Chapter Seventeen

 

Luke gazed down at his sleeping wife, touched by the innocent way in which she hugged her pillow. In the light of his single taper, her hair poured molten flames across the bleached bedding. Her skin glowed in the aftermath of the bath she had recently enjoyed. The scent of jasmine lingered in the chamber, telling him she’d found the oils in his chest. It pleased him to know that she’d helped herself. Did she hold her pillow close, imagining it to be her husband? Somehow, given what had happened that day, he doubted it.

When she had not shown up for the evening meal, his worst fears seemed to be growing manifest. He couldn’t leave the great hall on his first night back but had sent up a tray laden with delicacies for Merry. Yet there it sat on his writing table, untouched.

With a troubled sigh, Luke placed his candle beside it and turned toward the washbasin. Though he would relish a bath himself, he would suffice with a rubbing down so as not to awaken her.

He stripped off his shirt, wincing at how tightly the muscles across his shoulders were banded. He shrugged to ease the tension, but with Amalie’s threats still ringing in his ears, he could not relax.

Stripping himself naked, he began to rub himself with a cloth dampened in Merry’s cold but fragrant bathwater. Goose bumps followed the path of the cold washcloth. His mind churned uneasily, suffering uncertainties in the wake of Amalie’s departure right before the castle sat down to dine.

He had planned to dissolve their betrothal in such a way that it would not offend her royal pride. He’d expected to have the leisure to do so in a precise and careful manner, much the way he had approached Saracen warriors to negotiate the release of hostages. Not once had it occurred to him that Amalie would be at Arundel.

Now the damage was done. In her eyes, he had violated their betrothal and flaunted his new bride to disgrace her. He recalled the quickly concealed shock that had slashed across her lovely face when he’d confessed that Merry wasn’t there only to see to his grandfather’s health but was actually his wife, the new lady in residence.

Amalie hadn’t raged or struck out at him. No, she would never have done that. She would have to have cared deeply for him with a heated and devoted passion to react like that. Instead, her anger was chilling, for it had naught to do with losing the man she thought would be her husband. Rather ’twas the prospect of losing face and losing the grandeur of Arundel that truly displeased her. She’d said as much.

With Amalie’s ire raised, ’twould require a miracle to keep Henry from reacting as bitterly.

Luke scrubbed behind his ears and admitted to the fear that gripped him. The price of violating his betrothal might be more than he could endure. The price might, indeed, be his inheritance, denied to him for having broken a promise to the crown. There would be nothing even his grandfather could do if Henry wanted to remove Luke from his family’s line.

At least he’d come home to find his grandfather alive though ailing, a shadowy shell of the man that Luke knew. Could Merry make a difference?

He paused to look at her, realizing she was dressed as though she’d meant to attend dinner in the great hall. Her simple gown, now tangled around her limbs, emphasized the curve of her hip, the narrowness of her waist. She looked so slight, despite carrying his babe, that the urge to shelter her rose up in him. He could not let anything jeopardize their future—both she and his child belonged at Arundel!

Yet the king would not see it that way. He would see them as usurpers and Luke as a disobedient subject. Dread made his heart beat faster. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he would be forced to choose between Arundel and his new family-in-the-making. What then?

If only his grandfather were not in danger of dying, leaving open the question of who would inherit the castle and its lands. Then Henry would have time to accept Luke’s marriage, to grow accustomed to Luke’s uncharacteristic rebellion. Instead, it was never more obvious that the earl’s hold on life was tenuous.

Sir William had shriveled to a living skeleton, with barely any meat on his old bones, shocking Luke by his dramatic transformation. Almost worse was that he’d clearly lost his mind, rambling without meaning. The most painful thing to Luke was that he hadn’t seemed to recognize him, after all the worry Luke had expended trying to return home quickly.

He shook his head, never having pictured his proud, intelligent grandfather coming to so piteous an end.

Nay, he decided, not even Merry could cure a man so far gone, and he could not expect her to.

Wringing out the washcloth, he sought a towel from those that had been brought in for Merry. As he crossed to the stack of them, he couldn’t help but glance at her again, only to find her green eyes open. Across the space between them, she regarded his nakedness.

In the flickering light of the candle, she reminded him of the way she’d looked when they first met, when she was tied at the center of a pyre. Her expression was pinched and drawn, her eyes enormous.

“Sorry to awaken you,” he apologized, suddenly aware of his nakedness as her gaze slid lower. Snatching up a drying cloth, he wrapped it around his hips.

She regarded him in silence, her face still apprehensive.

“Are you well?” he asked, with sudden concern.

As he approached closer, she shrank back into the pillows. He eased cautiously onto the edge of the bed.

“You’re still angry with me,” he guessed. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than for Merry to forgive him, to invite his touch. “I told Amalie that you and I were wed,” he assured her. “She left Arundel a few hours past.”

His gaze fell to her long, graceful neck, scented now with the jasmine oil from his chest. The scent suited her. If she could only understand the fear he suffered thinking of their future, then she would know why he’d been silent and remote these last two weeks.

Now that he needed her comfort, she’d withdrawn her warmth. ’Twas his own cursed fault.

“She came to see me,” Merry said, tonelessly.

Alarm jostled aside his self-absorption. “She? You mean Amalie? What did she say?” He knew that it could not be good.

“She said I was merely another of your misfits.” Merry spoke softly, and he had to strain to hear her. “That you brought me here only temporarily, knowing you had a way to escape our marriage.”

For a moment, he was struck dumb. “She knows nothing of why we married,” he said, unable to keep the growl from his voice.

“Aye, she does. She knows I’m with child,” she countered, her tone ratcheting up a notch. “You must have told her. How else could you excuse your actions to your betrothed except to put the blame on me for trapping you?”

Color brightened the pale alabaster of her cheeks, whether in shame or anger he could not say.

He shook his head in denial, though he could not recall exactly what he’d said.

“Amalie swears the king will annul our marriage the moment he hears of it,” she added. Her glorious hair seemed to blaze in the light of the taper. “Did you count on that when you wed me?” she asked on a wrenching note.

Luke had suspected Amalie was heartless; now he was certain of it.

“Nay, I did not,” he promised, though he clearly recalled entertaining the idea of annulment should Henry threaten to deny him his father’s birthright. “’Tisn’t within Henry’s power to dissolve a marriage anyway,” he reasoned, angry at Amalie for tossing out such cold-blooded threats. “Only the Church can do that.” Though Henry had personally appointed the bishop of Westminster, and no doubt could control the man.

His heart sank with dread imagining Amalie even now speeding to London and to Henry’s domicile.

Merry searched his face with eyes that saw everything, eyes as dry and pain-filled as a desert. “Then it never entered your mind that Henry would not acknowledge our marriage? Can you say that?” she demanded to know.

He wanted to deny it utterly, but he found he couldn’t lie, not when she implored him so directly.

“I took a risk in making you my wife,” he said instead. “We both know that. However, no one can force an annulment on us, can they?” He gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. For himself, he felt that the very floor under his feet was shifting.

She did not return his smile.

“What do you need me for?” she asked him unexpectedly.

In that instant, her green eyes went from enormous bottomless pools into which he could easily sink to narrowed cat slits that sought to draw out the secrets of his soul. To see her smile at him again with longing, he would willingly tell her any such secrets.

“What do you mean?” he asked, not comprehending her.

“Tell me why you wed me,” she demanded, her voice hard and flat. “What do you want from me?”

The words reached down inside of him, touching some vulnerable core he wasn’t ready to acknowledge for the price it would cost him. He retreated to safer ground. “I want you to tend my grandfather,” he answered reasonably. “I want you to be the mother of my child. You already are.”

Her gaze drifted off to one side to focus on the wall behind him, and he knew that he was losing her. With something that felt like dread, he searched for a way to bring her back.

“I want you for this, Merry,” he added, leaning swiftly forward. He caught her lips with his, gaining no response except firm-lipped resistance, even though he kissed her tenderly.

“And this,” he added, sliding his mouth to the column of her neck and kissing the spot where her blood pulsed, where he knew the jasmine aroma would be warm and inviting. Indeed, her scent filled him with sudden desperation.

“Don’t deny me tonight,” he whispered against her skin. “Don’t turn me away.”

He sank lower still and nuzzled the swells of her breasts through the fabric of her gown. He heard her indrawn breath and took heart from it. Pulling at her bodice, he sought her nipples through the linen shift beneath. He felt the one beneath his tongue bead instantly, goading him on.

“Why now?” she cried, tugging ineffectually at his hair. “You touched me only once on our journey here.”

He raised his head to give her a look. The answer seemed obvious to him. “Before my men?” he answered. “I would not disrespect you so.”

“You disrespect me now,” she answered fiercely.

She was wrong about that. Hoping to rout her resistance for good, he ran a hand up the inside of her leg, sweeping up the hem of her gown and shift. He slipped his thumb into her soft woman’s flesh and coaxed her passion to the surface. She tried to clamp her legs together, yet she could not conceal her body’s responses. She grew damp almost instantly. He pushed her skirts higher, then tugged her bodice down to her waist in order to have access to her sweet breasts. Her nipples were like ripe berries, and he could not resist.

When his lips closed over one, she gasped for breath, a ragged sound that struck him more as a sob than a gasp of desire.

Though his blood pounded against his temples and between his legs, and though he craved her touch in a way that defied logic, that small sound drew his head up. He found her gaze directed at the canopy over them, eyes glittering with tears.

“Merry,” he said, with abject dismay, for he hated more than anything to make her cry.

She brushed away the hand that he lifted to her face. Struggling to free herself, she rolled away from him, scooting toward the very edge of the bed, where she readjusted her gown in silence.

With a sharp sense of loss, Luke eyed her tense shoulders. An apology stuck in his throat, warring against the hunger that still clawed at him.

“You are still my wife,” he growled. The instant the words left him, he knew he’d made a mistake.

He saw her body stiffen further. The silence following his implied threat was so deep, so wide, he wondered if it would ever be breached.

At last Merry spoke, her voice surprisingly calm. “Tomorrow, I’ll look in on your grandfather,” she promised.

He dropped his head against the pillow with relief. Perhaps he hadn’t ruined everything. After all, he hadn’t forced her to accept him.

“This will be my last night in your room,” she added, dashing Luke’s hopes into shards. “On the morrow, I want my things moved. I am sure a castle as large as Arundel can provide a separate chamber for me.”

She rose to a seated position and lifted a pillow that had been cast aside. Hugging it to her chest, she lay down once more, still presenting him her back and still fully dressed.

Frozen by her announcement, Luke considered the pillow she clutched. She had not been thinking about him when previously she held it. If anything, she’d made up her mind before he’d even entered the chamber that she would abandon their marriage bed.

Luke rolled out of bed to hunt for his linen drawers. He felt sick to his stomach, his thoughts thrown in turmoil. Merry was, in a sense, leaving him.

After futilely roaming his dark chamber for a few long moments, he gave up, realizing his things were still packed away. Pausing to stare at the female form lying stone still in his bed, he decided he most needed to adopt the mental aloofness he employed in battle, hoping to distance himself from unaccustomed feelings that now assaulted him.

Succeeding in part, he settled rigidly onto his own edge of the bed. The chill that came from Merry had him eyeing the dark patterns of the bed curtain wondering what he might possibly say to change her mind. After all, he had taken a wife and would like to enjoy the benefits of having one in his bed as well as in his home.

What did she want from him? he wondered, hoping to whip himself into righteous anger. Did she think her husband held sway over Henry’s reaction? What right had she to be angry with him, when he’d done all that was honorable?

Lying down, he punched up his pillow in frustration and thought he saw her jump. Christ’s toes, it wasn’t the first time he wished he’d never met her! His life had been a straight arrow up to the point when he’d saved Merry’s life. He’d risked everything to wed her. Everything! He owed her nothing more.

Yet sensing her withdrawn form only inches away, he felt profound loss at the thought of her sleeping elsewhere. Sometime in the weeks that they’d spent together, she had become as familiar to him as the food he put in his belly. Her mind was a mystery that kept him perpetually guessing. The contradictions she embodied of tenderness and ferocity stirred his admiration.

Whether she knew it or not, she’d always had his full attention.

Nay, he didn’t wish to lose her, not to the chamber next door, not for any reason. Yet if he couldn’t give her Arundel, because it had been taken from him, what quality of life could he possibly provide? Merely that of the wife of a mercenary, removed from the favor of the king. His power and his protection were what she most needed from him. Stripped of those traits, he would have nothing to offer her.

 

“This isn’t what I usually have,” groused Lord William. He glowered at Merry over the rim of his goblet, morning sunlight playing upon the remaining white wisps of his hair.

Merry pulled back the other half of the bed curtain, flooding the rest of the earl’s bed box with light. The air streaming through the window was crisp with autumn frost, but the snapping brazier beat back the cold, and the earl was swathed in wool blankets.

Having experienced the sun and air’s rejuvenating power, Merry believed in their healing qualities. Part of their daily routine was to expose the earl to both those elements. He’d been locked in a dark, stale chamber for too many months.

Three days ago, she’d been shocked to find him in a state of disgrace, his face unshaven, his linens soiled and causing his skin to become red with sore spots. She could only imagine that Luke had missed his filthy disarray due to his excitement at seeing his grandfather alive.

The first thing she had done was to order the large wool rugs removed and cleaned. They had been crawling and hopping with pests. Next she’d stripped his bed, had his mattress burned, and a new one brought in its place. And of course, she’d given him a bath.

The earl had resisted the latter mightily, fighting the manservant, Jacques, who’d assisted her. Yet Lord William was so frail that his protests could not prevent him from being dunked and scrubbed, nor from having his bristles shaved. She’d soothed his flea-bitten limbs with a salve afterward and left him sleeping betwixt clean sheets.

In only three days, with merely cleanliness, air, light, and clear chicken broth, he had regained enough strength to defy her, at least verbally.

“Drink it all,” she ordered him firmly.

“I want what Amalie gave me,” he whined again, giving his chamomile infusion a disdainful sniff.

“Infusion of poppy is for coughs,” Merry explained patiently as she had done at least a dozen times already. “You haven’t got a cough anymore.”

Contrary to her suspicions, she’d found the treatment Amalie had administered to the earl was appropriate to his afflictions. The earl had suffered an inflammation of the lungs, according to his manservant, and Amalie’s poppy infusion had been a sound treatment. Merry would have done the same, though she’d have made certain he had sustenance and was kept clean.

In any case, it was not a cough that plagued the earl now; it was an infirmity of the mind. His behavior was so erratic, so unpredictable that Merry puzzled over how best to treat him. At times, he saw objects that were not present; snakes and daggers that tormented him in broad daylight. He was subject to fits and starts and sweated profusely. Merry had seen no illness of the like. Healing his body she could do; but she despaired of healing his brain.

Though she did not see how Amalie was to blame for the earl’s condition, the nagging suspicion would not leave her. The servants swore mightily that the earl had been of sound mind before the woman’s arrival four months past. Furthermore, the state in which Lord William had been made to live bespoke of negligence, not care. Amalie had clearly believed the earl had outlived his usefulness, and in Merry’s opinion, she’d done her best to speed him toward the afterlife.

What if he did not recover? Merry swallowed hard at the question. Luke had said he needed her to treat his grandfather. If she failed him now, ’twould be that much easier to put her aside. She’d lived through persecution and the threat of death, yet nothing seemed so grim as a future without Luke.

For the hundredth time, she doubted the wisdom of her self-imposed exile. In removing herself to separate quarters, she had set her pride above her vows. She had wedged yet more distance between them, so that in the past three days, Luke had shared scarcely a word with her. The distance was breaking her heart, but it showed that, at least on his part, there was no camaraderie of the minds. If she’d stayed in his chamber, there would only ever be swiving and children and her ability—doubtful at present—to heal those whom he loved.

If the king, or rather his bishop—for she was no fool and knew the bishop had been appointed by the king—ordered their marriage dissolved, then there would be nothing left to her, whatsoever.

Yet to lie with Luke and to love him was as much a danger to her, if not more so, than any of the other threats to her well-being and peace of mind. Already the future gaped ominously. When Henry insisted on an annulment, as was almost certain, she would need to fight to protect her child, and she would need her heart and spirit intact to do so.

Already, it pained her that Luke hadn’t denied that the thought of annulment had occurred to him. Why he’d married her in the first place was never more evident—obviously to avoid being crushed by the Slayer if he didn’t do right by Merry. Yet he’d known all along that the crown would not stand for it. He had refused, in her presence, to acknowledge her to Amalie as his wife. In the light of that, how could Merry trust him to defend their marriage to the crown? She could not.

“Who did you say you were?”

The question startled Merry from her bleak thoughts. There were times when the earl seemed almost lucid. She stepped closer, hopeful that this was a sign of improvement.

“My name is Merry,” she reminded him. “I’ve come to make you well.” She’d already decided to say no more than that. It was up to Luke to acknowledge her as his wife.

“You remind me of my Beatrice,” said the earl. He frowned into his goblet. “She was a beautiful woman.”

The tilt of the earl’s eyebrows reminded her of Luke. Otherwise, there was little resemblance between them. The earl was as pale as Luke was dark. “Was Beatrice your wife?” she inquired gently.

“Aye.” His blue eyes focused on her then, and she thought she saw a glimmer of irony behind their bleariness. “She was only eighteen when I wed her. I was forty-two. She was my second wife. I loved her best of all. She should have outlived me,” he trailed off sadly, then he drank the rest of the chamomile tea.

Merry observed him in silence. These were the clearest thoughts the earl had shared since her arrival; still Merry found them disturbing. Would Luke have a second wife? she wondered. The idea alone stabbed her with pain. If the annulment came quickly, it was most certain that she’d already met her replacement.

“Is my grandson here?” the earl suddenly inquired. “Is he home?”

His question betrayed the man’s poor memory. Luke had visited with him that very morning. “He visits you every day,” she reminded him gently.

He scowled at her as if she’d lied to him. “Have him come to me then,” he demanded, as if testing her.

She stepped away, hiding her sudden tension. “He isn’t here at present,” she answered him shortly. “He came to see you this morning ere most of the servants were even awake. Then he went to Wallingford Castle to report to the king.”

Her stomach cramped at the reminder. She’d tried not to dwell on it when he’d mentioned his journey to her at their evening meal the night before, a meal that had otherwise been eaten in silence. After visiting the earl’s chamber that morn, he’d left for Oxfordshire, and she’d been trying all day to put it out of her mind.

On the morrow, she would likely know whether the king meant to honor their pledge before God or condemn it.

“Ah, visiting the king?” muttered the earl. “Stephen is a good warrior, but not much of a diplomat.”

She smiled at the earl’s aside, again hopeful that his wits were returning, even though he thought King Stephen yet to be alive. She took the empty goblet from him, determined to return and speak with him again in a few hours.

“I’ll leave you to rest, my lord.” She wanted to take a look at the herb garden to gauge its potential. Luke had said he’d brought herbs back from the east. She wondered if any were growing still in England’s cold weather.

Calling upon a manservant to keep watch over his lordship, Merry left, pausing only to fetch her cloak from the elegant chamber she’d been given, one that seemed far too big after her years at the cramped quarters of the priory and far too lonely.

Braced for the November chill, she pulled her cloak around her and was halfway across the courtyard when a chorus of voices heralded her. The children burst from the stable, their hair shot with straw, their cheeks rouged from playing outside. She smiled to see them—their happy faces gave her hope that Luke would stand by her, no matter Henry’s opinion.

“Mornin’, m’lady!” called Peter, the younger boy, as he jogged up beside her.

“Hello, Peter. Have you seen your frog yet?” He’d admitted to putting his frog in the castle well.

Peter grimaced and shook his head.

“Frogs sleep in the winter,” she comforted him. “You’ll see him again come spring.”

“Where are you going?” His sister, Heloise, caught up to them next.

Merry glanced at the girl, not surprised to see Kit resting in her arms, his eyes half-closed in contentment. He seemed to have forgotten Merry was his mistress.

“To the herb garden,” she gave reply.

“Can we come?” This time it was Edeline who spoke, tugging Rauf, the eldest, behind her. Her dark liquid gaze made it impossible to refuse her anything.

“Oh, you must,” Merry answered sincerely. The children, at least, had made her feel at home at Arundel. She’d won their hearts by insisting on their presence at meals. Their animated talk at the high table had filled the silence between herself and Luke.

“This way, then,” said Peter, taking up the lead.

Merry felt Edeline’s hand slip into hers. Tenderness caught at her heart. Oh, to have all this, she lamented inwardly. To come so close to happiness, and to live in dread of having it snatched away!

Together, they descended the long walkway that conveyed them toward the outer wall.

“Down these steps,” said Peter, when they reached the end.

Merry gazed out at the land that belonged to Luke’s grandfather, for as far as she could see, and then the stairs dipped below the wall and she could see no more until she reached the cultivated orchards and gardens of trees, shrubs, and herbs. Most of the herb garden’s furrows stood empty, the plants having perished in recent frosts. Still, the soil looked dark and rich, and come spring, a multitude of herbs would thrive there.

Will I be here to see it? she wondered.

Moving down the steps, she wandered among the remaining plants. Hardy stalks of shepherd’s purse still thrived, impervious to winter’s approach. Sowbread, a winter plant, boasted delicate pink blooms that belied their powerful purgative effects. She stepped over these, toward the bloodwort that had ceased to flower. There was no plant living here that she failed to recognize.

Hands on her hips, she considered this. Luke’s exotic herbs had either gone dormant for the winter or been dried and put away in the herbal storeroom. At her leisure, she would examine the storeroom’s contents more thoroughly. Previously, after meeting Lord William, she’d done nothing more than find chamomile and comfrey for his lordship.

Lifting her head, Merry took in the rest of the open space. Beyond the garden stood an orchard of quince, peach, and apple trees. Arundel would be nearly self-supporting under a siege, she marveled.

A gust of air, redolent with the scents of rich soil and rotting fruit, chilled her cheeks. Her heart clutched painfully. She had always longed for such a garden. Tomorrow, if Luke returned by nightfall, she might well discover whether this garden would be hers or only a temporary refuge.

As had happened so many times in her past, her very life seemed to hang in the balance, her fate being decided by others.

“Do you want to play chase with us, Lady Merry?” Peter called, pulling Merry from her reverie.

She smiled at them and gently declined. The tiny life inside of her was growing, stretching her womb with cramps that left her tender.

“Will you watch us, then?”

She nodded and found a bench close by, gathering her cloak around her, and welcoming Kit onto her lap.

Soon, the shrieks of the children enveloped her in a temporary comfort. Gazing at the four urchins, Merry found some assurance that Luke would not put her casually aside, if he could help it. Remembering the boy he used to be, the one who’d wished upon a star to be snatched from a life of misery, surely he would not ignore his conscience, not even for his king. After all, ’twould be his own child he would ostracize, and he’d firmly expressed his opinion that a babe should remain with both its parents.

Yet the realist in her mocked her fragile hope. She had always known Luke was high above her, too high especially for an oddity from Heathersgill such as herself. He had so much to lose: the power and authority he’d earned, the prospect of owning Arundel. As for their babe, Luke did not have to be wed to Merry to look out for its welfare. Likely, he would find her a humble cottage in which to live, somewhere nearby where he might come to visit his child often.

Such an arrangement would appease his code of honor as far as their baby was concerned. And when the babe was weaned, or perhaps when the child was walking, or a little later, when he or she needed tutoring, Luke would claim him or her and take his child back to Arundel.

With such a simple solution at hand, it was all too likely that Luke would set her aside. Yet another stubborn part of her burned with faith. He had saved her countless times before—from the pyre, from the bounty hunters at the inn, from Cullin’s attempted rape, even from her own worst imaginings. Certes, Luke would not abandon her now.

 

Luke paced the length of the hall at Wallingford, willing himself to remain calm. The king was usually prompt with his appointments, often running ahead of schedule, making it wise to show up early. Yet the water clock in the corner showed the king to be running half an hour behind—or was he? Luke had heard that Henry showed displeasure by making his courtiers wait. Yet it had never before happened to Luke. ’Twas not a good sign.

At last, the doors of the royal solar groaned open, propelled by two guards. Luke looked up to find Henry’s clerk crooking a finger at him. With premonition prickling his nape, he entered the double doors.

The very castle that King Stephen had sought time and again to take by force and that Henry had helped to defend when besieged by Stephen was now Henry’s own. Luke had seen it before it was Henry’s, when Brien Fitzcount owned it, when it had a notorious prison and even more infamous torture chamber. Henry, though, was more of an unfettered warrior than a cruel barbarian—he did not hold with such things.

In true fashion, he’d remodeled Wallingford and the royal solar into his own style. The lavish tapestries had been replaced with rustic scenes of hunts and hawking, for the king’s chief passion was the hunt.

For the first time, Luke felt he was the king’s prey—or Merry was.

Henry stood at a window, his square hands locked behind his broad back as he took in the moat and the bleak landscape below.

Luke waited, sensing a dark current in the atmosphere. The double doors slammed shut, causing Luke to flinch slightly, and Henry, at last, turned around. With the window at his back, his tawny hair looked ruddier—though nothing close to the shade of Merry’s hair, Luke thought, wishing he hadn’t lost her favor and the right to run his fingers through it.

He admonished himself at once. It was his king’s favor he should be thinking about at that somewhat perilous moment.

“Well,” Henry finally deigned to address him in a tone that was indecipherable, “the Phoenix has flown home.” He sauntered forward, his muscular legs bulging beneath his forest green hose and bowed from spending nearly as much time on a horse as on his own two feet. He was still such a young man, sometimes Luke had trouble seeing him as anything but a boy.

Stopping an arm’s span away, Henry proffered his hand with the royal seal, and Luke bowed dutifully over it, wishing for the first time that he didn’t tower over his stocky king.

“My liege,” he murmured. It wasn’t until he straightened that he saw the fiery gleam in Henry’s gray eyes—denoting that the terrible Angevin temper was simmering close to the surface. He knew, then, that Amalie had pleaded her case with credible outrage.

“Make your report,” Henry commanded curtly with none of his usual courteous talk reserved for the man who’d saved his life.

For the briefest instant, with matters of a different sort weighing upon his mind, Luke found it difficult to recall his mission—which had been long and successful until he’d encountered Merry. After a pause, Luke managed to summarize his accomplishments, keeping to those that reflected on his duties. He omitted his rescue of Merry from the priory and skirted the issue of Iversly’s western tower, the one he’d left fully standing.

Henry turned away, glanced down at some vellum on his writing table, then moved a few documents aside until he fixed on a length of parchment. He picked it up but didn’t glance at it.

“You wrote that you did not complete your duties at Iversly.” He looked up at Luke. “Because you were injured, you say.”

Iversly was a trifling matter, but Luke suddenly saw that the king would use it as a platform for complaint, leaping from there to Luke’s unsanctioned marriage. The letter he held was the one Luke himself had penned right before his wedding, explaining his injury and rehabilitation.

“As my letter explained, Your Grace, the adulterines at Iversly were all destroyed, save the western tower. Such a tower might yet be used to spot invaders—”

“Coming from where, Scotland?” Henry cut him short, throwing down the missive. “Malcolm the Maiden is too busy keeping a handle on his own kingdom to invade mine.” A familiar vein appeared at Henry’s temple, a sure sign of his darkening mood.

Luke attempted to humor him. “He should look to Your Grace as an example. I hear you subdued the Lord of Torigny handily while in Normandy.”

Henry slashed a hand through the air. “Don’t try to change the subject, Lord d’Aubigny.”

Luke frowned. Almost no one called him by his father’s surname, probably because he was a bastard. From the mouth of King Henry, it sounded like a threat, reminding him of what he could lose.

Henry took a step closer. “Your mission was to destroy all adulterines, not solely those of your choosing!”

Luke sketched an apologetic bow into the space between them. “Your Grace may recall from the letter that I was gravely injured. My injury necessitated a lengthy recovery and the grave illness of my grandfather, the Earl of Sussex, demanded my quick return to West Sussex.”

The king narrowed his eyes at this information. “A ripping open of the thigh, was it?” he commented, as though playing along. “Yet you scarcely walk with a limp. Why is that?”

They had come to the heart of the issue now. Luke disliked these games intensely. It was clear the king knew the answers to his own questions, and yet they would bat words around until the end result was as Henry wished.

“I was treated by a healer of great skill,” Luke replied, keeping his tone neutral, sounding neither pleased, nor remorseful. “I walk with barely a limp—indeed, I walk at all—because she saved my life, Your Grace.”

“Your life!” the king scoffed. “Since when is marriage the outcome of gratitude? Amalie says you got this woman with child. Why not settle a sum on her and leave her as she was?”

As he’d suspected, the king knew everything. “I chose to marry her,” Luke answered stoically.

Henry stepped closer. Though younger than Luke by at least ten years and a full head shorter, he had inherited Matilda’s gift of turning men to stone with a single, glacial look. “’Twas not your choice to make,” the king hissed through his teeth. “You were betrothed to another, may I remind you—to our cousin!” he finished, jabbing a finger at his own robust chest.

Luke noted the king’s passion with a mixture of wariness and indifference. The Angevin temper was a dangerous entity, especially when placed in the ruling Plantagenet head, yet in truth he thought it little more than a childish trait.

“Your Grace,” Luke calmly replied, “I have served you faithfully both before you ascended the throne and since, and I will continue to do so. My marriage was not meant to defy you. ’Twas necessitated by special circumstances.”

Henry fisted his hands at his sides and glowered at him. “You violated the contract between us,” he insisted. “You dishonored my cousin with your outrageous actions, causing her grief!”

“For the dishonor cast upon her name and yours, I beg forgiveness,” Luke said, wishing he could manage to sound more beseeching. He tried again. “I never intended to break our contract, Your Grace,” he added, hoping for the speedy return of Henry’s reason. “Yet oft times, fate itself supersedes our wishes and places obstacles in our path, which we cannot predict. I continue to pledge you my sword. My loyalty to you is unquestionable.” He bowed his head. “I beg you, my liege, cast a merciful light on what I have done and forgive my actions.”

Luke held his breath, awaiting Henry’s decision. Perhaps he should mention Queen Eleanor and the king’s own successful marriage, rumored to be a happy one. Perhaps if he told Henry of the way in which he and Merry used to talk to one another, their kindred spirits—though their natures couldn’t be more at odds.

With a show of disgust, however, Henry turned away and stomped once more to the window. Luke remained frozen, eyeing his king, awaiting an answer. Aware that his lungs were aching, he released the pressure in a long, steady breath.

Arundel or Merry? By God’s rood, he prayed that Henry wouldn’t make him choose. The even worse thought—that the king might make the choice for him—caused a cold sweat to pool between his skin and his soft wool undershirt.

“Explain to us these obstacles of fate you mentioned,” Henry demanded, looking out the window again. “As if divinity itself were directing your actions. Tell us, what made you marry this woman?”

Luke took heart. At least Henry was willing to listen. “As a knight of the realm and a representative of Your Grace, I felt it my duty to help one of your subjects in distress. To that end, I promised to escort the lady to Helmsley,” he began, omitting any mention of her persecution. “She is kin to one of your most loyal warriors, Christian de la Croix.”

“The Slayer,” Henry murmured quietly, though Luke heard his words and inwardly smiled. Hopefully, her sister’s marriage alliance could help Merry now.

“My duty to you took me first to Iversly, Your Grace. I knew I must do your bidding ere I assisted the lady. To that end, I was mostly successful, but then, unfortunately, one of my men attacked her. I decided to bear her with haste to Helmsley and to the protection of Sir Christian, taking only ten men with me. Outside a tavern in Great Ayton, we were beset by ruffians who snatched the lady and took our horses. In the process of reclaiming her, I was wounded. The last thing I saw before slipping into sleep was the lady stabbing my opponent in the ribs. She managed to convey me and my remaining men to Helmsley, where she nursed me back to health.”

“Then she is brave,” said Henry thoughtfully, “though, we hear, not beautiful.”

Luke paused, frowning at his words. Amalie had likely described Merry in unflattering terms. To him, however, she was beautiful, alluring, maddening, a threat to his senses. Absolutely intoxicating.

“Her hair is an unusual color, and she is diminutive,” he replied. “I suppose some might think she is plain while others, striking.”

Henry asked with a sharp glance in his direction, “What do you think?”

Was this a trap? Most probably, but he couldn’t lie about the woman he’d come to know. “I think she has great spirit and even greater heart, Your Grace. To me, her beauty is without question, though I know mine eyes are colored by my feelings for her, both of gratitude and admiration and, indeed, great fondness.” There! He’d said it as plainly as he dared.

After the briefest of pauses while he considered, the king took another tact. “What thought you of Helmsley?” he asked, confirming his interest in Merry’s connection to such a powerful and fearsome warlord as the Slayer.

“My lady’s brother-in-law keeps a fine home,” Luke replied, pressing the advantage. “His castle is in a state of excellent repair and his multitude of knights are well-trained. Sir Christian’s presence in the north no doubt keeps many from making foolish attempts to gain power.”

Henry said nothing, and Luke wondered if his king was considering that a war might occur if Merry were dishonored.

“No doubt you remember Christian de la Croix. He is twice my size,” Luke exaggerated, “with strength and skill unseen among your barons. Your grace can count on him to defend the northern border.” Luke laid it on thick, playing up his only political advantage.

“Also owing him allegiance is the rebuilt keep and surroundings of Glenmyre, whose upkeep Sir Christian oversees, though he bestowed its wealth and ownership upon the Church.”

Yes, the Slayer was an important man in North Yorkshire, which should put Merry in good stead. Surely, the king would recognize that an annulment of Luke’s marriage could impact a part of the country that was, in many aspects, still vulnerable to turmoil.

“Upon hearing I was under orders from Your Grace,” Luke added, “Sir Christian reminded me that he’d pledged his fealty to you at the signing of the Wallingford Treaty. Moreover, I was given only the best treatment as your representative.” What was a little threat of a beating after all?

Heavy silence filled the chamber, but this time, Luke held his tongue and waited.

Henry spoke at last, his tone sly. “It seems you would have us believe that you married for genuine affection. Why is it then that you don’t sleep with your new bride?” he asked, still gazing out the window.

Luke stiffened, thrown off balance by the sudden shift in focus. He’d quite forgotten that the king placed spies among his baron’s castles, having never felt a need for secrecy before. He would have to guard Merry’s history with care, lest whispers of her past reached Henry’s ears.

“She prefers her own bed,” he heard himself respond lamely, “because she is with child.”

“’Tis said her tongue is so sharp it tempts a soul to cut it out,” the king added.

Luke clenched his fists, determined to flush out the rat and thrash him soundly. “She speaks her mind,” he confirmed. “I know you appreciate that with your queen. ’Tis refreshing to hear what a woman thinks, rather than to wonder what’s behind a stoic pale face and slyly averted eyes.”

He let the implied slur against Amalie hang between them.

Henry grunted an acknowledgment and folded his arms across his chest. “You’ve put us in an awkward position, Luke,” he finally confessed, turning his face to profile. “Amalie had her heart set on Arundel,” he added heavily.

Luke’s heart beat a fraction faster. Don’t take Arundel, he silently willed.

“On the other hand, your service to us has earned the respect of my barons. They are willing to overlook your illegitimate birth. They support your right to your grandfather’s lands.”

Luke noted the king didn’t say he’d earned his royal respect as well; but still, his hopes took wing. Henry had upset the barons enough with his razing of the unauthorized keeps. If the barons acknowledged Luke because of the careful way he’d handled the adulterines, perhaps the title might still pass to his children.

“Yet what you have done,” the king continued, turning at last, so that his face was lost to shadow with the window behind him, “is unprecedented. No one in our service has ever defied us in so personal a matter.”

Luke tried not to blanch. Henry favored strong language, yet his choice of words made Luke’s crime sound paramount to treason.

“What does Your Grace intend?” he demanded, refusing to back down and wanting to know plainly his fate.

Stepping out of the shadows, Henry’s face revealed an expression of impatience. He gestured at his cluttered desk. “Think you we have time to deal with the matter now?” he demanded. “Our coffers are low from all the damnable fighting, the coin makers are not cooperating, not to mention forest law is being ignored—that’s most likely your next task. Eleanor is great with child, and those damn Welsh princes with their absolutely unpronounceable names are stealing our land and rattling their swords for war.”

Luke kept silent as they shared a close, hard look.

“Bring your wife to the hunt in two weeks,” the king finally decided. “We will determine then if she meets our expectations.”

Again, Luke was thrown off balance. “You wish to know her better, Your Grace?” he asked, sensing a trap. “The hunt” as the king called it so casually was not a simple gathering of a few friends and their hunting dogs. For Henry, a royal hunt was of utmost importance. In attendance would be many of his court officials, certainly some amici, and the king’s inner circle itself, the familiares regis. Any of these trusted confidants might know of Merry’s trouble with the Church and denounce her.

Henry gave a dismissive shrug. “We wish to see her unusual coloring for ourself. Besides, not merely any woman is fit to be the wife of one of our captals,” he added, using the complimentary term common in his wife’s homeland of Aquitaine. “If the title of Earl of Lincoln, Arundel, and Sussex is to pass through your loins, then your wife must be a suitable mother of the heir, yes? She will answer to us about her ancestors. For your sake, and hers, we hope she impresses us,” he offered insincerely.

Luke’s undershirt began to itch. The king had no intention of being impressed. In the two intervening weeks, he would convince himself further, most likely with Amalie’s continued complaining, that Luke had dishonored him and his family. Perhaps he would even take time to persuade the barons of Luke’s betrayal—if the king thought there’d be a fight over ordering the Church to dissolve the marriage of a tenant-in-chief.

The itch goaded his own temper into an icy fury. He drew himself to his full height, disregarding how it might make the shorter Henry feel, and considered the words that burned a path to his tongue. Aye, he would have to speak his mind, else the king would walk all over him.

“Do not make me choose, Your Grace, between my wife and my service,” he warned Henry.

The king’s eyes widened and even his complexion grew ruddy. “Do you dare to threaten us?” he demanded, his volume abruptly rising.

Luke flexed his jaw and held the king’s glare. He knew the cost of defying Henry, and yet Arundel was nearly lost to him anyway—though for all their sakes, he would try to keep his wits.

“I do not threaten, my liege. If it is my home you want, no doubt you shall take it. Howeve, if you intend to force me to cast off my wife in order to serve you and keep Arundel, then that I shall not do. I believe you have need of me still,” he reminded his overlord. “It is I whom you call upon to complete the tasks that others cannot or will not do. Even now, you are contemplating sending me out to meet with the verderers and wardens to ensure your forests are policed once again and your game left intact. Who will serve in my stead if I refuse?” he demanded.

Henry’s blush darkened to an alarming shade of magenta. His eyes turned a flinty gray. “You pledged us your sword,” he reminded Luke. “If you withdraw that pledge, then you foreswear your oath!”

Sensing the word treason on its way to Henry’s lips, Luke quickly sought to forestall it, for he had no wish to be incarcerated that very moment to await a secular trial, one that would doubtless result in a death sentence.

“I also vowed before God to love and honor my wife forever in holy wedlock, Your Grace. ’Tis you who would have me choose between one oath and another. If ’twere up to me alone, I would as soon serve you for the rest of my years while remaining married.” And, of course, keep Arundel!

The king gave a visible shudder. “How dare you threaten us when we have given you all you have!” he thundered, scarcely attending to Luke’s words. “How quickly you forget where you came from!”

Luke said nothing at all to this remark, trying to keep one eyebrow from lifting in ironic disdain for Henry’s temper tantrum. Inwardly, he prayed for the 22-year-old, deadly powerful young man to recall precisely who had saved his life so many years ago.

As the silence stretched thin, Henry broke eye contact, as if he had only then recalled his vassal’s bravery.

Luke spread his hands and said with forced calm, “All I ask, Your Grace, is to keep the bride of mine own choosing. Surely, your faithful, dutiful subject may ask thus of you.”

Without further consideration, Henry turned his back on him. “Get out.” He gestured violently at the door.

“As you will.” Luke gave a half bow, turned, and walked leisurely to the exit. He knew the king well enough to take his time in departing. Yet he was nearly to the doors, before Henry called out to him.

“Luke!”

The voice, though angry, did not use the formality of styling him Lord d'Aubigny. That fact alone caused Luke to take a relieved breath and turn once more to face his king, his heart thudding expectantly.

Henry had propped his hands on his hips. His chest rose and fell as though he’d run a great distance. “We won’t insist on an annulment,” he snapped into the distance between them, glaring at Luke resentfully. “You’ve made your choice. Go and live with your witch.”

The word witch seemed to jump off the walls, startling Luke with the possibility that Henry had heard of Merry’s past.

“You will bring her to the hunt,” Henry reminded him. “I would see for myself whether she is plain or beautiful.”

Nay, Henry couldn’t possibly know of what had happened at the priory, Luke reasoned. He’d called Merry a witch in the way women were called nags or short men, mandrakes, though no one would use that term around the king. Yet with nagging doubt, Luke bowed deeply this time, showing Henry the deference he deserved for having made the right decision.

“I am your humble servant, Your Grace,” he muttered, straightening.

Henry made a face that bordered on comical.

“Harrumph,” he grunted. “Leave us in peace.” He jerked his chin, gesturing for Luke to depart.

At his single knock, the pages on the other side opened the doors and Luke slipped quietly through them, aware that his feet scarcely seemed to touch the flagstones.

By heaven, he’d gone head to head with the King of England, Count of Anjou, Count of Maine, Duke of Normandy, Duke of Aquitaine, Count of Nantes, Lord of Ireland—and certainly some titles he’d forgotten—and won! His marriage had been grudgingly blessed. It was all Luke could do not to break into a run down the lengthy hallway.

Merry! He couldn’t wait to tell her. The king has accepted our marriage. Let there be no more talk of annulment. Come back to my bed and let me love you!

His step faltered. Of course, he meant love her in the physical sense. Swiving with her was the most pleasurable experience he’d ever had. Their bodies moved together as if made to be. Any other type of emotion, beyond fondness, was . . . well, it was mere sentiment.

He liked her, certainly. She amused him with her outrageous honesty. Her bravery was more than he’d seen in most men. Yes, he admired her. Nevertheless, his hunger for her was purely physical, was it not? So potent, in fact, that he felt himself stirring at the mere thought of her soft arms going around him.

What a lucky man he was! A bastard whose first son would be the Earl of Arundel! More than that, he had a feisty wife to warm his bed and a child on the way!

It had been a gamble to defy the king, yet he was glad he’d done so. The resentment that had been growing steadily over the year had required a release. At least he’d spoken his peace. Thank the good Lord that Henry’s need of him outweighed his disappointment over Luke’s marriage.

Perhaps gratitude for Luke having once saved his royal life had a little to do with the king’s change of heart.

No matter the reason, he was the puppet of a tyrant no longer! Luke only wished he were not 100 miles away from where he most wanted to be. By that time tomorrow, he would relate the good tidings to Merry and coax her back into his bed.

If only his grandfather were well enough to understand what had just transpired, then the future would be truly bright.