Outrageous (8 page)

Her “
What
?” wasn’t as astounded this time.

“Just because you’ve borne a child out of wedlock, it’s no reason to live down to everyone’s expectations.”

His gall took her breath away. All her pat answers, all her practiced replies, flew out of her head in the surge of rage. “You dare tell me how to behave?”

“It appears someone must.”

He sounded so insufferably stuffy and looked so sure of himself, she wanted to hit him. But she’d done so, and she’d regretted it. Instead she took a deep breath, calmed her fury, and annihilated him with a brilliant, cutting comment. “You aren’t my father!”

She could have groaned. Where was her renowned wit?

But he answered, and his answer was stupid. Stupider even than hers. He said, “If your father were here, he’d be horrified at the way you’re acting.”

“If my father were here…” Head extended like a turtle, she stared at him. Didn’t he know? Didn’t he comprehend?

But no, he didn’t. His expression set in self-righteous indignation, and just like that, she’d been given the power she sought. Using his own ignorance, she could have the last word. Triumphant yet bitter, she retorted, “My father
is
here. Didn’t you realize? I am the heir to Wenthaven. The earl is my father.”

How odd, Griffith thought
. He lay in the countess of Wenthaven’s bed. He lay in Marian’s mother’s bed and lusted after her daughter.

It made him vaguely uncomfortable, as if the spirit of the countess peeked into his thoughts and caught him with his hands in Marian’s codpiece. Yet at the same time…well, surely the countess couldn’t approve of the way her daughter had turned out. Fighting with swords, dressing like a man, giving birth to a babe without the benefit of marriage.

“Who do you suppose the father is?” Griffith murmured.

At the foot of the bed, Art popped up like a child’s toy, comprehending Griffith’s mind with the ease of old friendship. “I was wondering when ye’d think about that. Could the child’s paternity have anything to do with Henry’s peculiar interest in Marian and Lionel?”

“The woman hides her mysteries well.” Griffith leaned on his elbow. The room, so dim and dusty last night, looked cheery this morning. Even Art looked
good, thought Griffith, although it baffled him how a one-eyed man with skin like wet leather could look good.

“Ye’re looking better this morning,” Art said, unconsciously twisting Griffith’s thoughts. “The swelling on yer proboscis has almost disappeared.”

Griffith touched the broken place with tender fingers.

Art’s head bobbed on his skinny neck. “Maybe the countess cured ye during the night. Maybe she approves of ye.”

“Maybe she does.” Cold emanated from the walls of cut stone, a cold that bit at his nose, and Griffith breathed deep, reveling in the free flow of air. “She’d be foolish not to.”

Propping his elbows on his knees, Art examined Griffith through one critical eye. “I thought we settled the issue of yer beauty last night.”

“I’m not talking about my appearance,” Griffith said. “I’m talking about my character. I can say, without conceit, that I’m stable, respectable, and moral.”

“God’s blood!”

“I’m the kind of man a mother would wish her daughter to wed,” Griffith added complacently.

Art’s one eye blinked at him. “Damned dull, is what ye are. And what’s this about ye wedding Lady Marian?”

“I didn’t say I was going to wed her, I just said…” Staring at Art, Griffith decided he could not win this argument. Turning the subject, he asked, “Did you know Wenthaven is Marian’s father?”

“Ah.” Art scratched his ear. “I’d wondered. She seemed so sure she could do as she liked in his house. And there’s the resemblance. ’Tis a little too pronounced for cousins.”

“Resemblance? There’s no resemblance between that strutting sack of dung and—”

“And the strumpet ye’ve been sent to guard?”

Griffith bent his most intense frown on Art, intent
on quenching the old man’s sparkle. “She’s not a strumpet. A little high-spirited, mayhap.”

“Such a shift since last night!” Art marveled. “I wonder what could have changed yer mind. ’Tis the smile, ye know.”

“What?”

“The resemblance is in the smile. Wenthaven and Lady Marian both smile readily, and use their smiles to express so much.”

Collapsing back on the pillow, Griffith considered. “In Marian’s case, it’s mostly scorn.”

“In Lady Marian’s case?” Art cackled. “In Wenthaven’s case, it’s mostly scorn.”

“No, that’s malice,” Griffith corrected absentmindedly. Art was right. Griffith had changed his mind about Marian during the night, and he didn’t have to wonder why. She’d responded to his kisses sweetly, hotly, with a hunger long denied. Then she’d bolted like a startled hind. It proved what he desired, that she’d been chaste for many the long days. Since the birth of her son, likely, and before. “It’s not that I think she’s a strumpet. She’s like a wild bird, needing a man’s capable hand to control her.”

“’Tis coincidence ye’ve trained falcons,” Art interjected.

Griffith ignored him. “Like this morning. She’s off on a hunt with the other guests.”

Art looked curious. “Ye’re not going?”

“Nay, I’m taking her son for a walk, but I told her quite sternly how she was to behave.”

Art sounded faint when he asked, “How she was to behave?”

“Most especially, I told her to dress like a lady.” Remembering how she looked in hose, Griffith felt appalled—and aroused—all over again. “Can you imagine the scandal if she rode astride?”

Art choked and flung himself back on the mattress.

“Aye, I feel the same way. With a little bit of
guidance—” Art choked again, and Griffith cocked his head. “Art?”

Art’s shriek of laughter rose from among the bedclothes like the cry of an Irish banshee, making Griffith’s blood run cold.

Griffith sat up and stared at his writhing, kicking servant. “Art?”

With snorts and coughs, Art caught his breath. “Ye…told her…to dress like a lady?” At Griffith’s nod, he vented more of his disbelieving merriment, holding his side against the ache. “Aren’t…ye…the clever one? That will no doubt cure…her every mad impulse.”

Before Art could finish, Griffith was off the bed and dressing in yesterday’s garments.

When Art could contain himself, he sat up with a blanket around his still shaking shoulders. “Going to take Lady Marian’s laddie for a walk?”

Griffith cast him a caustic glance as he swung his cape around his shoulders. He stormed from the room, then stormed back in again. A fine glass mirror hung on the wall, and on the table beneath it were a lady’s accoutrements. Rummaging among the dusty things, he found a comb and drew it through his hair.

Art shrieked with laughter again, but as Griffith ran down the stairs he heard Art call, “Happy hunting.”

Marian walked her horse into the trees and dismounted. As she tied the animal securely to a branch, she wondered morosely why she’d come on the hunt.

She’d forgotten how the men stared when she rode astride in a man’s clothes. She’d forgotten how the ladies tittered as she strode about in her pointed black boots.

She’d done it often when first she came from court. Then her still twitching reputation lay in shreds around her feet. Her friends had deserted her,
and all that mattered, it seemed, was the wailing babe she tended every night. Her own father had encouraged her to ride like a man, to swear like a trooper, to practice swordsmanship like a squire. Angry, defiant, she’d reveled in thumbing her nose at the gossips, lived to feed the flame of her own destruction.

The memory of those days made her squirm, and she tossed her felt hat to the ground and rumpled her braided hair. Forget it, she told herself, knowing she would not.

Wandering along the low ridge, she watched the ground carefully. If she remembered correctly, along here somewhere…With a crow of triumph, she dropped to her knees and pushed aside the brambles. Wild vines crawled along the ground, and on them tiny strawberries begged to be picked. Creeping along, she filled her hand while memories filled her mind.

’Twas a small thing that brought her to her senses. Nothing more than the letter from the lady Elizabeth, telling of her marriage to King Henry. Henry had spared no expense, but the elaborate ceremony had been marred by one thing and one thing only: Elizabeth’s dearest friend, Marian, had not taken her place as Elizabeth’s chief maid-in-waiting.

Marian had laughed. Then she’d cried. Then she’d rocked Lionel until dawn, clothed herself in a modest dress, and set out to be a respectable lady. It had proved difficult, for even in court she’d been the wild one, willing to run for miles, to dance all night, to walk the fence on a dare. But she flattered herself that she’d done well.

Of course, Sir Griffith didn’t think so.

Marian frowned. Thanks to him and those kisses, she’d been awake all night. Her lips felt irritated, not because he’d been brutal, but because she’d bitten them repeatedly as she tried to understand why he’d been so passionate.

She’d finally decided he hadn’t been passionate. He’d kissed her because he was angry and wanted to teach her a lesson. He couldn’t possibly desire her.

Unfortunately, last night had proved she didn’t despise Sir Griffith. If those kisses were anything to go by, she positively admired him.

Those kisses. She wouldn’t think of them—or him.

Popping a strawberry into her mouth, she closed her eyes and savored the first sweet taste of summer.

How she always hated winter! How she then missed the days at court! The games, the laughter, the fires that chased away the chill.

At Castle Wenthaven, they played the same games, but the laughter sounded shrill and desperate. Wenthaven’s fires were built not for warmth, but for show. The people huddled around them weren’t friends, but watchful adversaries.

Yet every winter Marian had been forced to accept the feigned hospitality of the manor house. When the storms raged outside, the cottage shook in the blasts, the fire sputtered, and like any healthy, growing child, Lionel rampaged in ever-decreasing circles. Cecily whined, and to Marian’s chagrin, Marian herself developed a cough. A cough easily cured in the dry environment of the manor.

The first winter had been the best. She’d moved into her mother’s room, and she liked it there, away from the beggars who surrounded Wenthaven. Lionel’s colic had eased. He’d learned to sit up and crawl—and he’d wanted to crawl down the unrailed, dangerous stone stairs.

The next winter found Marian, Cecily, and Lionel safe in one of Wenthaven’s luxurious apartments, well ventilated with peek-holes and manned by spies.

An unpleasant sense of wet matter startled Marian, and she opened her fist. Smeared across her palm was a streak of red pulp and she chuckled at her own silliness.

After all, what did it matter if someone watched her? She had no secrets Wenthaven could discover, and soon she’d live at court once more. Soon she’d be among the great and near great. Soon all would know what she already knew—that Lionel, her son, contained within him the seeds of greatness.

Licking the mashed strawberry from her palm, she wondered: did Griffith have such secrets? She didn’t know. She didn’t even know—couldn’t imagine—why she’d given him her mother’s room. Except he seemed like a person free of pretense or artifice.

Seemed like?

She grinned. He was. Witness his tactless handling of her. Most men talked to her like a lady and treated her like a tart. Griffith had played no such games. He’d chided her in plain language, spoken like a pompous ass, then treated her like a lady.

Except when he kissed her. He hadn’t kissed her as though she were a lady; he’d kissed her as if she were a woman.

Was that what made her prod him? The pleasure of seeing a genuine reaction? Today she’d dressed like a man in defiance of his order, and now she waited for him to find her just to see more of Sir Griffith’s authentic indignation.

Would he come and find her? She thought so. And if he didn’t—well, she’d have her ego crushed, and Lionel would have strawberries to eat. She opened the pouch at her belt, lined it with a clean cloth, and set to work, picking the hidden fruit until her bag bulged.

Then she heard it: the crackle of brush behind her. Turning, she smiled into the sun, squinting at the tall man blocking it and the golden glow around his head. “It took you long enough to get here.” Then he moved into the shade, and she shrieked as she made out his features.

Hand on hip, Adrian Harbottle smirked at her open welcome. “I’m glad to see you, too, sweetheart.”

Her breath came with difficulty, and she scrambled to her feet. “I didn’t know it was you!”

His smirk changed, turned down into a sulky frown. “Who else would you welcome so generously?”

“Not you.” She tried to jumped back when he lunged for her.

Catching her arm in a bruising grip, he repeated, “Who else would you welcome? Huh? Why not me?”

Glancing around, she asked, “Where’s the rest of the hunt?”

“I left ’em to find you. Who else?” He shook her. “Why not me?”

She was alone with this pathetic imitation of a gentleman, and just yesterday she’d humiliated him in front of all Wenthaven’s guests. When she was without the protection of her sword, he’d win any contest, and the truth of Griffith’s reproof had been proved. She’d made an enemy with her temper, an enemy who lusted for revenge—and for her.

Cautiously she tried out the first, and best, of her weapons. “The earl of Wenthaven will be looking for me.”

Harbottle honked with laughter.

“At the least, my father”—that title tasted odd on her tongue—“will be unhappy with you for being alone with me. Why don’t we—”

She tried to walk away, but he pulled her in a circle back to him. “Aye, why don’t we?”

She couldn’t bear to watch him as he licked his generous lips.

“You looked fetching with your little arse wagging in the air, looking for berries.” He smiled with practiced, whimsical appeal and reached for her mouth. She jerked her head back, but he brought away a tiny bit of fruit still clinging there. Sucking his long finger, he said, “Strawberries, were they? I like strawberries. Why don’t you share some with me? Show me where they are?”

“They’re right there.”

She pointed, and he pouted as charmingly as if he’d practiced it in front of the mirror until he achieved perfection. “That’s not what I meant. Come on.” He tried to tug her down. “Show me.”

Show me. He was trying to charm her, but if the charm didn’t work, he’d use force, she knew. He’d use force and not even realize it, because he’d probably never had to in his life. He’d chosen his place and time well. No one could stop him or even notice if she didn’t come back. After all, she’d left the hunt by herself. And in the end, who cared if Wenthaven’s slut of a daughter tumbled a minor nobleman in the woods? Or if she’d been raped? She wouldn’t dare complain, or she’d have a parade of men to her cottage, seeking favors.

Oh, God, she couldn’t bear it again. It had taken a sharp sword and an aggressive chastity to keep them at bay after Lionel was born—nothing would do if Harbottle had his way.

So, think, Marian, she urged herself. Think. “I’d love to show you where the strawberries grow.”

If her smile was less than genuine, he seemed oblivious. His gaze slipped to her bosom. “Aye.”

“But I have so many clothes on.”