Jane Feather - [V Series] (49 page)

“I can’t imagine how Sebastian is going to adapt to life with a woman who collapses in the middle of adventures,” Marcus observed, when he returned. “After a lifetime with you, my love, it seems impossible to imagine.”

“I expect he’ll find it a pleasant change,” Judith said. “How did you know Gracemere would be here?”

“That’s a story for later … much later.”

Marcus came over to her, taking her hands in his. The black eyes gazed down at her intently. “How do you feel after all that?”

“I was shocked at first, but now it seems oddly irrelevant. She’s nothing to me.” She shrugged. “It’s strange, but I really don’t feel any connection with her at all. In fact, now I know
who
she is—
what
she is—it’s a great weight off my mind. She’s been disturbing me ever since I met her. It’s a relief to know why.”

Marcus nodded. “She is nothing to you. Now we can put all this behind us and start afresh.”

Judith bit her lip. “Yes, well, there’s just one thing more—”

“Oh, no.” Marcus groaned, dropping her hands. “Not something else, Judith,
please.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you—”

“Judith, don’t do this to me!”

“I have to,” she wailed. “If you hadn’t discovered about Gracemere and all this muddle, I would have kept quiet about it. Sebastian said it wasn’t important because we create our own truths, but it
is
important, and since you know all the rest, you had better know this, too. In fact, it’ll probably occur to you, anyway, at some point, when you have time to think.”

Marcus closed his eyes briefly and said with heavy resignation, “Go on. What truth have you created now?” He moved away to the fireplace and stood waiting.

“Well, you see … you see, we aren’t married,” she blurted, wringing her hands.

“What!”

“Judith Davenport isn’t a legal person; neither is Sebastian Davenport. I didn’t think about it in the church, how should I have? It was only afterward, when I looked at the register. But we’re Devereux … I don’t ever remember being called Charlotte, but …” She saw comprehension in his eyes and fell silent, judging she’d said enough.

Marcus strode across the room. His fingers clamped one wrist, tightening around the fragile bones, as he dragged her to the door. She tripped over an uneven flagstone on the threshold but his pace didn’t slacken as he hauled her after him, down the rickety stairs. She stumbled in his wake, her manacled wrist at full stretch, and they emerged in the sunlit stableyard. Judith blinked at the brightness of the light after the gloom above.

“Marcus, what are you doing? Where are we going?” she demanded breathlessly.

“I’ll tell you where we’re going,” he replied in clipped accents. “We’re going to find a bishop and a special license, and we’re going to finalize this marriage
beyond all possible doubt. After which I intend to exercise
all
my marital rights—including the one involving a rod no thicker than my finger. The only question is in which order I decide to exercise those rights.” He caught her around the waist and tossed her unceremoniously into his curricle.

“Can’t I have an opinion?” Judith asked, picking herself up and scrambling onto the seat.

“No, you may not!” He jumped up beside her. “If you have a grain of common sense, which I doubt, you’ll sit very still and keep your mouth shut.”

Judith sat back, smoothing down her skirt, catching her breath, as the thong of his whip flicked the leader’s neck and the team plunged forward. They kept up a furious pace, pounding across the heath, and swung onto the deserted post road at the gibbet. Judith examined her companion’s profile with a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Marcus, you’re laughing,” she stated.

“What the hell have I got to laugh about?” he demanded, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. “For the last seven months, I’ve been living in sin with a woman who took part in an illegal marriage ceremony, and if circumstances hadn’t forced a confession from her, fully intended to leave me in ignorance for the rest of my mortal span!”

“Ignorance is supposed to be bliss,” Judith offered, not a whit fooled by his ferocious tone. “Anyway, what’s in a name?” A strange little sound came from him and his shoulders shook. “I
know
you’re laughing,” she insisted. “You once said it was very bad to repress laughter … I’m sure you said it would give one an apoplexy.”

Marcus checked his horses and drove the curricle off the road into a stand of trees. There they stopped and he turned toward Judith. Her mischievous glint deepened as
she saw the merriment in his eyes. “I knew you were laughing,” she said with satisfaction.

He caught her chin. “Ever since I met you, I have taken leave of my senses. Why else would I permit a tempestuous, manipulative, unscrupulous wildcat to lead me the craziest dance a man has ever been led?”

“For a man who hates dancing, it does seem a little inconsistent,” she agreed, smiling. “But, judging by my own experience, one doesn’t choose where to love. Why else would I fall body and soul in lust and love with a tyrannical, stuffy despot, who insists on keeping me under his thumb, and is only happy when he’s laying down the law to all and sundry?”

“But you do love him nevertheless?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, reaching up to grasp his wrist. “As he loves a designing adventuress.”

“Beyond reason,” he said softly. “I love you beyond reason, you abominable lynx.”

He brought his mouth to hers, his hand moving to palm her scalp as she reached against him, and his tongue plundered the sweetness of her mouth even as she drank greedily of the taste and scent of him, of the promise of an untrammeled future, where loyalties were simple and trust was absolute.

Jane Feather is the
New York Times
bestselling, award-winning author of
Kissed by Shadows, To Kiss a Spy, The Widow’s Kiss, The Least Likely Bride, The Accidental Bride, The Hostage Bride, A Valentine Wedding, The Emerald Swan
, and many other historical romances. She was born in Cairo, Egypt, and grew up in the New Forest, in the south of England. She began her writing career after she and her family moved to Washington, D.C., in 1981. She now has over six million copies of her books in print.

The paneled chamber was in shadows, the only light thrown from a branched candelabrum on a side table that caught the deep fire of ruby, the golden glow of topaz, the rich flash of emerald adorning the heavy silks and velvets of the six men in the chamber.

The tall windows were shuttered, closing out the warm summer night, and the air in the chamber was stifling. The men were sweating, dark patches staining the thickly embroidered brocade of their doublets, rivulets trickling down the back of their necks where their hair clung wet beneath jeweled velvet caps.

As a group they approached the daybed that stood in deepest shadow against the wall. The bed was draped with a white sheet and the still figure upon it looked as if she lay upon her bier. One arm hung down, the fingertips brushing the rich Turkish carpet. Her hair, the color of cinnamon, was loose on the pillow, her thin frame clad only in a linen nightshift. Freckles were visible even in the shadowed gloom, standing out harshly against the extreme pallor of her countenance. Paper-thin eyelids fluttered as if she were dreaming, and then were still again.

“You are certain she is aware of nothing?” The question was startling as it broke the almost reverent silence in the chamber. The voice, although barely more than a whisper, was a thickly accented rasp.

“She is unconscious, Your Majesty. She will not come to herself for many hours.” One of his companions moved up to stand beside him as he looked down upon the woman.

“Indeed, Your Majesty, this will not even invade her dreams.”

The king turned his head towards this last speaker. He gave a short sardonic laugh. “In general, Ruy, my companions in the games of love are honored and pleasured by my attentions.”

“This is no game of love, Philip, ’tis insurance,” the other said quietly, with the familiarity of an old and intimate friend.

The king touched his fingers to his lips, stroked his short beard. “I have no need of the reminder, Ruy.”

Ruy Gomez merely nodded. “Shall we withdraw, sir?”

“Or, if Your Majesty prefers, we could move the screen to give you privacy.” One of the others gestured to a tall screen that stood in front of the empty hearth.

The king looked at the circle of solemn faces around him. His eye fell on one man, who stood isolated from the rest, in the far corner of the chamber. His face was shuttered, averted from the daybed, every line of his body indicating the most acute discomfort.

“There is no need for the husband to remain,” the king stated. “My lord Nielson, you may wait in the antechamber.”

The man bowed jerkily and hurried from the chamber without once glancing towards the daybed.

“Bring forward the screen and the rest of you may withdraw beyond it.” The king’s voice was harsh and determined, as if he had resolved finally upon executing a distasteful duty.

His orders were obeyed.

“A single candle at the head,” the king instructed.

Ruy Gomez removed a lit candle from the candelabrum and placed it in the sconce on the wall above the daybed, then he bowed and withdrew.

The light shone down on the pale countenance, the still, white figure. The king stood in shadow at the foot of the bed. He unlaced his hose of white doeskin, loosened his doublet of cloth of gold, and brusquely moved aside the woman’s linen shift. He looked down at her as she lay in the pool of golden light, then he leaned forward to part the milky thighs, to run his hands over the pale skin of her belly.

Beyond the screen the four men waited. The silence in the chamber was profound; it was almost as if it were inhabited only by statues. When the king emerged from behind the screen, they seemed to exhale as one.

“It is done,” he stated. “Take her to her husband.”

The man who now approached the daybed was dressed with more simplicity than his companions. His only jewel was a curious brooch at his throat, a serpent of blackest jet with two brilliant emeralds for eyes and a forked tongue tipped with a blue-white diamond. The man’s face was impassive as he bent over the woman, swiftly adjusting the shift so that she was once again completely covered. He touched her cheek, moving aside a lock of reddish-brown hair that had fallen over her eyes.

The woman’s eyes suddenly opened. She stared up at him. She tried to raise her arm but when he placed a hand over her eyes, drawing down the lids again, she was once more still, her breathing deep and slow.

He lifted her, wrapping her in the white sheet that had draped the bed. None of the other men looked at him as he passed into the antechamber, where he placed his burden without speaking into the outstretched arms of her husband.
Immediately he strode away from the chamber, disappearing into the shadows of the long corridor.