep curtsy, to accept the bow of her noble father, brother or uncle and to make conversation while saying nothing of importance.

It was a game Marguerite played to perfection. David, on his mettle, did his best to match her at it. What Henry thought mattered little to him, but he did value the smiles from his teacher when she thought he had acquitted himself well.

If David had not known better, he might have suspected His Royal Majesty of throwing the two of them together. He did know, however, so assumed it to be a test of a different kind, one which sought to see how well he could keep his head when faced with temptation. A man who could resist the fascination of Lady Marguerite when she was flushed and breathless from the dance, or else encouraging him to address a pair of sheep as if they were a duke and his duchess, could surely refrain from snatching a crown.

“Pitiful,” Oliver murmured as he came to stand beside him near a pillar of the great hall that had been cleared of tables for the evening. “Do you know you have been watching the lady half the evening, and with the most revolting look upon your face.”

“No, have I?” David did not remove his gaze from Lady Marguerite’s spritely form where she played a game with a cup and a ball in company with Lady Joan and her daughters. It was such a blameless occupation that he was reminded of evenings at Braesford Hall, when he had sat in a corner watching Marguerite and her sisters tease and entertain each other.

“Don’t think she doesn’t know it, either. What a flirt
she is, glancing this way to make certain you’re still here. I wonder that she wasn’t married off long ago.”

“The curse of the Graces,” David said with only half his attention on the answer. Was Marguerite really taking notice of his movements?

“Any man dies who proposes marriage without love?” Oliver gave a bark of laughter. “What a tale!”

“I saw it work with her sisters.”

“Why is it, then, that no man has loved your Lady Marguerite? She’s comely enough to inspire untold flights of passion.”

“Who says none has loved her? Such a man must also be eligible as a husband, which makes the matter more difficult.”

Oliver leaned in closer. “Ah, well, but here’s the question. If she’s protected by this curse, what did she need with rescue from you?”

“Mayhap I was the instrument of it,” David said with a direct look at his friend.

“The tool chosen to carry out the deed? Tread carefully, my friend. Repeat such heresy to the wrong person, and you could be accused of believing in black magic.”

David’s smile was wry as he pushed away from the wall and started toward where Lady Marguerite sat. He spoke over his shoulder. “Who says I don’t?”

The ball the ladies had been playing with had leaped out of the cup during Marguerite’s turn, and bounced to the floor, rolling toward him. David bent to scoop it up and strolled to where she sat. As he passed the wooden ball to her, he trailed his fingertips over the palm of her hand.

She flinched, her eyes widening at they met his, their centers turning so dark they looked black. A rash of goose bumps feathered over her arm, disappearing under the sleeve of her gown.

David swallowed a curse as his body tightened in response. He could not drag his gaze from the front of her gown where the peaks of her breasts were surely beading under the embroidered silk. He had meant no harm, and yet it seemed as if every eye in the hall turned in their direction. Was it his imagination, or did the rumble of conversation grow quieter, the expression of those who watched become more avid? Was it possible the tale of her abduction at his hands, and retrieval by the king, meant all now waited to see how it might end?

God’s blood, but of course they did. How could it be otherwise when so many had borne witness to the beginning? Men might speak with disparagement of women as gossips, but were just as likely to pass on a fine yarn, especially if it had a whiff of scandal in it.

The best he could do at this point was to leave Lady Marguerite alone in public. Bowing, he withdrew, moving off to rejoin Oliver who had thrown himself down on a bench with a number of his other men-at-arms.

He thought Marguerite watched him go. He’d have traded his gold-chased armor to know whether she was glad or sorry for it.

A sudden commotion at the great entrance door provided a welcome distraction. David turned in time to see a thin man with silver hair stride into the hall. That he was a personage of some description was clear from the richness of the cloak he wore and the complement of
men-at-arms at his back. A younger man walked beside him, the knife-blade sharpness of his nose and arrogant tilt of his chin proclaiming him to be a near relative, most likely a son. Neither of them was particularly tall, though their upright posture made them appear so. They had been relieved of their swords before being ushered into the presence of the king, but rested their hands upon the empty scabbards with the look of those tonguing spaces where teeth had been pulled.

Men turned to stare. Somewhere a woman gave a nervous titter. Behind and to David’s right, a lord spoke in hushed and excited inquiry. “God’s blood, is that not…”

“Aye, so ’tis,” his companion replied with a judicious squint.

“What does he here? One would think he’d be loathed to show his face.”

“Looking for his lost heiress, I’ll be bound.” The man chuckled. “That, or redress for her loss. A man to squeeze a penny till it squeals, Lord Halliwell.”

“He’ll have met his match in our Henry,” the first man replied, nudging the other in the ribs.

So this was the man Marguerite was to have wed. David watched him stride through the crowd while a frown settled between his eyes. An aristocrat from his toes to his silver-haired pate, his every move shouted his certainty of his place in the world. He appeared near seventy, an age when only an egotistical idiot would expect to take a bride young enough to be his granddaughter. To think of him ever having the right to lay his bony and age-spotted hands upon Marguerite made David grind his teeth until his jaws ached.

Even so, he could not blame the man for being incensed at the loss of so fair a prize. It was not often a man could look forward to holding beauty and fortune in the same woman.

Halliwell advanced upon the bench where Marguerite sat. David saw the moment when the crowd parted enough to show the newcomer to her. All color leached from her face, leaving it waxen in its paleness. She swayed a little, but then sat up straight with her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

Her former betrothed drew nearer, stopped before her. Derision crossed his skeletal features. He made her a bow so shallow as to be an insult, and spoke in an undertone while the man beside him looked on. An instant later, Lord Halliwell continued his progress down the room, making for the dais at the far end of the great hall.

David took a hasty step toward Marguerite only to stop with a whispered oath. To go to her now would only make her more conspicuous. There was little he could do to shield her. As she was Henry’s ward, that duty and privilege belonged to the king.

Halliwell desired to speak with Henry VII, it seemed, for he approached an equerry with a low-voiced demand. The equerry mounted the dais to whisper in Henry’s ear. A negligent gesture of assent, and Halliwell was led forward. His son attempted to follow, but the way was barred to him. Lord Halliwell went to one knee, struggling up again when given leave. The king’s face reflected weariness and strained patience as he put the dutiful question that would allow the peer to speak. His eyelids lowered to conceal his gaze as he listened to the harangue that resulted.

Henry was gifted at diplomacy; he had learned to be in the years when he had been dependent upon the goodwill of the rulers of Brittany and France who had given him sanctuary. Edward IV, and his brother Richard III after him, had promised enormous sums if the last Lancastrian heir to the throne should be turned over to them. Had Henry been delivered, his head would have been forfeit in the wink of an eye. Bartering for his life could make a man wily indeed.

It was also true that Henry was a mite stingy. It came, so David had heard, from inheriting a kingdom that was bankrupt from decades of internecine warfare and the depredations of Edward’s queen who had enriched her family at crown expense. Whatever Henry might have pledged to Halliwell for his part in this affair, it was unlikely that he would be adding to it.

Where that might leave Lady Marguerite, David could not think. He had Henry’s word that she would never again be pressed into marriage, but could he be trusted to keep it? What if Halliwell had decided he wanted her after all? Could Henry refuse agreement, especially if it meant forfeiting Halliwell’s support, or even losing him to the Yorkist camp?

At a tug on the skirt of his doublet, David looked down. Astrid was beside him, her piquant features twisted in a furious scowl. She gave a sharp jerk of her head to indicate that he should lean down to hear her. As he bent, she seized his sleeve and dragged him lower to speak into his ear.

“My mistress would have you come to her with all speed. Lord Halliwell means to have converse with her, and mayhap more. He said just now that he’ll be deal
ing with her after he has spoken to the king. You may wish to know what the old vulture has to say.”

There was nothing David wanted more, but he could not consider his desire alone. “Will my presence not make matters worse?”

“How can it?” Astrid spread her short arms. “At least he will not be able to take her away with him if you are by her side.”

David straightened again, the better to observe the meeting between the aging peer and the king. “Lady Marguerite fears he may attempt it?”

“You did not see the look on his face,” the small woman said with a shudder. “You did not hear him. He said their betrothal stands, and will not be ended until he is done with her.”

“Did he now?” David’s voice was soft, but resolution rose like a wall of iron in his chest. Astrid’s eyes widened and she fell back a step. He forced a smile and extended his hand to her. “Lead on, little one. No one will take your lady from here, this I promise.”

It was as well that they were no great distance away. Henry must have made short work of the impromptu audience, for Lord Halliwell, eyes blazing with suppressed anger, was leaving the dais already. His son moved to intercept him and they stood for an instant in close talk. Both turned then, bearing down upon where Lady Marguerite sat.

David lengthened his stride. He reached her first, and she came to her feet, putting out a hand to him.

“Thank you,” she said in quiet fervor. “I would not involve you in this again, but…”

“I would have it no other way.” Her fingers were
like ice and fine tremors shook her. He folded her hand in the warmth of his own as he stood gazing down at her, gauging the depth of her fear. She was upset by the turn of events, he thought, rather than undone by terror. “Take heart. Halliwell can do nothing to harm you here among the king’s men.”

There was no time for more. The peer and his son were upon them.

Halliwell bared yellow teeth in a fierce grin. “This will be your Golden Knight, I suppose,” he said to Lady Marguerite with malice in every drawling syllable, “your gallant rescuer.”

Hectic color flared across her cheekbones, but she remained composed. “May I present Lord Halliwell, David. My lord, this is David, known to all by the title you give him.”

“And no other, I believe, nor even a family name of his own.” Halliwell looked him up and down in a way David had not endured in years before turning back to Marguerite. “No doubt that explains why you are not wed to him. The question, of course, is what reward he demanded for preventing our marriage.”

Her posture became rigid. “No reward was asked or given, I assure you.”

“You will pardon me if I choose to doubt it?”

“Nay, she will not,” David said with fire in his heart and rasping steel in his voice, “and neither will I. Lady Marguerite speaks naught but the truth.”

The narrow face and head of Lord Halliwell turned toward him as swiftly as a striking snake. “And what might the word of a nameless knight be worth?”

David smiled with menace in the slow curl of his lips. “Are you saying I lie, Lord Halliwell?”

Marguerite turned even paler than she had been before. “Sir David was most protective of my virtue, my lord. He slept across the threshold of my…my chamber on the night that I was taken. Any of his company will tell you it’s so.”

David felt his face heat at the reminder. Before he could speak, however, there was a shift of those behind him.

“And a sorry sight it was for his men, and them thinking him such a great hand with the ladies.” Oliver stepped forward, moving nearer until he reached David’s side “That would be on top of being a champion known across Europe for his lethal art with sword, lance, bow and every other weapon you may name.”

Threat sounded beneath the genial lilt of the Italian’s voice. David only hoped the enraged peer had the wit to heed it.