When Alex deserted her, she vowed to keep what remained of her heart inviolate. If she relented and accepted him into her bed, eventually he would become bored with her. He would discard her again without a thought. Nay. She tugged her robe tighter around her. Love was a weakness Alex would manipulate to his satisfaction and that way lay destruction. She would never survive the pain of betrayal a second time.
A sound in the garden below caught her attention. Peering out the window, she looked down. Moonlight shown on a bare patch of grass and revealed a man clutching his sword with both hands. Kat frowned. Alex swung his sword madly at invisible foes, chasing away the night creatures that rustled in the darkened sanctuary.
Exhausted and sweaty, Alex quietly entered the antechamber. It was not yet dawn and he did not want to wake Kat and burden her with his darkness anymore than he had. He was ashamed of his weakness. And he had nearly endangered Kat because of it. Only once before did he wake in such a state—mostly his demons were harmless to none but him. It was the blasted wine. In future he would have to be more careful. This time he’d deftly distracted Kat from asking more prying questions.
Alex tugged his tunic and sherte off. With his linen sherte he wiped the sweat from his face and chest. Some good came from his exertions, though. While exorcizing his demons in the garden with mindless physical activity, it freed up his thoughts to work out a solution to his dilemma.
Six years ago, he acted selfishly by not telling Kat of his plans to go on Crusade. She was his wife and had had a right to know of his decision. Though he could not have forsaken his vow to take up the cross, he could have given her a choice to accompany him to the Holy Land or stay behind at Montclair.
In order to redeem his selfish act, he must make a huge sacrifice in exchange. And in the process he could regain a measure of control. This time Kat would have a choice. It was a risky proposition, but naught worth having should come without struggle, lest a man not appreciate what he had until he lost it. Unfortunately, he learned that lesson too late.
Chapter 4
A gaunt, dark-robed clerk ushered Alex into the king’s private receiving room later that morning. Curious, Alex glanced around.
“The king will be with you shortly, my lord.” The clerk bowed and exited out a small hidden side door on a painted wall that depicted a map of the world.
The room was long and narrow, but its high ceiling, gold-leafed beams, and painted walls gave it a sense of grandeur. Below the painted map on the west wall of the chamber were a table and two chairs. The narrow, shorter wall opposite the entrance had a cold fireplace, above which hung a portrait of Queen Eleanor sitting on a bench reading a book in her rose-drenched garden.
Alex strode to one of the rare, stained-glass east windows and opened the casement. Locking his hands behind his back, he stared unseeing into the garden as soothing sunshine warmed his face. And pondered the wisdom of the plan he’d concocted to win Kat’s heart. His abandonment left Kat scarred in ways he could not imagine, and he did not know if she could ever forgive him. But he had to try. Without Kat, he had naught left.
He would succeed. He must succeed.
“Alex.”
Alex started at the great booming voice and turned from the window to greet his monarch. King Edward closed the door where the clerk had exited earlier and strode into the room. Known as Edward Longshanks because of his great height, the king stood a few inches taller than Alex. They met in the center of the room.
“Sire.” Alex bowed deeply and then rose at the king’s command.
Edward’s golden hair shone in the sunlight, and his smile broadened as he clasped Alex’s shoulders heartily.
“’Tis good to see you hale and whole.” Edward surveyed him critically with his probing blue gaze. “Prison seems to have had no adverse effect upon you.”
Alex’s mouth quirked. “Do not believe everything you see. My sojourn with the Saracens was no picnic, though I did meet many English guests to keep me company during my visit,” he finished dryly.
“Indeed. The Saracens are renowned for their hospitality,” Edward rejoined ironically. Then his mien swiftly turned serious, his gaze stern with rebuke. “You were missed last eve. I expected your presence at the feast.”
Alex’s own smile turned grim as he confessed, “I’m afraid once Rand made known to me of certain rumors, my anger got the better of me.” He did not elaborate. The king no doubt was aware of all that went on at his court.
Edward smiled slyly. “Aye. That was quite a spectacle I witnessed.” He moved to the table along the wall. “The queen has done what she can to quell the rumors at court, but I’m afraid naught may be done when gossipmongers converse in private.”
On the table waited a flagon of wine and two chalices.
“Come. Let us toast to your miraculous return.”
A close companion of Edward since the Barons’ War, Alex was unsure how to act now that Edward was king. Edward sat in the larger, more elaborate chair and filled his chalice with wine from the flagon. Eased by the informality, Alex followed suit.
King Edward raised his goblet in a toast. “To England and your safe return.”
Alex raised his chalice and then drank deeply. The claret was smooth and sweet, but with a slight bite to it.
Edward lowered his wine, leaned back and rested his forearm on the table. “Now. Tell me how it came about that you ended up in a Saracen dungeon. I understand you were accosted not far from camp on the second night of your journey. When your men discovered you missing in the morning, they searched for you and found a pool of blood where you were attacked.”
Gathering his thoughts, Alex set his cup on the table and linked his fingers together on his stomach. “Aye. It was late and I had wandered away from camp before retiring. Someone attacked me from behind and as I turned, a hard blow to my head knocked me out. I woke several days later in the oubliette of a fortress in Syria with my skull pounding and two Frankish prisoners for companions.”
“Why did we not receive a ransom demand?”
“My attackers stole everything of value that would identify me as a knight. And when I tried to explain I could pay ransom, I was ignored. The guard came twice a day to drop food down the oubliette, but he never spoke or answered my demands. For a month I was held in the pit with no contact with anyone other than the two prisoners. Then I was removed to a dungeon cell.”
Alex had tried to forget that dismal time without success—the unending misery and gnawing hunger had clawed at his innards until he had prayed for a quick death. There was never enough food to feed one man, let alone three. It was a cruel game played by the captain of the prison guard to provide sustenance enough for one man and see who had the strongest instinct for survival.
Alex shared the portion he secured with one of the Frankish soldiers who was wounded and unable to fend for himself. But as Alex grew weaker and the Frank did not improve, he realized they would both die if he continued sharing. Having alone survived, Alex still agonized over the death of those two men, for he as good as killed them himself. They had not died honorably in battle like warriors should, but were treated like savage beasts and slowly starved to death.
The king leaned forward abruptly in his chair, drawing Alex’s thoughts back from the past. “Once released from the oubliette, what did you do then?”
Alex reached for his chalice and took a long, soothing draught of wine before he answered. “You may be sure I tried again to convince my captors of my ability to pay ransom. But my entreaties were not appreciated, and the guards had a unique way of silencing recalcitrant prisoners.” Uncomfortable revealing even a hint of the torture he endured, Alex shifted against the back of his chair. The hard wood chafed the welts lacing his back.
From a distance, Alex heard the king say, “And yet you are here. Returned to us, like Joseph, the lost son of Israel reunited with his family after years of slavery.”
A guttural laugh escaped Alex. The similarities between their experien
ces were eerie. Alex, too, was betrayed, tossed down a pit and sold into slavery in Egypt, or rather Egyptian-held Syria. But unlike Joseph, he was not so forgiving. Years of his life were stolen from him, years he could have spent in Kat’s arms. Nay, Alex lived for revenge. And he would receive satisfaction if it killed him.
Alex loosened a white-knuckled grip from his chalice and replied, “Aye. ’Tis a miracle you see me before you, alive and well.”
Then Alex went on to tell Edward how he escaped and made it back to England, paying passage on a merchant ship with the two horses he stole when he fled.
“’Tis an amazing journey you have had, Alex,” said Edward. “But something troubles me. This attack that landed you in a Mamluk dungeon is very odd. If the men who attacked you were enemy soldiers, you would be dead now. It was too dangerous for them to encroach upon the camp simply to capture a prisoner. And if they were simple thieves, they would have killed you or left you where you lay. But instead they captured you, carted you hundreds of miles away, and sold you into slavery. It sounds to me like this attack was personal.”
A vein in Alex’s temple throbbed. “Aye, Sire. I’ve come to the same conclusion,” he said, his voice low and lethal. He refilled his goblet.
The king’s eyes lit with keen interest as he leaned forward in his chair again. “You have a powerful enemy, my friend. Whoever it is, he wants you dead, and not a quick, merciful death, but a slow, agonizing one. Do you know who might have a grudge against you?”
Alex shrugged, but he saw the king was not fooled.
“Come, man, I know you must have some idea who the culprit is.”
“I made many enemies, as you well know, when I helped subdue the rebels after the Barons’ War. It could be any one of them.” Alex paused.
King Edward’s chair creaked. Not given to idleness, he rose from his chair and moved to the wall of windows. “Aye. Many lost their ancestral homes or paid steep compensation to regain their confiscated lands. But we have peace in the land now, and many former rebels I consider friends.” As he gazed down on the scenery below he asked, “Do you have any proof or clues? Did you perchance get a look at your attackers’ faces?”
Alex rose from his chair and sat on the edge of the table, crossing his arms. “It happened very quickly, but I did see the face of the man who struck the blow to my head. He was dark skinned, with a distinctive scar on his left cheek.”
“And was he known to you?”
“As a matter of fact, we met on one occasion. Though I don’t know his name. And the circumstances were quite similar. He and two others ambushed me on my wife’s estate several years before Kat and I married. I killed his two minions, but he escaped.”
Alex smiled in remembrance at Kat’s brave interference. He was so angry with her then, but looking back, he could not help feeling an odd sort of pride at her fearless defense of him. Alex did not explain to Edward that he was responsible for the man’s disfigurement.
Alex continued. “The first time the man whom I have come to call Scarface attacked me, he bragged he was hired to kill me. The incident occurred only a year after all the rebels were subdued. But when there was no other attempt on my life, I thought that the end of it. Until he attacked me again.”
Edward turned, his gaze intense. After pondering Alex’s words, he began pacing as he spoke. “So you believe one of the defeated barons hired this Scarface to kill you. When it failed, he waited for you to become complacent and looked for an opportune moment to dispose of you, and in such a way your death would not be examined closely. He wanted no suspicion to be raised as to the cause of your death. ’Tis absolutely diabolical, if so.”
Alex said naught, his jaw clenched. A black mist rose before his eyes, blinding him with rage. His entire body locked as he controlled the desire to grab the table and toss it aside like kindling. King Edward’s quick, analytical mind had sorted out the bare facts and rearranged them to form a coherent puzzle.
Edward paced back to the table and refilled his chalice. “What do you intend to do now? You saw the face of your attacker, yet you don’t know his identity or his whereabouts.”
Alex expelled his breath slowly and met Edward’s perceptive gaze. “The night I was attacked, the only weapon I carried was my dagger. If you remember, it was a very distinctive weapon, passed down through generations of Beaumont eldest sons.”
“Aye. I remember the Beaumont dagger. The Saxon heiress your great-great-great-grandfather married had it commissioned upon the birth of their first son. She gifted it to her husband as a gesture of peace. Early Briton in design, was it not?”
“You do not err. In prison, I met an English knight by the name of Sir Richard of Ludlow. He told me that before his capture he witnessed a man with Scarface’s description selling the Beaumont dagger to an English traveling merchant. The merchant trader resides here in London, and I plan to seek him out as soon as I can. From him I will secure the mercenary’s name and where I can find him.”
“And when you find this Scarface, he will lead you to the man who hired him.”
Alex would not rest until the perpetrator was either dead or rotting in gaol. “That’s my belief. And with Parliament coming up, I reason the man behind the plot will be here soon at Westminster, if he is not already.”
“Then it’s imperative that no one suspects you know your incarceration was deliberate and not a random act.”
“I’ve told no one but you of my suspicions, Sire.”
King Edward returned to the window and his inspection outside, sipping his wine. Slowly, as if in deep thought, he asked, “And what about my cousin, your lady wife? Do you intend to tell her?”
“Nay. I don’t want Kat involved. The danger is too great. I have a cunning enemy who I doubt will be happy to see me returned from the dead, and the fewer who know, the better.”
Besides, his wife was stubborn and willful and loyal to a fault. Despite how she felt about him, he believed Kat would insist on helping discover the traitor. In a misguided attempt to help, there was no telling what mischief she would stir up. Like the day Scarface attacked Alex at Montclair. Heedless of the peril, Kat had charged into the battle. She was not harmed that day, but the next time she put herself in the way of danger she might not be so lucky.
Alex picked up his chalice and drained the last of his wine. Nay. It was best for all concerned that Kat remain ignorant. Although he did not like the deception, the alternative could only lead to disaster. He would go to any lengths to protect Kat from harm.
The king spoke over his shoulder, “’Tis for the best.” Then he turned and leaned against the window embrasure. “I hear your father is on the mend.”
Alex left the table and joined Edward by the window. “His leg is finally healed enough that he can start walking on it again. But it will be longer before he is able to travel. He has asked me to stand proxy for him at council.”
“Good, I will need Briand support if I am to find a way to pay the debt accrued by my Crusade.” With the mention of Parliament, and no doubt the reminder of the difficult task of raising taxes, the king concluded the interview. “’Tis good to have you home at last, Alex. Let me know what you discover from our merchant friend. I intend to support you in this endeavor.”
Dismissed, Alex bowed. “Thank you, Sire.” Seeing Edward’s facile mind was already on other weighty topics, Alex left the chamber.
Alex exited the palace and entered the garden, the sky overhead full of fast-moving clouds interspersed with sunshine. It was the shortest route to the river landing, where he planned to catch a watercraft and travel down the Thames to London. When he woke that morning, Kat had already left their apartments, so he’d been unable to speak to her of the decision he came to in the early morning hours. Alex decided he might as well use the opportunity to find the merchant who bought the Beaumont dagger from Scarface.
Gravel crunching beneath his scuffed boots, he followed the path to the left skirting the fountain at the center of the ga
rden. He was intent on avoiding the well-populated areas and any who might detain him.
His stride swift, Alex passed a birdbath and exited the garden through the tall wooden gate near the river. The briny smell of the tidal water wafted upon an easterly breeze across his right cheek. A peasant whistling a jaunty tune pushed a wheelbarrow of firewood down a path towards the palace kitchens.
Green lawn scattered with white daisies and deep blue periwinkles spread out before him almost to the riverbank, where tall grasses and willow trees grew. Further north, a row of houses backed onto the west bank of the river, their small garden plots bright with blooms.
A flash of movement caught Alex’s eye, drawing his gaze to a willow tree up ahead beyond the river stairs. The tree trunk grew not straight up, but angled out over the river, so the long, silvery-green leaves stretched their fingers towards the water’s edge. He peered into the shadows beneath the verdant canopy and spotted a swath of blue cloth. Recognizing the long, elegant lines of his wife’s body, his heart beat faster. She was propped against the willow trunk, unaware of lurking danger.
Alex slowly approached, then pushed aside her leafy concealment and stepped into her hidden bower. Hearing him, her head snapped around. Their gazes collided; hers widened in consternation. She tried to bolt, but he caught her arm and pushed her back against the tree. She narrowed her eyes on his hand, which still gripped her arm, and he released her.
He met her softly veiled gray eyes, her nearness, her jasmine fragrance a provocative distraction. Today her exquisite face was framed by the veil and circlet she wore, and her hair hung unbound down her back. He longed to sift his fingers through the cool, silky blue-black tresses he remembered so vividly in his dreams. His member tightened and swelled.
Kat stared at Alex, dismayed. The air in the confined space thickened and her heart pumped with agitation. His midnight eyes darkened with an inner light, his smile ripe with satisfaction. She gathered her courage and raised her chin, defiant. “What do you want, Alex?”
Vow of Seduction Page 5