The Maiden and the Unicorn (28 page)

"What did you take me for, for Christ's sake, woman, a milksop? I do not need your skirts to hide behind, I thank you."

"I can see that," she agreed. Being protected so swiftly was rather pleasant.

"And what in God's name was that all about?"

Margery bit her lip. "The Duke commanded me to attend her grace this night."

Her husband's face was cold as steel. "How very convenient for you but on the contrary, you will favour me with your presence, lady, and willingly."

"Sir, I—"

"Pray enter."

She followed him meekly into the small upper bedchamber in silence. He struck a flint and lit a wall torch. This time there was no luxurious four-poster bed, only two small cots. What made her falter in the doorway was the sight of some of her possessions piled in the corner and her next day's riding apparel neatly arranged along a narrow chest. Saddlebags, presumably Huddleston's, slumped drunkenly against the far wall.

Her husband rearranged her so he might close the door. The click of the latch behind her was unnerving. Did it feel this way to be closeted with the Devil?

"Now, delight of my harem, perhaps you would care to tell me what you were actually doing last night. Is Clarence learning to fly the broomstick or were you teaching him something else?"

She gave him a sweet smile, and stooped to deliberately busy herself with hunting through her clothing for her little wooden jewellery box to check its contents. "No," she murmured, pretending to be distracted. "He is getting the way of it beautifully. I advised him not to sit too high up but he is not very good at it." She straightened up and turned towards the light. If all her jewellery was there, she would not have known; she was too conscious of the man the Holy Church had chained her to.

"Flying?" Richard Huddleston calmly took the box from her and flicked its lid up, inspecting its contents and lifting out the St Catherine brooch. Plague take his curiosity! But it was all his. By law, everything she had was now his.

"No, taking advice." She took back the brooch, briskly removed the box from his hand and bent to hide it between the folded linen. The man was a menace and he was standing far too close. She crouched down and pretended she was checking that all her other belongings were safe.

"Margery, you cannot go up into a deserted tower with another woman's husband," he stated gravely somewhere above her.

"I know, but I cannot help being rebellious, Master Huddleston. It must be my new father's blood." She knew it was a foolish, brazen thing to say when two strong hands grasped her beneath her arms and yanked her swiftly to her feet. His breath moved the wisps of hair that were escaping from her cone headdress while his hands, ungloved, stabled themselves upon her ribs. The closeness of his body against her back made her tremble, but she tried desperately not to show it.

"I seem to recall you threatening to cuckold me if I ever found the courage to marry you. Is that what you are doing with the Duke—exacting your revenge?"

She calmly removed his hands, turning to face him with a wriggle of her shoulders. "Having lain with a king, sir, do you not think a duke would be lowering my ambitions? I had actually set my heart on the Emperor Frederick. George of Clarence? No, I thank you, he lacks maturity." But her jibes merely trickled off Huddleston like raindrops down a rich man's window pane.

His green eyes gave her a long hard look, then his mouth quirked into a tight smile. "What is the matter with you?" He watched puzzlement pleat her forehead. "Have I gone deaf? I do not think you answered my question." He took a few paces away from her before he swung round like a lawyer warming to an argument. "As I understand it, Warwick's natural daughter (and my wife) stole out of the Duchess's women's bedchamber, had an assignation with the Duchess's husband, was followed and observed by one or more persons including myself." His eyes pinioned her. "I want to know what you were doing and why you were followed."

"The Duke invited me."

He applauded her sarcastically with a brief handclap. "And?"

"We talked."

He moved in front of her, hands on his hips and feet astride. "How foolish of me to think otherwise. Is that what you will do tonight when you have finished with me,
talk?"

"Do not patronise me!" With an effort, she fought down her temper and managed to sweep nonchalantly across to the window. "We often talked at Warwick in the old days." It was a discarded morsel of information, tossed over her shoulder. "Talking to dukes does not awe me, sir." Nurse that! she thought. For all Huddleston's high prancing ambition, he had never shared the confidences of the King and his brothers like she had. "He wanted my advice. It was about Bella." She darted a sideways glance at the door and was startled to find him so close behind her again. Damnation! One should always watch the enemy. Except it was hard. Facing him made her nervous.

His presence behind her reminded her of being his prisoner at the manor farm. She remembered the insults and set them ready like weights to be catapulted against his wall. Meantime, her fingertips idly played with the curled handle of the lower shutters.

"Lady, you will not lie with George of Clarence."

In answer, she gave an uncaring shrug. She hoped her coldness found a soft part beneath his armour. It did. Pricked, with a muttered oath, he swung away, and she let out a quiet gasp of relief, appalled that her body had been waiting for him to touch her, yearning for the feel of his hands. Never, never must she let this man see the growing effect he was having on her. That knowledge would cost her her freedom. To be rid of the marriage, she must keep him beyond arm's length.

She heard him lay the sword down on the rushes and fling himself on the bed. The silence was tangible. She stayed at the window, her back to him. It was tempting to glance at the door again. Not long, not long.

"Are you waiting for the Duke's windmill mind to stop turning?"

His use of words disarmed her but she schooled herself to turn round slowly, pretending she did not understand him. He was sprawled on the bed, propped on one elbow, his hand supporting his head. "The footsteps I heard were not some ghostly wraith. Someone suspects you of something. Maybe it is merely one of the Nevilles' envious servants hoping to reveal that you and Clarence are conducting a liaison and thus discredit you, or it could be more sinister—the French, the Burgundians, Margaret d'Anjou or the whole lot together."

Jesu, the man was too perceptive, too canny.

"Or even the Emperor or Ned," murmured Margery provocatively, seeking to prod him down a more emotional passageway.
"
He must have agents here too." She faced Huddleston with a bravado that was as fragile as a wren's egg.

"Ah, the hub of our little talk, I think. Are you sent to France to make Clarence forsake your father?"

She looked down on him innocuously while, inside her, consternation hissed and bubbled like an alchemist's cooking pan. "The hub, indeed, sir. Would I betray my father?" Her tone carried a surprised but scornful edge.

"Since he has only bothered to own you for a week, perhaps you would. I think you need to be honest, lady." His eyes perused her as if he sat on some manor bench to hear and determine her case. How dared he sit there and judge her? Her righteous anger bubbled out before she could stop herself.

"With you, Master Huddleston? Since when have you been honest about a single thing since you—since we met. I have no idea how
your
windmill mind turns save that your head is certainly full of oiled cogs and wheels."

"I am sure that at least you know how some of me works." The glint of the hunt gleamed in his green gaze, setting her insides somersaulting. He sat up and swung his long limbs to the floor. His long fingers began to unhook the knops of his doublet. Things were swirling out of control again. She was forgetting how clever he could be. "I wish you might trust me a little, Margery. I did you good service last night." He eased his arms out of his cote and then tugged off his doublet, tossing them onto the other cot.

Margery's eyes swept sideways to the latch then she fidgeted, concerned not only about the lightning that was jerking down her spine but how she was going to talk herself out of his expectations. Time was running short. "You make your meaning plain, sir, but you did give me your promise that you would allow me time to be reconciled to our marriage. Will you not escort me back to Isabella?"

He gave a sigh and looked at her as though she had the understanding of a village simpleton. "Damn you, no, I will not. You need to stay here to allay suspicion. What in Heaven's name do you think I arranged this for—my pleasure, with
you
?"

Ignoring her wide-eyed consternation, he tugged open the laces of his lawn shirt. It gave her an easy view of the dark ripple of hair that began at his heart level and descended into his black hose.

"I do not understand you." It was a
cri du coeur.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "The night is not over yet, lady. What do you not understand?"

Some demon in her prompted honesty. "For one thing, whether there is blood in your veins or river water," she blurted out, and then wished a flagstone would slide open and swallow her into an oubliette.

"Why, you contrary wench, so you do want me to prove my manhood?" He sprang up and moved towards her with a deliberate swagger, making her retreat until the wall was pressing into her shoulder blades. Could he read the panic illuminated in her face? Perhaps, for he advised her softly. "Hark to me,
wife,
I will not have gossip that I wear a cuckold's horns nor will I have you wandering in the dark for some ill purpose. Confide in me or obey me. Does the truth sit so ill upon your tongue?"

Margery moistened her lips. Why had she provoked him? "There is nothing to confide."

He insinuated himself even closer, his grin broad. Wide sleeves walled her in. The musk he wore filled her breathing.

"Then obey me. Stop looking at me as though I am an ogre. I swear to you I shall not demand my husbandly rights until..." he smiled like a torturer, "until you tantalise me beyond endurance and tonight you will. As you have just demonstrated, you enjoy playing with fire more than you know."

He was going to teach her obedience. She knew it. He might not compel her but his promises did not prevent him from touching her.

At last there were voices in the passageway. Her eyes swiftly glanced beyond him.

"Expecting visitors?" His cold gaze scythed her. "You were ready for this, were you not? I suppose you had Littlebourne and Wyke posted to follow us out of the hall. Was their attempted molestation of you the other day set up in front of my servant to make me change my mind about marrying you? Do they snuffle like pigs in your—"

"No!" screamed Margery. Her palm was caught a skin's width from his face. His fingers bit into her wrist.

"Swear so, on your very soul!" He jabbed her fingers at the silver cross about her neck.

"I swear it. I would never do that to you."

"Would you not? I wish I knew." Green fire smouldered in his eyes but a sound outside the door halted whatever purpose he had in mind. "You vixen," he said softly and stepped back from her. His expression had lightened but the gleam of battle still glinted in his eyes. "My dear," he said loudly, "there is a scuffly sort of noise at the door. Are we expecting mice? Oh, I will swear we are." He unlatched the door and flung it open.

Alys, taken unawares with her arms full, gave him an apologetic shrug and ducked in under his arm. Matthew Long was behind her, a waterfall of women's garments rippling over his sleeves. He flushed as his master reluctantly removed his arm from barring an entry and turned to Margery. "Anyone else coming, sweet heart? Falconers, butlers, the odd spit boy?"

"Maybe," she answered sweetly. "The boy, however, cancelled."

Huddleston swore, subsiding on his bed, his face in his hands.

Alys, looking uncomfortable in the role of accomplice, curtsied guiltily before him. "Truly sorry to disturb you, sir, but her grace's tirnmg women said if my lady was sleeping elsewhere then so must I."

Huddleston uncovered his face. His gentle expression for Alys was to goad Margery. "Alys," he answered sweetly, "how could you possibly disturb me?
My lady,
is it now?" He scowled at his wife.

Margery rescued the pannier which her maidservant was clutching defensively to her bosom and dumped it by the wall. As she turned, her husband's ironic expression threatened her. He hoped she was wondering how much longer she could survive this battle of wits, waiting and wanting.

"Master?" Alys prompted.

Richard Huddleston's grin was, he hoped, disturbingly broad. "I do not bite, Alys. As you are here, Long, you may remove my boots." He braced himself as his servant knelt and tugged at each boot in turn. Master and man beamed at each other in mutual understanding. "As for you, girl, you may, of course, lie at
my lady's
feet tonight, but you arrived too early. My lady and I have—how did you put it earlier, Margery?—a
little business yet
." He stood up and unlatched the door for them. "See Alys comes to no harm, Long, and return with her in an hour."

Chapter 14