Marriage Under Siege (31 page)

He looked at her, caught by
the unfettered emotion of the moment. His heart leapt, but now not from fear.
He was instantly captivated.

So was the boy. With some
amusement Francis caught and understood the look of abject adoration and
unswerving loyalty in the dark eyes as the lad grinned down at his mistress.

'Pull him off, Tom! Stop
laughing and help me up. I am covered with frost! What in the world am I doing
to let you embroil me in your foolish games? Go away, you idiot animal! And you
are just as bad!' She pushed ineffectually at
Morrighan's
large frame as Tom managed at last to pull the puppy away.

'Perhaps I might come to
your rescue, my lady.'

Francis advanced across the
grass to intervene, easily deflecting Setanta, stretching out his hand to take
that of his momentarily undignified wife and lift her to her feet. He kept an
arm around her
waist, ignoring her obvious
embarrassment, turning first to the boy. 'Tom, is it?'

'Yes, my lord.' Instantly
sober in the presence of ultimate authority.

'I see that you like dogs.'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Well, Tom. You are now in
my official employ. You are my Keeper of Hounds. Keep them out of harm's way
and give them exercise every day.' He bent to scratch the puppy's ears as it
pounced and whimpered at his feet, tangling itself in the restraining rope.
'Will you do that?'

'Aye, my lord. Shall I take
them to the stables?'

'An excellent idea. Off you
go.'

Tom raced from the garden,
his new dignity sitting incongruously on his slight shoulders, the puppy in tow
and Morrighan following more sedately.

'That was well done.'

Francis turned to Honoria.
'It was, wasn't it. It will keep him out of mischief, I expect. And now, my
lady. Such a sad lack of dignity!'

She chuckled, could not
prevent it, as she stepped from his sheltering arm—a deliberate move that hurt
him—and pushed her hair back from her face. 'A momentary lapse. A little
argument with a dog and a rope.'

'I saw it.' He stooped to
help her brush the spangles of frost from her cloak. Tucked an errant curl
inside her collar. Then folded her hands inside his own. 'Your hands are cold.'

'I am cold. I have stayed
out here too long.' The laughter began to drain from her face. He felt her
stiffen under his hands.

'Then let me warm you.' He
enclosed her in his arms, pulling her close, refusing to acknowledge the faint
resistance before she allowed him to have his way. He looked down at her. Face
still flushed with faint rose, lips curved with remembered pleasure, eyes
shining, reflecting gold in the clear air. He found himself wishing that she
would smile at him, for him, with such unselfconscious charm and freedom,
instead of hiding her emotions, disguising the hurt, guarding her heart against
any who might approach too near. Against him.

'You are lovely.' His words
surprised him. And her.

'I am dishevelled. And
damp. The frost is beginning to melt.' She laughed again, a little nervously,
very much aware of the strength and heat of his body. She found herself unable
to read the expression in the clear grey of his eyes, and so let hers drop as
the colour flared in her cheeks again.

Delighted with the
response, determined not to allow her to escape this time, he raised his hands
to frame her face. And held her as he lowered his lips to hers. Softly,
tenderly. Her heart leapt in her throat at his touch and she trembled in his
arms, remembering other occasions when he had woken her senses to astonishing
pleasure. His lips were cool, as were hers, but he warmed them, brushing mouth
against mouth, persuading hers to part and allow his tongue to caress and
possess. It was no difficulty to allow herself to be persuaded. As he broke the
kiss, her nerves returned.

'My lord...' She moved to
push away from his arms.

'You must do nothing, my
dear Honoria, but remain where you are. And my name is Francis.'

She did nothing, said
nothing. But stood, waiting, in his embrace.

Francis sighed, lowered his
brow to rest on hers, determined to savour this brief moment of quiet, of
closeness, understanding much of the problem. 'Did no one in your life ever
love you, lady?' he asked gently.

She stiffened, glanced
quickly up. 'Sir Robert and Lady Denham cared for me very well. You know that.'

'Not care. Love.'

'No... I don't know.' She
tensed against his gentle restraint. 'Perhaps it is simply that I am not very
lovable.' Her flat acceptance nearly broke his heart.

'You foolish child!' He
rubbed his cheek against her hair, smiling a little sadly as he felt her
immediately stiffen within his embrace. 'I know, I know. You are
not
a child. I ask pardon. But indeed, you must never
think yourself unworthy of love.'

'It must be so. I have no evidence
otherwise.'

'Then it seems that I must
provide it. Honor... Look up.'

She did so, eyes wide, but
not shuttered against him. He pressed his lips to the soft skin between her
brows. And felt her sigh against him when he repeated the gesture against her
temple and finally her lips.

'There. What does that tell
you?'

'That you are deranged. To
spend time kissing me in the middle of a siege when the attack will begin at
any moment...' He felt the little shake of her head in denial as her fingers
clutched tightly against his sleeves. But he also felt the smile curve her lips
as she lifted her face to press her mouth gently against his. It was a moment
of such intimacy, such a destruction of barriers on her part, that his heart
stuttered and he dragged her closer into his arms.

What he might have said,
might have done, was obliterated by the vicious crash of cannon-ball against
masonry on the castle wall behind them. He put her from him with a wry grimace,
but deliberately kept possession of her hand.

'Come, then, lady.' He led
her from the dangers of the inner bailey as the culverin continued to batter
and destroy. 'For the moment, let us accept that I am not of sane mind. But one
day we might even finish this conversation!'

'Just look at it...
Everything soaking wet—the water is actually running down the wall there. And
my tapestry...ruined...'

Mansell heard the raised
female voices above him, coming from the solar, and knew exactly the cause of
the problem—and who would be held to blame for the catastrophe.

'A coward would make
himself scarce at this point.' Joshua Hopton cast a glance towards the main
staircase as they crossed the Great Hall. 'A coward would find a sudden need to
overlook the defences.'

'In the far north-west
corner of the curtain wall, out of earshot,' Priam Davies added, quickening his
step.

Mansell raised his brows at
Priam's accompanying grin.

'And are you suggesting
that I should play the coward? That I should abandon any thoughts of marital
duty—and run?'

'Never that, my boy. Never
that!' The grin widened. 'But I think I can find uses for my time elsewhere.'

Mansell turned towards the
staircase and braced his shoulders. 'Then in the face of your betrayal, I shall
play the hero. God help me!'

'We will hold a suitable
wake, Francis. I believe I hear my sister's sweet tones as well. We still have
enough ale to mourn your passing.' Josh followed Priam to the door, exiting on
his heels with a laugh.

At the door of the solar,
Mansell was forced to a halt to allow Mary to bustle past him. She did not
stop, but her narrowed glance and the contemptuous curl of her lip warned him
of his probable reception. Not that he needed it.

'Tell Master Foxton that we
need buckets and cloths and someone to help us take down...'

Honoria stood, arms folded,
surveying the ruin of her solar. Priam Davies might have prayed against rain,
but his prayers had not been answered. There had been a sharp downpour
overnight, then desultory drizzle with the result that the walls shone, running
with water, and drips splattered from the beams. They sparkled with crystal
brilliance as they dripped into the water beneath. Puddles spread on the
polished floorboards, Honoria standing forlornly amidst them, her shoes soaking
up the damp.

'The rain is coming in.'
Her tone was dangerously calm and even, at odds with her flushed cheeks.
Mansell eyed her with respect and remained in the doorway—at a distance.

'Yes.'

'Is there not one room in
the whole of this place that does not leak?'

'I—'

'I can accept the action of
our enemies with a certain degree of composure—I know that the mortars caused
untold damage—but when my own husband removes the leading from the roof... Just
look at the state of this. And my bedchamber is little better. The living
quarters on the eastern side are awash. There are buckets catching drips all
over the kitchens and—'

'Honoria—'

Eyes flashing, she rounded
on him. 'At least it was possible to sit here—to escape the desolation—but
now...' She raised her hands in despair, but her temper continued to simmer.

'We needed shot. We had no
choice. You know that.'

'I might know it, but I
don't have to like the result!'

There was an explosion from
one of the culverin beyond the walls, followed rapidly by a second. They waited
for the accompanying crashes of shot against stonework, already flinching for
the contact.

And then some sixth sense,
some implicit instinct for preservation, launched Mansell across the room to
drag Honoria to the floor and cover her body with his own, seconds before the
mind-numbing crash of shot tore through the solar window. A lucky shot that
shattered the stone tracery and decorative glazing, showering the room and its
two occupants with dangerously edged shards of stone and glass, continuing on
its lethally driven path to embed itself in the handsome oak court cupboard
against the far wall. Reducing it to a mass of splintered debris, now sprayed
across the room.

Honoria, crushed against
the floor, hardly able to draw in a breath, felt Mansell tense above her, his
body stiffen, and knew he had been hit.

'Francis?'

'No. Don't move yet.'

She lay still, her
husband's body protecting her from any further falling glass or stonework, the
water from the puddle beneath her soaking through her gown to her skin.

'Are you hurt?' she managed
to whisper.

'No. A large piece of
cupboard came close to achieving what Fitzwilliam Coningsby must pray for
nightly—but that's all.' He sat up carefully, pulling her with him, keeping his
hands tightly on her shoulders. 'Are you unharmed?'

'Yes.'

He nodded, satisfied with what
he saw, released her and began to massage his shoulder. The restored peace in
the room was incongruous, contrasting shockingly with the destruction that
littered the floor around them. Gritty dust hung heavily in the damp air, a
chilly breeze now stirred the limp tapestries that had earlier roused Honoria
to such wrath. He began to push himself to his feet. Until a sharp cry from
Honoria stopped him.

'What...?'

Ignoring him, she crawled
across the room on her knees, through the debris, to sink down amongst the
remains of the cupboard. And bent to lift with careful fingers some
particularly delicate shards of glass into her lap.

'Oh, no...!'

'What is it? I would never
have expected so much damage from a chance hit, but the destruction seems to be
limited...'

He then became aware of the
tremors in her shoulders as she cradled her smashed treasures.

'Honor. Are you really
hurt?' He had not thought so.

'My glasses. My beautiful
Venetian glasses. Oh, Francis! Look at them.' She held up the fragile,
iridescent slivers of glass, the remains of delicately fashioned stems and
bowls.

'Honor...but they are only
glasses. Don't cry.' He stretched out his hand to her when he saw one tear
escape to spill down her cheek.

'Of course not, my lord.'
She sniffed inelegantly and gulped. The look of masculine horror on his face
when confronted with the prospect of feminine tears helped her choke back any
further reaction. She pulled away from him, just a little, but enough for him
to be aware and regret it. 'I have no intention of weeping over you.' She put
the glass aside and wiped her face with her sleeve. 'I must...' She took a deep
breath, swallowed, and tried again. 'I must go and see if Mistress Morgan and
the girls are unharmed.'
I will not weep! I must be strong and calm!

It was no use. No matter
how hard she tried, she could not hold back the ridiculous surge of despair.
Heartbreaking sobs shook her whole body, beyond her control. She covered her
face with her hands.

'Come here.' On a sigh and
with not a little desperation, Francis pulled her into his arms, careful of the
glass that still rested in her skirts, and simply held her, stroking her arms
and back with gentle hands. 'I will buy you some more. Don't cry.'