by Cheryl Bolen
“Indeed. He must read it here.”
“Why? He can read it perfectly well at home.” The ghost’s tactic was clear—to make Gawain stay as long as possible. She put her hands on her hips. “What if I just give it to him? You can’t stop me.”
“No, alas, I am powerless. Are you not ashamed to be so unkind to a poor, helpless ghost, who wants only what is best for you?”
He was as bad as her parents. She clenched and unclenched her fists. “You’re not playing fair. Go away.”
“‘The rules of fair play do not apply in love and war,’” the ghost quoted—and vanished.
She clenched her fists and let out a long shudder of frustration. “Even the ghost will not let me be!”
Gawain watched her stalk back and forth before the fire, cursing softly under her breath.
“This is neither love nor war, confound it.” She glanced at Gawain, muttered, “I beg your pardon,” and kept on pacing.
He wished he could take her in his arms to soothe and comfort her, but that would make her retreat even more. At last she heaved a great, frustrated sigh, and although her bosom swelled delightfully when she took a deep breath, her dislike of carnal relations marred his own pleasure at the sight.
“Does the ghost often annoy you so much?” Gawain was getting used to the spectral presence—although if he ever had the good fortune to share a bed with Isolde, he hoped the Cavalier would make himself scarce.
“Not usually.” She let out another furious huff. “At the moment he’s as bad as my father, ordering me about, deciding what’s good for me.” She took another of those lovely deep breaths. “He insists that you read the poem here.”
“And he also insists that you are in danger.”
“It’s all just a ruse to—” She stopped in mid-sentence and shut her eyes. Tears leaked from the corners.
“Isolde,” he said helplessly, reaching for her, then dropping his hands. “Please don’t cry.”
“He doesn’t really know me,” she raged. “He doesn’t understand me. He only knows what he understands, which is antiquated and unfair.” She slumped, dashing the tears away. “He may be right about danger, though. Sir Andrew hasn’t given up yet. I hate the…the predatory way he looks at me.”
So do I. “The ghost wants me to stay to protect you, and therefore I shall. Go to bed and get some sleep, Isolde. I’ll sit here and read the poem.”
“That’s—that’s most kind of you, but it’s not right,” she said.
“I won’t do anything untoward,” he said. “I’ll just be here.”
“I know, but it’s not fair.”
“In what possible way? I’m happy to stand guard.”
She swallowed, so clearly steeling herself that his heart twisted. She clenched her fists. “The ghost says you want me,” she said, adding after a miserable pause, “In bed, I mean.”
He wasn’t about to lie. “Yes, you’re very desirable, but that’s irrelevant.”
“It’s not irrelevant, but I am unwilling, so you must go.”
“I’m perfectly fine, Isolde, and regardless of what I would like, I’m not leaving you to be preyed upon by the likes of Sir Andrew.” He took her hands. “Sweet Isolde, the one it’s not fair to is you.”
Isolde gave a shuddering sob and got herself under control. She withdrew her hands. “I’m perfectly fine as well, I assure you.”
He must know this wasn’t true, but he didn’t contradict her. He watched her calmly, and somehow his very tranquility helped her maintain her own composure—yet she couldn’t meet his gaze, doubtless because of the mortifying topic at hand.
Best to get it over with, then. “I don’t wish to remarry, and I don’t wish to take a lover, regardless of what the ghost says. It was improper of me to invite you to my bedchamber, although it was just for the sake of privacy. I apologize.”
He shook his head. “Come, let’s sit on the sofa. We have to talk.”
“No, we—” She huffed. He was right. They hadn’t decided what to do about the pendant. She sat down, and he poured a dollop of brandy into her empty mug. “Drink up. It’ll give you a boost.”
He leaned against the back of the sofa, watching her again. She sipped the brandy slowly, trying to marshal her thoughts on the question of the pendant. The brandy warmed her gullet. Warmed her belly. She sank against the cushions, calmer now, but too tired to think, or maybe too…something. She wasn’t sure what.
So she sipped, and he watched, and slowly she sipped some more. Warmth and ease crept over her. She leaned against the sofa and sighed.
He removed the cup from her hand. “Isolde, the joining of husband and wife is meant to be enjoyable for both parties,” he said. “Ecstatic, even.”
“Ha!” she said before she could stop herself.
“You’ve been deprived of that pleasure—or maybe even harmed—so you no longer want what’s natural and right. That’s what’s not fair.”
This wasn’t the topic she meant to address. “I wasn’t harmed, and I don’t want to talk about it.”
He kept on watching her. Good God, did he actually expect her to confide in him? She’d already said far too much.
“Have some more brandy.” He added another dollop to her mug.
It crossed her tired and slightly muzzy mind that he might be trying to get her intoxicated for his own devious ends. She knew how to put a stop to that. She set the mug down.
“Very well, if you must know, I was disgusted.” Pause. “Or just sick and tired of it.” Another pause. “Or simply bored out of my mind.” She picked up the mug and took another sip of brandy. “All that grunting, like a pig.” She made a face. “I think Alan would have been even worse. He pinched and leered, and then panted and heaved, red-faced and horrid, and then suddenly he flopped onto me, heavy as lead—not surprising, I suppose, since he was dead.”
“Disconcerting.”
“Yes, for a few moments, and then, ah, such blissful relief.” She shouldn’t have said that. It was the sort of confession that fueled caricatures. If she hadn’t drunk the brandy, she wouldn’t have been so indiscreet. She set the mug down again and crossed her arms. “You’d better go.”
He didn’t. He simply sat there, watching her, saying nothing. After a while he got up and put more coals on the fire. She should be mortified at what she’d said, but she was too weary and too befuddled to care. She should insist that he leave, but it would be a waste of breath. Clearly, he wasn’t going anywhere.
“I don’t think I grunt,” Gawain said pensively, “but I can’t say for sure. My experience is limited, but no one’s ever accused me of it.”
“How fortunate for you,” she retorted. At least, she meant it as a retort, but it came out as an exhausted mutter.
“Nor do I pinch, and I don’t think I leer, but gazing with lustful eyes upon a beautiful female form is almost unavoidable.”
That made her wonder if women ever gazed with lustful eyes upon a male form. She pondered what Gawain would look like without his clothing. Better than either Simon or Alan, of that she was sure. “I appreciate your truthfulness,” she said.
He smiled at her, but she didn’t detect any lust in his gaze, only kindness and concern. She yawned. Once, twice, her eyelids fell shut, and she jerked them open again. He was still there, leaning back on the sofa cushions, staring at the fire.
He turned his head, meeting her eyes. “I think you were just unlucky.”
She scowled, or tried to. “I refuse to risk that sort of bad luck again.”
“Marriage isn’t the only way to find out,” he said.
Chapter 5
“Where were you all night?”
Gawain opened one eye. That was his mother’s voice. Judging by the way he felt, he’d only been asleep a few minutes. He shut his eye again. One’s mother wasn’t supposed to ask that sort of question of a grown man.
“You sneaked into the Court again, didn’t you?”
How typically motherly to ask him a ques
tion to which she already knew the answer. He grunted, stubbornly refusing to open his eyes.
“And you didn’t return until dawn.” Lady Burke pulled the coverlet down. “Not only that, you came through the kitchen, of all foolish entrances to choose. The cook, a footman, and the scullery maid all saw you, and it’s causing talk.”
That didn’t worry him. He’d been seen at the Court by both a visiting valet and one of the Statham footmen. Perhaps the game was up—but he’d also gained an ally. “What does it matter?”
“It matters because you kissed Lady Isolde in the village yesterday. Most unwise, as I told you the instant I learned of it.”
“It would have been worse not to,” Gawain said. “Besides, I enjoyed it.” He let a smile play across his face.
“I daresay,” Lady Burke said. “She’s a beautiful woman, but you must keep your distance from now on.”
“Why? I like her. She suffered with two unpleasant husbands, not to mention the scandal. She deserves a kind-hearted friend.” He yawned.
“Dressing up as Circe was hardly the ideal way to prevent further gossip,” his mother said. “It will be in the broadsheets by next week.”
He opened his eyes at last and rolled to face her. “She was trying to warn her suitors away. She dislikes them all, but her father is determined to force her into another arranged marriage.” He pulled the coverlet back up to his chin.
“And willing to pay ten thousand pounds for it, I hear. Who has he chosen this time?”
“A fool, a bore, and a relentless lecher. She won’t agree to any of them. She’s had enough of marriage and means to live with James and his wife, but until then, I intend to protect her from unwanted advances. She was reduced to barricading her door last night.”
His mother tutted. “How unconscionable of Lord Statham.” Her features relaxed into resigned understanding. “You’re planning to spend every night there until then?”
“I am,” he said. “Statham is encouraging the suitors to seduce her, and knowing Sir Andrew Dirks, he won’t stop at seduction, if that doesn’t get him what he wants.”
“How horrid. Very well, but please be careful, Gawain. Sneaking into a masquerade for a jest was fine, but think how unpleasant not only for us, but for Isolde, if you were caught. Scandal upon scandal, poor child.”
His mother left, but it was a while before sleep claimed him again. He had enjoyed guarding Isolde. He’d warmed a hot brick for her bed and carried her there, tucking the covers around her. Then he’d read the poem as instructed, and kept watch as she slept through the rest of the night. At last the sounds of servants starting their day had told him it was time to leave.
He had a feeling she wouldn’t agree to a guard every night. Fortunately, they both wanted to know more about the pendant’s history, which provided him with an excuse to see her. Meanwhile, the Cavalier seemed to have plans of his own….
Gawain fell asleep at last, looking forward to the coming night.
Her maid’s voice woke Isolde. “My lady? What is blocking the door?”
Daylight showed through the crack between the bed curtains. For a long moment she lay under the covers…and then the events of the night woke her properly.
She sat up and parted the curtains. Gawain was gone, thank heavens, but when had he left? “Just a moment, Millicent.” She got out of bed and padded over to the door. Somehow, Gawain had managed to squeeze his way out of the room, leaving only a small space between the clothes press and the door. She dragged it out of the way.
Millicent bustled in. “Whatever is your clothes press doing here?”
“Keeping my suitors out.” Isolde yawned and crawled back under the covers. “I don’t sleep well if I have to worry that one of them will creep in during the night.”
The maid tutted. “If you don’t mind my saying so, my lady, his lordship should have chosen more respectful suitors for you.” She crossed to the fireplace. “But nothing can be done about that. Her ladyship ordered me to wake you. She says you are neglecting the guests, and that will never do.”
Isolde groaned. She tried to remember what had happened last night. She and Gawain had been discussing the pendant….
No, they’d been discussing a much more mortifying subject: bed sport. She’d babbled about Simon. And Alan, oh, God. She should never have touched the brandy. He’d offered it to her on purpose, hadn’t he? Devious man, trying to get her to talk….
More than that. He’d said something about marriage not being the only way to find out….
Which was nothing but a blatant attempt at seduction on his part.
That was when she’d decided to stop fighting sleep. If she were asleep, he wouldn’t have an opportunity to wax more persuasive, or kiss her, or… She sat up. She didn’t recall going to bed. She was still wearing her wrapper over her nightdress. Had Gawain carried her? Tucked her in? How embarrassing, as if she were a child—and yet, how typically kind of him.
The papers with the ghost’s latest poem sat in a tidy pile on her bedside table. Seemingly, he had read them before leaving. She picked them up, wondering why the Cavalier had wanted him to do so.
At the bottom of the first page was a penciled stanza of verse:
Until tonight, my Christmas dove
I blow a kiss upon the wind
That it ’cross snowy fields may find
Thy lips to tell thee of my love.
She sat up and read it again. She certainly hadn’t written that down. The pencil must have been Gawain’s….
The Cavalier had dictated a poem to Gawain instead of to her!
“The fire’s going good and strong now, my lady. Let’s get you dressed.”
Isolde folded the sheets of paper and put them away in her secrétaire. She felt hurt and even a little betrayed by the Cavalier, who hadn’t even tried to see things from her point of view. It doesn’t matter, she told herself. She would leave soon, so he would have to find someone else to dictate to in any event.
She let Millicent dress her as she chose, for her mind kept returning to the poem. Such a sweet sentiment, the sort she would adore to receive if ever she had an assignation with a lover. Except that she hadn’t and didn’t want one. But the poem reawakened her memory of Gawain’s kiss, making it blossom in her mind.
Which was sheer foolishness. Love in that poetic context meant lust, nothing more. And they weren’t really lovers. They were just old friends.
Except that he had kissed her, and would like to kiss her again. Did he mean to return again tonight? They hadn’t decided what to do about the pendant, so perhaps he would.
She entered the breakfast parlor just as Lord Cape said, “My valet saw the ghost shortly before dawn. He had gone to the kitchen to brew me a hot posset, and on his way up the stairs, the ghost suddenly loomed before him. It was a dreadful shock, he tells me. His hands shook so much he almost dropped the tray. Fortunately, one of your footmen arrived to help him, and by then the ghost had vanished.”
Her father snorted, and Sir Andrew guffawed. Heavens, what if the ghost was Gawain, and the footman had seen him? Isolde hoped her anxiety didn’t show.
She mustered her composure and served herself from the sideboard. “That is the risk one takes when walking about the house at night,” she said. “As you know to your cost, my lord.”
Cape reddened, and Sir Andrew laughed again. “He wouldn’t scare me,” he said, his assessing gaze on her, and Isolde feared he was right.
“You won’t laugh when he chases you out of the house,” Lord Cape snarled.
“The ghost at my brother’s house in the north of England,” Isolde said, “has a reputation for murder. He is known to have pushed one man off the battlements, another down the tower stairs, and chased another into a field, where he was gored by a bull. I look forward to visiting there, so I can meet such a fascinating ghost.” There, that set the stage for her departure a few days hence.
Lord Cape goggled. “You want to meet a murderous ghost? Dash it al
l, that seems frightfully hazardous.”
Sir Andrew made a rude noise. “Ghosts can’t kill people.”
“My brother says there are death masks to prove it,” Isolde said. “I can’t wait to see them.”
“Nonsense, Isolde,” her father said. “Your future husband will never agree to such a foolish start.”
I won’t have a husband, she said to herself. But if I did, he would be happy to visit my favorite brother. Like Gawain. He certainly wouldn’t be afraid of ghosts. Like Gawain.
What was she thinking?
She wasn’t going to marry—and Gawain wasn’t interested in marrying her in any event. He wasn’t a suitor; he’d said so when still in disguise. He just wanted to take her to bed, and in the process show her that being married mightn’t be so very bad. She didn’t believe that for a minute, and yet she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
She went for a stroll in the garden with Mrs. Denton and Jane, consumed all the while by the memory of Gawain’s kiss. Its sweetness, its warmth. Her lips tingled as if each wintry gust truly could carry a kiss from him to her.
She could have more such kisses, if she chose.
If he even came again tonight. If he knew one of the footmen had seen him, he might not.
But if Gawain did come…he might expect far more than kisses. He’d said he didn’t grunt. Or pinch. But he would want to touch her everywhere. He would want to see her naked. He hadn’t promised not to leer. Which was frank and truthful, and therefore oddly comforting.
What was wrong with her? She didn’t care about the family enmity—a friend of James was her friend, too—but her parents would be deeply offended if they learned that she had dallied with Gawain. So would his, which actually mattered far more. They were good people, generous and kind, and didn’t deserve that Gawain should betray them with the daughter of the enemy.
Finally, the day was over—a long unpleasant day of evading Sir Andrew Dirks. He made a point of brushing against her whenever he had the chance, and then apologizing with a knowing leer. Worst of all was when he’d murmured in her ear, “This coyness makes me want you all the more, Isolde.”