The Least Likely Bride b-3

by Jane Feather

  Olivia could see nothing but his thin lips and the cold calculation in his eyes. Involuntarily her gaze darted to Anthony, who gave her a vague smile.

  “What’s this… what’s this?” the king inquired with a burst of joviality. “D’ye have an eye for the lady Olivia, my lord Channing?”

  Olivia flushed to the tips of her ears and turned to Cato with a gesture of appeal, but before he could intervene Godfrey had bowed to the king and was answering him.

  “A man could not call himself a man, Sire, if he failed to see the lady’s beauty. What man would not aspire to the lady’s hand if given a word of encouragement?”

  “Well, I’ve always enjoyed a wedding,” the king declared as jovially as before. “I trust you would give my lord a word of encouragement, madam?”

  Olivia was struck dumb. Desperately she sought for an answer. Channing had come out in the open now, in the most public way imaginable, and the king had signaled his approval of his subject’s suit. In fact he’d all but ordered her compliance.

  “Sire, my daughter is but newly entered this society,” Cato said quietly. “I would give her time to find her feet before she’s swept off them.”

  The king frowned. In the past such jocular attention as he’d bestowed upon the marquis’s daughter would have been seen as the greatest sign of royal favor. His countenance took on a petulant air.

  “Well, be that as it may,” he said, turning his shoulder to Lord Granville. “Hammond, I have done with bowls for today. Mr. Caxton, give me your arm again.”

  Anthony obeyed. That greedy, dangerous, cowardly fool was intending to court Olivia. His expression gave away nothing as he strolled with the king back to the postern gate, maintaining an even flow of flattering responses to his sovereign’s lethargic conversation.

  Once back in the great hall, where supper was laid at the long banqueting table, Anthony accepted his dismissal and left the king’s side.

  The guests were taking their places on the long benches at the table, and Godfrey Channing was making his way purposefully to Olivia and her two friends. Rufus and Cato were nowhere in view. Anthony crossed the room, his one thought to forestall Godfrey Channing.

  “Lady Olivia, may I escort you to the table?”

  She turned and for a moment her expression was unguarded. Her eyes, filled with a riot of trouble and question, flew to Anthony’s face.

  “There’s no need to be afeard,” he murmured, instinctively feeling her terror and confusion.

  She wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that he would protect her from Godfrey Channing, wanted to believe he would protect her from himself, from herself. But how could he protect her from this tangled skein of dreams and deception when it was a skein of his own tangling? If only he was a different man, a man who didn’t do the things he did. But what good was a different man when this was the one she wanted?

  Her hand fluttered towards him, then fell to her side. “I’m not afeard,” she said, and turned back to her friends.

  Anthony moved away immediately, wondering why she’d refused his escort. Sometimes he didn’t understand her at all. He told himself that she was merely playing his game, keeping away from him because it was safer. He told himself that, but it didn’t somehow ring true. There had been such trouble in her eyes. Perhaps it had something to do with Channing’s declared suit.

  Anthony’s mouth hardened. He would have to put a stop to that, but how to do it without breaking his own cover?

  Godfrey Channing approached the three women as they reached the table. “My ladies, allow me to escort you to the top of the table.” He spoke to all three of them, but his eyes were on Olivia and it was Olivia to whom he offered his silk-clad arm.

  “Why, you may escort us with pleasure, sir,” Portia said, taking the proffered arm before Olivia could move. “Our husbands appear to have deserted us.”

  “Lady Olivia…” Godfrey offered her his free arm.

  “Olivia can take my arm and you may escort Lady Granville,” Portia said firmly. “We are very strict about rank, and married ladies take precedence.”

  Phoebe controlled her laughter at this absurdity and took up her cue. Godfrey had no choice but to accept the fait accompli.

  Cato and Rufus awaited their wives at the head of the board. Cato saw the strain in Olivia’s eyes as she approached, clinging to Phoebe’s arm. “Come and sit beside me, Olivia,” he said, taking her hand and drawing her down to the bench beside him.

  “If Lady Olivia will permit me…” Godfrey smiled and took his place on her other side.

  Olivia sat rigid. Her eyes darted down the table to where Anthony was sitting idly toying with his wine goblet. He looked at her just once, then turned to his neighbor.

  Godfrey placed a slice of roast swan on Olivia’s platter. “Pray allow me to serve you, my lady… in all ways. I am always and entirely at your service.” His thin mouth smiled meaningfully; his cold eyes regarded her hungrily.

  Olivia said in an undertone, “You must forgive me, Lord Channing, but I have no interest in marriage. My father is aware of this. I am a scholar, and have no time for marrying.”

  “I trust your feelings are not already engaged,” he said, his voice suddenly sharp, his fingers tightening around his goblet.

  Olivia shook her head. “No.”

  “Then I may hope,” he returned, smiling again. He touched her hand as she picked up her knife. “I have been reading the poetry of Catullus. There was a stanza I found somewhat confusing. I wonder if you would enlighten me.”

  “Catullus is not one of my favorites,” Olivia lied, her voice dull. “You’ll have to forgive me.”

  Godfrey cast about for another topic of conversation as Olivia sat still as stone beside him, the food cooling on her plate. He moved his thigh closer to hers, and she jumped as if burned.

  This was not going to be as easy as Brian Morse had implied. But he would have her in the end. He glanced sideways at her. She was beautiful. A man would be proud to own such a wife. Such a wealthy wife. If gentle persuasion didn’t work, then there were other ways. He would have her.

  Godfrey turned his attention to the conversation between Lord Rothbury and Lord Granville. There at least Brian’s tactics had sueceeded. Lord Granville had complimented him several times on his astute observations.

  Cato, anxious to take the pressure off his daughter, whose strained silence was as loud as a thunderclap, leaned across her and inquired, “Channing, what do you know of this Caxton fellow? He’s a relatively new acolyte at the king’s altar. My men found little of interest when they checked him out. He lodges in Newport, I believe.”

  Rufus speared venison on the tip of his knife. “I gather he’s well known on the island.”

  “He’s a hanger on,” Godfrey said, eager to impart what he knew. “A man who likes to brag that he dines at the king’s table. He has some fortune, I believe, but comes from an undistinguished family on the mainland.”

  Olivia listened. Anthony’s game was clearly succeeding. He appeared so insignificant, no one would give him the time of day in this heavily suspicious atmosphere. But how, she wondered, could anyone be truly fooled if they looked at him? Everything about him radiated authority and competence. How could anyone not see the wicked gleam of amusement in his eye? Not be aware of the razor-sharp mind behind the foolish, vacant exterior?

  “The king seems to favor him,” Cato said thoughtfully.

  “Sometimes it pleases His Majesty to play favorites,” Godfrey said. “I’ve noticed how, particularly if he’s out of sorts with Colonel Hammond, he’ll deliberately take up with some nobody, almost as if he would slight the governor.” He nodded authoritatively as he spoke, and glanced down the table at the man in question. Caxton had turned his head towards his neighbor. Godfrey’s hand stilled as he raised his goblet to his lips. There was something about his profile… something so familiar…

  Godfrey stared. But the reference eluded him. He’d seen Caxton before at Carisbrooke.
The king was notorious for choosing to favor insignificant outsiders. He did it to pique his noble jailers. Governor Hammond understood this, as did his staff. They put up with the king’s little game, because, after all, how few power games remained to him?

  And yet there was something about this lowly esquire that didn’t sit right. Godfrey watched him. He was doing nothing out of the ordinary, had his usual vapid smile on his lips.

  So what in the devil’s name was it about the man?

  The king set down his silver chalice. He was bored with his supper, bored with his company, and had something better to do. “I will retire, Hammond.”

  The company set down their utensils. Most hadn’t finished their first course, but they rose awkwardly at the benches as the governor moved to the king’s chair.

  His Majesty cast a glance down the table, offering the favor of a nod to no one, then he stepped away from the board. The governor escorted him to the barred and guarded chamber in the north curtain wall.

  “I bid you good night, Sire.” Colonel Hammond bowed in the doorway.

  “The nightingale in his cage, Hammond.” The king gave a short laugh as he looked around his comfortable prison. “But I must thank you for taking such good care of me.”

  “I will take such care of Your Majesty as conscience and duty dictate, Sire.” The words were carefully chosen, designed to let the king know that this newest escape plan was a secret only in its proposed execution.

  “Good night, Hammond.”

  “Sire.” The governor bowed himself from the chamber. The two guards moved into place. They would not turn the key on His Sovereign Majesty, but only a spirit could pass unnoticed through the door.

  “Pour hot water, Dirk. I would wash my hands.”

  The valet turned to the washstand and hurriedly Charles took the folded slip of paper from his pocket. He slid it beneath his pillow, then stretched and yawned.

  “Your Majesty is fatigued.” The valet held a basin of hot water, a towel draped over his arm.

  “Aye. But ‘tis the fatigue of the spirit, Dirk. Not that of bodily exertion.” The king washed his hands, dried them. “You may go now. I’ll put myself to bed.”

  “Your nightshirt, Sire.” The valet was uncomfortable with the command and lifted the snowy garment from the end of the bed. “I should take Your Majesty’s suit for brushing.”

  “Leave me, man!” There was an unusually rough note in the king’s tone.

  The valet bowed himself out.

  The king waited until the soft conversation between the valet, a servant of the governor’s, and the guards had ceased before he took Edward Caxton’s slip of paper from beneath his pillow.

  The message had no seignearial courtesies.

  Be prepared for the night of the new moon. You will be alerted of the exact time on the day itself. Burn through the bars and lower yourself with the cord over the curtain wall. We will be waiting for you.

  Charles read the message several times. Curiously its lack of adornment gave him confidence. He’d been let down too many times by those with more heart than sense. He held the paper over the candle flame and watched it curl and disintegrate. Then he swept the embers into his palm and tossed them through the bars of his window. A window that looked out over the downs towards the sea.

  Caxton would free him. The king knew that Caxton didn’t belong in the ranks of all the passionate men who had thrown their lives into the scale on their sovereign’s side. Caxton was a mercenary, one who would as soon see the king lose this war as win it. But one could trust a mercenary not to let his heart rule his head. The passionate would be paying Caxton, and the mercenary would execute the plan. King Charles of England trusted this arrangement.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “ Wind Dancer will stand out from Puckaster Cove with Jethro in command. I’ll take the dinghy into the cove myself. Mike will meet me with horses and come with me to bring away the king. We’ll need three horses, Mike.” Anthony laid out his plan to the group assembled in his cabin.

  “We’re lookin‘ fer the night of the new moon, sir?”

  “Yes, and we’ll pray for a dark one.”

  Anthony bent over the chart table. “The tide will be with us at midnight on that night. We’ll create the diversion at eleven. The king will make his escape then, and with fast horses we should be back at the cove within thirty minutes. With a fair wind for the dinghy, we’ll be on board again in time to catch the tide. Adam, you’ll have this cabin prepared for the king.”

  “What kind of diversion?” Adam inquired.

  Anthony smiled. “One of our friends in the castle will set off a series of small gunpowder explosions on the battlements. I hope it’ll distract the guard on the ramparts long enough for the king to lower himself from his window.”

  Adam nodded. The Isle of Wight was strongly Royalist. There were friends of the king among the colonel’s troops at Carisbrooke, just as there were in all the local garrisons on the island. Anthony knew them all.

  “So, are your positions clear?” Anthony looked around at his men.

  “Reckon so. But, ‘ow are we to talk to the king?”

  The puzzled question made Anthony laugh. “I doubt you’ll have the chance to speak to him at all, Jethro. But if you do, a bow and a murmured ‘Your Majesty’ will probably suffice.”

  “Lord, never thought to sail wi‘ a king,” Sam muttered.

  “Well, if there are no more questions, that’s all for now, gentlemen.”

  The men left with the exception of Adam, who began to tidy the cabin.

  Anthony cast off the finery he’d worn to the castle. He dressed swiftly in britches and shirt, fastening his dagger at his hip.

  “You goin‘ to the girl now?” Adam demanded, regarding these preparations with some dismay.

  “Any objections, old man?” The pirate raised a teasing quizzical eyebrow as he pulled on his boots.

  “Ye’ve barely three hours before dawn.”

  “It’s sufficient.” Anthony winked and Adam tutted.

  An hour later he was riding through the night-dark village of Chale. Olivia wouldn’t be expecting him and he knew it was reckless to go so late, but he couldn’t rid himself of the image of her troubled eyes, of the way she’d turned from him, almost as if there was something she would say to him but couldn’t. And he wanted her. Wanted her now with a precipitate urgency that astonished him. He could explain it only by the knowledge that time was running out for them. Once the king was safely in France, Granville would have no reason to stay on the island. And where he went, Olivia went. Anthony’s life was here. When he’d rescued the king, he would return to the life he knew, because what else was there for him? And so now while he could, he would take whatever opportunity offered to love Olivia.

  Olivia was sitting on the window seat in her bedchamber when Anthony glided stealthily across the dark garden. She had been sitting there since they had returned from the castle. She was too unhappy to sleep and the nameless dread that hung over her seemed heavier than ever.

  She had no sense of Anthony’s approach until she heard a soft scrape on the bark of the magnolia tree. She knew instantly who it was and despite everything her heart jumped with gladness.

  “Anthony?”

  “Shhh.” His golden head emerged from the glossy leaves, and his gray eyes laughed across the distance that separated them. He put a finger to his lips, then swung himself from the branch onto the window ledge.

  “You’re mad to come so late,” she whispered, looking at him in helpless turmoil. “The dogs will be out by six.”

  “It’s barely five.” He reached for her. For a moment she held back, confusion, distress, anger twisting in her heart and her head. He smiled at her, a little questioning smile, and without volition she went into his arms. It was as if she had no will. She clung to him, quivering with longing, aware of the urgency of her need, of the little time they had together. The first birdsong of the predawn chorus came through the window
as he dropped to the floor with her.

  “Kneel up, sweet.” He turned her with his hands at her waist so she had her back to him. He pushed her shift to her waist, caressed her flanks, slid a flat palm between her thighs, stroking deeply in the hot wet furrow of her body. She groaned, fell forward with her hands on the floor, her back dipping as, shamelessly wanton, she pushed backward, opening herself to his caresses.

  With one hand he continued to play with her as he tore open his britches, releasing the aching shaft of flesh. Then he held her hips and slid within her slick and welcoming body with the sigh of a man who has come home.

  She rose with him on the tide of ecstasy, her bottom pressed into his belly, reveling in the bruising grip of his fingers on her hips. Little sobs of delight broke from her lips and he moved one hand to grasp the back of her neck, his fingers pushing up into the tumbled fall of her hair. And then her knees gave way and she slipped to the floor beneath his weight, her face pressed to the rug, as the waves broke over her. She tightened her thighs around him, holding him within her, reveling in the deep throb of his flesh, and then he withdrew and she felt the hot stickiness of his seed bathing her bottom and thighs.

  Anthony rolled sideways until he was lying beside her on the rug. He reached out to stroke the curve of her cheek, lifting a lock of damp hair from her forehead. “I don’t know what you do to me, my flower. But when I’m with you I’m as uncontrolled as a virgin lad with his first whore.”

  Olivia chuckled weakly. “I don’t know quite how to take that.”

  “No, perhaps it didn’t come out quite right.” He propped himself on an elbow and lightly stroked her shoulder, her upper arm, feather-light brushes of his fingertips.

  Olivia rolled onto her side facing him.

  Did it matter what he was?

  Surely she could manage to separate this glory, the wonder of this loving, from the wrong that he had done. Piracy, smuggling, they excited her, she embraced them as part of her lover. Why should the other thing be any different?