Читать книгу The King's Mistress - Terri Brisbin - Страница 12

“My lady,” he said as he acknowledged her obeisance and held out his hand. “Please rise now.”

The softness of her fingers against his work-roughened hand sent fire through him. And when she finally raised her gaze to his, he knew he was lost.

Her hair did indeed reach nigh to the floor in spite of some decorations and jewels that were woven into the curls surrounding her face. His hands itched to touch it, feel it, even bring it to his face and inhale the fragrance of her that was carried by it. When she moved her head, her hair cascaded in flowing waves over her shoulders and arms and down her back. In an instant, his mind pictured her how she would be later in the night—in his bed, naked, with only her hair to shield her.

Shocked by his carnal reaction to simply meeting her, Orrick knew he must tame this beast within him or appear the barbarian she surely thought him to be. Stepping back and motioning to a bench, he allowed her to sit. A few steps across the chamber and he felt a bit more in control. Until she spoke.

“My lord Orrick, I am pleased to have this chance to meet you privately. My thanks for granting what must seem a strange request by a bride on her wedding day.”

Soft and incredibly feminine, her voice carried within a hint of huskiness and once more his body betrayed him. That underlying tone would be evident as she cried out her pleasure in his bed. He saw her naked and writhing against him as he filled her with his seed and as their satisfaction poured forth from both of them in loud cries. He closed his eyes for a moment and then realized her power.

Orrick had come to this day aware of the gossip and the tales told about her ongoing liaisons with the king. He had armed himself with a healthy measure of suspicion so that he did not become anyone’s fool in this. Believing that he did not make decisions with his cock, he had felt completely at ease with his ability to assess the lady and the situation and handle all of it.

Fool!

In but a few moments, her beauty, her blatant sexuality and her silent promises about what would be his ensorcelled him. With a curtsy and a nod, with a shake of her hair and an enticing scent and with simple words she had ensnared him in her trap. Now he stood before her, hard as stone and wanting her more than he had ever wanted a woman. The urge, the need, to touch and taste and hold and have and fill and claim and mark her as his own grew until he feared it might overwhelm him. Looking around the chamber, he spied a small table with a jug and some goblets. He used it to break her spell.

“Wine, my lady?” He poured some for himself, managing not to spill it in spite of the way his hand shook. Without waiting for her reply, he filled a goblet for her and brought it to her.

“My thanks, Lord Orrick,” she whispered as she lifted the wine to her mouth.

He watched as she finished her sip and as a drop of the sweet dark liquid began to trickle down from the corner of her lips. Even as his body moved forward to her, Marguerite used the tip of her tongue to catch it. He could not allow this to continue. Pulling his control around him, Orrick stepped back.

“And the reason for this meeting?”

“Why, to meet you, my lord! I know ’tis not so unusual for those of our status to marry without ever setting eyes on each other.” She paused and let her gaze move over him in a provocative way. Just as he could almost feel her touch, she continued. “But His Grace, the king, allowed this breach of etiquette because we have long been friends.”

“So I have heard, my lady.”

There! He needed to let her know that he was no man’s fool, not even the king’s. He might be forced to take Henry’s cast-off lover as wife, but Orrick would not pretend he did not know the real relationship between Henry and Marguerite. Not even to her, not even to assuage his own pride.

Her reaction surprised him. She stood and handed him the cup. Walking to the door, she faced him. The soft expression on her face changed to a much harder one, one that sapped most of the beauty from her features. She stood taller and stared at him with a look that sent icy chills down his spine.

He had seen the sensual, enticing, womanly Marguerite at first.

This was the angry, controlling, warriorlike Marguerite.

“Although I owe you nothing, Orrick of Silloth, I know that you are forced to this marriage as I am and want you to know the truth.”

He lifted the cup to his mouth and swallowed the wine in one mouthful. “And which truth would that be, my lady?” Did she plan to admit that she had shared the king’s bed and mayhap even had his love?

“This marriage will not happen. I am somewhat sorry that you have been drawn into this misunderstanding between the king and me, so I wish to warn you of what is to come.”

Was there some other plotting going on? Did the king have some punishment in mind for some imagined wrongdoing on his or his father’s part? Why this sham of marriage if Henry planned to arrest him on some charge? His gut tightened and he worried about what would happen to his people if he were imprisoned or hanged. Finally, he took a breath and asked.

“And what is to come?”

“My lord Henry is simply using this charade to put me in my place. I overstepped myself and he wishes me to know what he could do if he is displeased with me. I fear you have been caught up in a lovers’ quarrel.”

The roiling in his stomach lessened a bit as his own suspicions grew. Would Henry go through all of this very public display of giving her in marriage and then default at the last moment? Orrick had signed most of the papers involving the transfer of property and titles and, indeed, had received a portion of the gold promised already. Aye, a king could undo all of that with a word, but would he?

“Henry will call off the wedding today?” he asked, searching for something more. His instincts told him there was much more going on here.

“Of course he will! He loves me and will not give me away to some northern lord who never attends court.” She must have seen his look of disbelief for she added, “I was raised as consort for a king, not some…some…”

“Barbarian of mixed blood, my lady?”

Oh, her words had been duly reported to him just after she’d uttered them. He had chosen to ignore them for in the strange situation it was sometimes difficult to discern who said what to whom about whom. The challenge had been offered and accepted—there would be no more of the courtly niceties between them in this conversation. She did not soften her stance at all; indeed she seemed to be strengthened by the fact that he knew how she felt about him.

“Just so, my lord. Surely the king will find a more suitable match for you from among his English nobles. I fear I am far too accustomed to living at court and in my own country that it would make me too sad to move so far from it.”

And too far from Henry. Those words remained unspoken, but they echoed in his head as though she had shouted them.

“Is your purpose in telling me this to force me to Henry with a request to call off this arrangement? Is that what you hope for?”

She looked away as though she was not going to answer and then turned back and met his stare. “I was simply trying to save you the humiliation of facing the court at a wedding without a bride at your side. I thought you should know that Henry will claim me and not allow you to marry me as you’ve been asked to do.”

Her voice was soft and he could almost believe that she was sincere. For a brief moment he did believe her, and then a stab of pity tore at his heart as he realized the truth of the matter.

She believed it.

Marguerite believed that Henry would step in and stop the wedding. She was either ignorant of the arrangements already in place, or she was simply denying it to herself. He guessed that, after years of being the king’s favorite, ’twas too difficult to admit that she no longer held his affections or that unofficial place of honor within the court. The gossips had not named a new paramour to the king, but it would simply be a matter of time before one was identified and took her place.

How could it feel to have lived less than a score of years and already be considered a castoff? Loved, abandoned and now given away to a stranger. From the look in her eyes and the tilt of her chin, she did not want pity from him or anyone else. So, he would give her none. But as she had warned him, he would offer one of his own.

“I, too, believe that humiliation will be the order of the day, Marguerite, but fear you will feel its bite and not I. I suggest you prepare yourself and protect your heart if you wish to survive it.”

She blinked rapidly as though trying to understand, and he knew it was time to leave. He put his hand to the knob of the door and she stepped aside, allowing him to pass without comment.

There was nothing else to say to her. They were both pawns, playing out the moves of the game in front of the Plantagenet court and before the game master himself.

God help them all.

Marguerite smoothed the elaborate gown over her legs and stood motionless as the women crowded around making adjustments to her hair and dress. It did not bother her for she had been raised this way—servants carried out their tasks and nobles took no notice. Apparently they reached that point when they were either satisfied or ran out of time, for a long polished looking glass was positioned before her and she had her first look at the fruits of their labors.

If her eyes seemed a bit too bright or her skin a bit too pale, no one noticed but her. The pale blue satin-and-silk gown and undertunic brought out the creaminess in her skin and the iciness of her eyes. The double-thick length of gold chain that surrounded her waist twice and then rested on her hips reflected the brightness of the many candles in the room. Matching gems and ribbons had been threaded through her hair, which now fell almost past her ankles as she moved.

’Twas appropriate as an unmarried woman to show her hair thus, in all its glory and richness. If the marriage truly happened, ’twould be the last time it would be displayed openly to be seen by one and all. After seeing Henry’s reaction to it unbound, and now Orrick’s, she began to understand the power of such a feature. She nodded at the servants holding the heavy glass and they took it away.

Her visit with Orrick had been startling in its results. He was not as barbaric as she thought he would be. Tall and muscular, he looked fairly attractive in his court garments. His pale brown hair fell to his shoulders and he wore neither beard nor mustache as many men at court did, and it left the masculine angles of his face exposed. His cool green eyes showed intelligence when they gazed at her, and his voice was deep and rich. In many ways his appearance pleased her. But it mattered naught for she was not for him.

She gave away no sign of her anticipation of Henry’s arrival, but she knew he would see her before the planned ceremony. He would explain his arrangements to keep her at his side and everything would make sense to her. She had paid a price for her presumptuous behavior, and now duly chastened, she would return to court as Henry’s favorite. The knock at the door startled her from her thoughts. Before she could say otherwise, a serving woman pulled the door open. Her uncle entered, alone, and bowed to her.

Ah. Marguerite understood that her uncle would take her to Henry before the ceremony and put an end to this. Without a word, her mother’s brother offered her his arm and they walked through the corridors of one of Henry’s favorite palaces. Servants, guests and enemies lined the great hall to witness her fall from grace. Acknowledging no one, Marguerite focused her gaze on a place ahead and walked steadily alongside her only male relative in England.

Sooner than she would have thought possible, they reached the front and climbed to the raised dais. The maid assigned to her on her arrival at Woodstock stood off to her side to assist her as needed. Other than those two people, she was alone.

Uncertain if she should look for Henry, Marguerite gathered her nerve and looked from one side of the dais to the other. Lord Orrick stood with several of his retainers and an older woman who must be his mother. Roger, the bishop of Dorchester, who would perform the ceremony, sat in one of the two chairs placed in the center. She looked to the larger, more ornate chair and finally saw the king for the first time in several months.

He exuded a force of life unlike anyone else she had ever met. In spite of the personal battles he fought within his family and those he waged on behalf of his kingdom, he appeared invincible to her. If his hair was a bit grayer or if his waist had gained a few inches, it did not detract from his appeal.

His piercing gaze captured hers and for a moment she lost her breath. Marguerite knew that nothing had lessened his desire for her…not the time that had passed, not the babe she bore him and not this farce of an arranged marriage. A smile tugged at the corners of the lips she knew so well and she answered it with one of her own.

She had been a fool to think he would not intervene. Lord Orrick’s words earlier had caused her to doubt the man she knew. But now, as she could read in his expression, she still had his love and his passion. He would never give her away.

Content now with how this would end, she let out a breath and relaxed. Of course, when he made his announcement of an alternate arrangement for Lord Orrick, she could not allow the victorious feelings within her to show. While in public, she must behave as a chastened woman so that Henry’s pride was satisfied and so that he knew she had learned the lesson he taught.

Lord Orrick now walked to her side. The bishop’s clerk began to read out the betrothal agreement to those assembled. His booming voice echoed to all in the great hall and went on for several minutes as their properties and titles were announced. Henry had been generous to both of them or should she say would have been generous if the marriage was in truth. This “lord of the north” was to gain much by agreeing to marry her.

A pang of hurt pierced her as she realized two things: that she was nothing to this man Orrick except the gold and titles she brought him, and that Henry had made this bargain overly attractive so Orrick could not refuse it. No nobleman in search of power and wealth could.

Taking a deep breath in and letting it out, she purposely chose another explanation of this agreement, one that made more sense to her mind and her heart—Henry was demonstrating her worth and value to him by the amount he was offering Orrick. Henry would stand and put an end to this soon, but so long as the agreement stood, it was a significant sign of his affection for her.

The sudden silence startled her from the thoughts meandering through her mind and brought her back to the ceremony before her. Marguerite looked up and noticed Orrick approaching her side. Holding out his hand to her, he waited for her to place her hand in his grasp.

She looked to Henry for now was the time for him to speak. He nodded at her, looked only at her, as he did so. She fought the victorious smile that threatened to break out as she nodded back.

“My Lord Bishop,” he said, standing now as he spoke, “let the exchange of vows begin now.”