Bride of the Beast (20 page)

Marmaduke's hopes soared, but they crashed to the rush-coated floor when her brow knitted in a manner sure to bode ill.

For him, and most especially for his dreams.

Disengaging herself from his light hold on her shoulders, she moved to the table and filled two pewter cups with wine. She handed him one. "You are much to my liking," she said in that matter-of-fact tone he'd so admired till now. "And you have seen I do not speak fair words meant to deceive."

She paused to take a sip of wine. "But whether I am fond of you or nay," she continued, and Marmaduke's heart plummeted deeper with each spoken word, "I must say you honestly that I cannot accompany you when you leave."

As we told you she wouldn't,
his personal minions of Beelzebub boasted with glee.

Ignoring them, Marmaduke counted his blessings.

She'd forgotten to object to his sleeping in her ante-room.

**

And many hours later, in the splendid solitude of that self-same little chamber, Sir Marmaduke Strongbow stood before one of the ante-room's two narrow window slits and held council with the moon.

The distant orb, cold and aloof, sailed from behind a cloud. A lone one, wispy and thin, for the night's winds had finally chased away the storm.

As he would whisk away his new lady's reservations.

One by one until each dragon was slain and laid to rest.

Much like the cloudless heavens, his own night's peace gained at last, Marmaduke turned away from the little window and sought his rough pallet on the ante-room floor.

To sleep and rest his weary bones.

And dream of better days to come.

in Marmaduke stirred
to wakefulness well before dawn.

A light pitter of rain, a ferocious stiff neck, and his lady's soft breath warm on his bare shoulder, greeted him.

When she planted wet, tickling kisses along his upper arm, he smiled and opened his good eye ... to stare straight into two round and unblinking brown ones.

"By the Rood!" He leapt to his feet, instantly awake.

Leo yelped as loudly, any friendly overtures he may have been trying to initiate, forgotten. The little dog streaked from the ante-room before Marmaduke could even scowl at him.

So he frowned into the semi-darkness instead and yanked on his braies. His hose, tunic and boots were donned as quickly, his sword belt girded on with unparalleled haste.

And all the while, he pretended not to notice Leo's offended glare boring holes in him from Lady Caterine's bed. The sneaky bugger even had the cheek to curl himself most Proprietarily against her bared thigh.

Marmaduke raked his hands through his hair and tried dually hard to overlook the lush tangle of golden curls beckoning from just above the sleek expanse of naked thigh, a wealth of temptation revealed by the careless whim of the bussed bedcoverings.

A sweet enticement almost but not quite hidden by shadow.

A visual delight that caught him off guard and propelled him right out the door before he forgot his desire to woo her gently and heeded his baser needs there and now.

Praise the saints, she'd slept through the ruckus.

Had she awakened and peered at him from sleepy blue eyes, her lips full and rosy-sweet, the luxuriant thatch of her intimate curls so innocently on display, he may well have spent his seed before he could have bid her a good morrow.

His loins uncomfortably tight, he set off down the passageway, making for the stairs to the great hall. Once below, he went straight to the laver set into the back wall of an alcove near the entrance vestibule.

Blessed relief was almost his.

Stepping up to the stone basin, he thrust his hands into the freezing water and splashed a goodly amount on his face.

Then, his features carefully schooled lest some stealthy varlet be watching him, he scanned the hall.

All slept.

To his relief, the chorus of assorted snores, wheezes, and other indefinable noises rising up from the men still slumbering on their makeshift pallets attested to the collective depth of their oblivion.

Allowing himself a pained smile, Marmaduke pulled his hose away from his body and trickled ice-cold water onto his fully charged manhood.

Purging deliverance came swift and sweet.

Thus relieved, he readjusted his hose and continued on his way, the fearsome look on his face a formidable warning to anyone fool enough to admit having seen him minister to himself in such an absurd manner.

And if James Keith so much as lifted a brow over the damp stain on the front flap of his tunic, he'd renege his as-

surances they'd parry with blunted swords and insist on instructing the hapless lordling with
real
blades.

The razor sharp variety capable of splitting a hair!

A dark oath and the clatter of steel skittering across stone alerted him of James's presence in the undercroft the moment he reached the bottom of the dank stairwell that curled down to Dunlaidir's lowest level.

Cold and sparsely-lit by a smattering of pitch-pine torches and what gray light could leak through a handful of arrow slits, the groin-vaulted basement provided a secure storeroom for the stronghold's most valuable provisions while its semi-underground location and thick walls offered a more private arena for James to learn the fine art of laird-ing than the open bailey where Marmaduke preferred to train.

Careful not to venture near a teetering pile of arrows and crossbow bolts, he paused in the less hazardous shadow cast by a wall of stacked wine barrels. Unaware he'd entered the undercroft, James snatched up his blunted blade and, frowning darkly, thrust and lunged at a side of hanging salt beef.

Lunged most miserably, but not because of any lack of balance. Nay, his legs and his well-muscled arms seemed in good working order.

'Twas the anger in his pinched features that ruined what could have been a perfect parry.

"Would you truly hope to live by the sword, you'd best bury your temper before you unsheathe your blade," Marmaduke said, striding forward.

James halted in midlunge and nearly toppled to the stone-flagged floor. "I was—"

'—on the best path to having an arm lopped off," Marmaduke finished for him, unbuckling his sword belt and Placing it atop a creel of rolled oxhides.

Stretching his arms above his head, he cracked his knuckles, then helped himself to a blunted practice sword

propped against one of the thick pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling.

He stood still a few moments, testing the blade's feel.

"Such passion as blazes in your eyes is better spent in a fair maid's arms than on the field." Turning slightly to the side, he feigned interest in the well not far from where they stood. "There, in the heat of earnest battle, you will only retain your limbs if you keep your wits."

The words scarce spoken, he whirled on James, his blade slicing the air with a speed that would have left an onlooker reeling with dizziness. In the blink of an eye, James's sword clanged to the floor and the blunted end of Marmaduke's pressed firmly beneath the younger man's chin.

"That was your first lesson, my friend. A cool head ... or no head. The choice is yours."

James bristled. "God and his saints as my witness, did I not wish to learn, I would not be here."

"I am glad to hear it." Lowering his blade, Marmaduke used its tip to motion to the fallen sword. "Shall we begin?"

"I thought we had," James huffed and swiped up his weapon.

"A mere exchange of pleasantries until we've worked the ire out of you. Now heed the look on my face and imitate it."

"There isn't a look on your face," James rapped out. "It's blank."

"Exactly." Marmaduke backed up a few paces and took up a fighting stance. "You'd best master looking disinterested now, because on the morrow you shall have an audience ... a comely dark-haired wench whose fair presence will help you learn to ignore distractions."

James blanched. "You wouldn't."

Marmaduke cocked a brow. "She'll agree, too. I am certain of it."

Pressing his lips together, James stared at the ceiling.

"All that stands between you and bettering yourself as a swordsman is proper motivation," Marmaduke pointed out.

"The desire to win the lady Rhona's admiration will spur your drive to improve your skills."

"You ken I favor her." James shot him an accusatory glance. Leaning on his practice sword, his chest heaved as if they'd already parried a few rounds. "I will not have her here to—"

"Cool your blood or I shall fetch her now." "She will see my clumsiness."

"She will see your triumph," Marmaduke corrected. "If you so will it."

James expelled a gusty breath. Then, to Marmaduke's immense pleasure, a closed look settled over the younger man's handsome face and he lifted his sword. A slight tic working just beneath his left eye remained the only outward indication of any simmering agitation.

Sensing James was as prepared as he'd ever be, Marmaduke beckoned to him.

"Have at me," he encouraged, his own sword at the ready. "Pretend you are at a great tourney, your lady is watching from the lodges and has just tossed you a ribbon from her hair... imagine that her eyes twinkle with the promise of later delights." "You are cruel."

"I have been called worse." Marmaduke recalled the myriad unflattering terms his liege had heaped on him over the years. Never spoken in earnest, to be sure, but definitely more unsavory than cruel.

"Concentrate on those delights," he added, deciding his young friend needed a bit more goading. "The lascivious ones."

The ploy worked.

The hard-won look of indifference on James's face van-'shed instantly. He came forward without any further hesita-kon, countering Marmaduke's tireless sword-thrusts with surprising skill.

Until low-voiced bickering from the stairwell caught his attention and Marmaduke backed him against the well
house.

"You would be dead now were I a true foe." Marmaduke cast aside the blunt-tipped practice sword and dragged the back of his hand over his sweat-grimed brow.

Panting, James ignored him, his full attention riveted on the shadow-cast opening of the stairwell.

The voices neared, still at strife. One a man's deep grumble, the other a woman's.

And she was clearly winning the verbal sparing. "The salt beef is full o' worms," the man argued, his exasperation echoing off the undercroft's thick walls.

"There must be
something"
Lady Rhona's unmistakable voice insisted. "We cannot have a wedding without a marriage feast."

And then the twain burst into view. A look of keen interest sparked on Rhona's pretty face. "I thought I heard swordplay, but when it ceased so abruptly, I consigned the disturbance to the castle ghosts."

"Ghosts," Eoghann groused. "The only wraiths hereabouts—if there are any—would be too weak from hunger to go about clashing swords."

"Then we shall have to assure every table at the wedding feast groans beneath enough sumptuous fare to fill the bellies of
all
Dunlaidir's residents." She beamed at the seneschal. "Past and present."

Her smile put a furious scowl on James's face. Until Marmaduke stamped on his foot and whispered, "A look of bored detachment will serve you better."

"The same detachment you wear when looking at my stepmother when you think yourself unobserved?" James muttered out the side of his mouth, his gaze still fastened on the object of his affection.

Marmaduke bit back a smile and cuffed him on the arm-"Had that been a sword thrust, you would've pierced my heart," he murmured for James's ears alone. "Mind that pre cision when next we train and you shall soon earn your gold
spurs."

Rhona stepped up to them, the seneschal close on her heels. She smiled at James. " 'Tis been a while since we've seen you wield a blade."

"Mayhap I've decided to amend that oversight," he said, pushing away from the well. In his haste, he stumbled and the practice sword slipped from his hand.

He froze, his gaze going straight to the blade's blunted
tip.

A squire's learning tool, not a man's.

Marmaduke's heart twisted at the younger man's blunder. With lightning speed, he used his foot to flip the sword into his hand. Rhona noting the blade's impotence would only cause James further shame.

As quickly as he'd seized it, Marmaduke tossed the sword, rounded tip and all, into a dark corner where it landed with a metallic
thwank
on a pile of haphazardly-stacked crossbows.

He cleared his throat. "I desired a sparring partner and as Lord of Dunlaidir, James hospitably volunteered his services," he lied.

"Lady," he addressed Rhona, "I appreciate your sentiments about a lavish marriage feast, and I would surely enjoy one, but from what I see of your provisions, such an expenditure is not feasible."