Margery kicked herself free of the gown. "My few possessions are with my lady the Countess." She gestured, irritable at her helplessness. "I have no jewels or coin with which to thank you, save a ring that was said to belong to my mother and truly"—her lips trembled—"I should be loath to part with that."
The old woman nodded. "Save your thanks for later, my child. You are not away from here yet and there is still work to be done before nightfall. Perhaps if we are liberal with the ale tonight…" She tapped a finger to the side of her nose.
Margery took her by the shoulders with gratitude. "One day, if I can, I will reward you threefold, I swear it."
Later, cleansed, fed at last, and with fresh linen underclothes, Margery curled beneath the coverlet and forced herself to banish everything from her mind. To escape she needed strength and for that she needed rest. One hour's sleep since yesternight would aid her little when she needed her wits about her.
The shadows told her it was well into the afternoon when she awoke. She opened the window shutters, shivering in the cold rush of air as she fixed the direction she must ride in. Southwest, the way the Earl had been fleeing, or north back to the convent? No, not back to the cloister. Her livelihood lay with the Earl's household. If she could leave that night, she might have a chance of rejoining the Earl at Exeter. The city was known to favor his cause and he had two ships at Dartmouth. But what if she arrived too late?
What if he had already embarked for Calais? Maybe she could take passage with some fishing vessel by selling the golden and pearl ring. The final problem of how she was going to explain her sudden disappearance to the Countess would require some careful consideration for they must be thinking ill of her seeming desertion, but she would cross that perilous river when she came to it.
Her plans were halted as heavier footsteps than the maidservant's came up the stairs and paused outside the door. The sound of a key in the lock made her tremble but by the time the door opened, she had squared her shoulders and assumed indifference.
"You slept?" It was Master Stone. She gave no indication of having heard him, and kept her face to the casement. "The gossip is I am intent on ravishing you." Margery's shoulders tensed but still she did not turn. "Well, it is not such a bad idea. What time would suit?"
She suppressed the gasp that came unbidden to her lips. Her heartbeat grew frantic but she controlled her speech with supreme effort, not deigning to turn her head. "If it pleases you to mock me beforehand, King's Receiver, then the sooner the better." She could feel his gaze searing down her spine.
He laughed but there was no mockery. "I congratulate you on your bravery but you have nothing to fear from me. I apologize for my poor sense of humor." She ignored him. "But I pray you, turn around. The light through your undergown renders you far too tempting for my present purpose." His words sent her glancing down in consternation, wondering whether he was speaking the truth. "Humor me, mistress!"
The sudden anger in his voice penetrated her confidence, undermining her courage, but she refused to comply, her stance haughty, her face lifted, her shoulders thrown back. She heard him step nearer. "You are proud beyond your station. What are you but a duchess's tiring woman?" She sensed his eyes flickering coldly over her and she flinched inwardly. His voice came closer still. "Why should I want the King's discarded plaything? You come dower-less and used, mistress. There are better bargains to be had elsewhere."
There was a rasp of bitterness in his voice as if he had some personal reason for despising her. Her breast heaved with anger but she had no answer. No one had reminded her so bitterly of her situation. The truth was something she had tried to spare herself but now it was like a whipcord across her shoulder. Stanching her tears, she busied herself closing the shutters.
"Ah, no matter, be of good cheer, wench. Perhaps it will be summer for you again. I am taking you to your lover tomorrow. Mayhap the King has only temporarily mislain you."
The ability of this stranger to surprise her every time he opened his mouth amazed her, but she would be cursed if she would let him see that.
"The King?" she echoed coolly and swung around, finding to her dismay that he was standing less than a pace behind her. She refused to meet his supercilious gaze, staring sideways with all the hauteur she could manage but uncomfortably aware of his height and strength; he could so easily overpower her. "Why should the King wish to set eyes on me again? Do you imagine there will be some reward for you?"
But he did not answer. Her glance jerked to his face and found him dangerously distracted with examining the half-visible globes of her breasts above the borrowed under-gown. Exposed beneath those intense green eyes, Margery cursed inwardly, realizing too late that he could see the dark aureoles of their peaks beneath the white linen. The studied coldness in his expression was momentarily vanquished, replaced by a look of pure masculine appreciation as his gaze rose up her white throat, lingered at her lips, and finally met her eyes.
"Some reward?" he answered finally, with a faint smile. "Yes, there certainly will be."
CHAPTER 2
Richard dragged his eyes away from his delectable prisoner with an unspoken curse. He had unfinished business with Margery of Warwick.
Those enticing parted lips, the feel of her thighs beneath his as he had once knelt astride her, that gossamer honey hair—these imaginings had haunted his nights. Did she know who he was? Did she remember the intimacy of their last meeting? Oh, Christ, if the King had not…
Now the wench was staring at him, a faint frown creasing her brow, and he wanted desperately to slide his fingers down her half-naked shoulders, pull her against him, and feast upon her mouth.
"So you have expectations, King's Receiver." She broke the sudden silence between them, her voice husky as if she had the trouble of finding it. "Surely all this is a waste of your time. I believe the King has at least three regular mistresses."
"Playing Pandarus to your Cressida is not to my taste either," he answered smoothly while inwardly angry with himself that this bastard wench's body could excite his senses like no other woman's. He wanted to hate her for perturbing him all these years. "Besides, you may find that the Troilus of your dreams has changed somewhat." Criticizing the King eased the mental pain but not his growing arousal. Hastily, he gave her a curt nod and strode swiftly to the door.
"So you presume to know my dreams, do you, Master Stone?" The scathing tone in her voice lashed at him.
His hand hesitated upon the latch and he turned his head. "Of course not." He smiled coldly. "I leave omniscience to God."
He noisily locked the door on her and strode back down the oaken staircase, irritable as a dog with a stolen bone— growling at the world but with no time yet to enjoy his feast.
The manor tenant roll was where he had left it, awkwardly pinioned beneath an iron candleholder and a wooden salver on the steward's table. The room was chilly; the coals in the brazier neglected in his absence. He called to his manservant for wine and sat down gloomily. As King's Receiver, he was supposed to inspect the manor roll of every traitor's manor he was retaking for the King and report back to Westminster, but the cramped figures in front of him held little interest compared with the pillaged treasure upstairs.
With his chin in his hand, he stared morosely at the cold stone wall opposite, still marveling at what he had accomplished since dawn with so little premeditation.
Ever since the day of the wager with the King six years ago, the memory of this wench had been a burr beneath his girths, always there, pricking him. It had not needed that drunken bet with King Edward and the other young hotheads at Warwick to kiss every woman within the castle before the noon bell rang to make Richard aware of Margery. His appetite had been piqued three days earlier when he had arrived at the Kingmaker's castle in the entourage of the Earl of Northumberland, the Earl of Warwick's younger brother, and first set eyes on her. But then he had been too young, too unsure of himself in unfamiliar surroundings, to force her to notice him.
/> Just thinking about that cursed wager still made him seethe. His memory was as fresh as it had been the day after. He had been the first to reach the barn where Warwick's daughters and the other young noblewomen were hiding in the loft. They had set Margery to act as sentry and he could still envisage her as she had glimpsed him running across the courtyard toward her. Instantly she had disappeared inside the barn in a whirl of skirts and shining hair. He had caught her as she set hands on the ladder to the loft and spun her around. It had been so easy to hook his heel behind her leather slipper and send her sprawling backward onto the soft hay. They had both been laughing as he swiftly knelt astride her and caught her wrists down beside her head. Then laughter had died between them as if time itself had frozen momentarily. Her beautiful hair had covered the hay around them like silken thread over morning grass and he could see himself in those wide startled blue eyes. Her lips had opened sweetly, instinctively waiting for him. He knew he had her then, that it was right.
But he had savored her fresh loveliness a second too long. Like yapping hounds bursting upon a peaceful glade, the other youths had thrust open the door, the King ahead of them. King Edward had flung Richard aside and claimed the girl's kiss instead. Neither he nor Margery had seen Richard tear angrily out of the barn.
But now, by Christ's blessed mercy, he had Margery of Warwick in his hands again. Just recognizing the girl that morning as she set back her hood to uncover that honey hair had heated his blood. His body had quickened at the very sight of her so real and merely a few paces from his touch. She had even met his glance, albeit as a stranger, her lips parting in curiosity, the wind lifting her hair about her shoulders, and immediately his mind had started whirling like some newfangled clock machinery.
"Daydreaming, sir?"
Richard's distant gaze refocused on the world around him, the manor steward's room, and he looked up into the grinning face of his manservant, Matthew. His hound was there too, its nose nudging him for attention.
"I was asking you if you… Never you mind, sir, at least you are not bewitched. For an instant, you looked as though you were away with the small folk."
"I am bewitched," answered the King's Receiver, distractedly pushing his fingers through the dog's thick coat. "And I do not like it one iota."
"But you have the girl now, neat as a fly in a web," Matthew Long pointed out cheerfully as he set an earthern-ware jug of wine and a goblet before his scowling master.
"You think so, do you?" muttered Richard, without raising his eyes from the ledger. "I have on my hands a female hedgehog. One look at me and every sharp quill is quivering to draw blood. I am not confident I have acted wisely." He raised his head and glared at his servant. The parchment, free of the pressure of his other hand, rolled itself back up.
"Well, that does make a change at any rate," commented his servant, lifting the poker to prod ineffectively at the embers. "All you have to do now, sir, is to take the wench to the King's grace as you planned."
Richard tossed the manor roll over to one side. "Life is so simple for you, is it not, Matthew?" he sighed. "Here am I tormented by conscience while you would have—"
"Laid the wench by now, that's for sure," muttered Matthew. He abandoned the poker, wiping his hands down the sides of his hose. "It's not as if she is an unravished maid now, is it…" His voice trailed off as his master's expression grew dangerous. Richard watched his servant's huge hands fumble. "Well, I don't know, do I?" the large man floundered.
"What do you not know?" asked his master carefully.
"Well, sir, you see this wench and then plague take me if we don't make off with her in the full view of the Kingmaker's entire rebel army and now you be thinking you don't want her after all. 'Tis a mite confusing for a poor silly soul like me."
"She is a used woman." The King's Receiver poured himself a goblet of fortified wine.
"But, master, you said it was the King—"
"That makes a difference?" Green eyes hard as lichened rock regarded Matthew.
His servant nodded. "Yes, I reckon so, master. I wouldn't say no to a king's leftovers, especially Old Ned's. I mean, well, he's…"
"Discerning, you mean? That's an elegant word, Matthew, but even I can disdain King Edward's leavings." Richard took a draft and watched the larger man suck in his cheeks.
"Ah," answered Matthew.
"Yes, Matthew, ah. Perhaps it is not my conscience but my pride which is at odds with the rest of me." He drank more deeply.
"Could be, sir. All I know is that I ain't seen you in such a pother for a long while. So what's to be done?"
"I think she will try to escape." Richard enjoyed seeing Matthew swallow his astonishment.
"You reckon she has the spirit for it?"
"Oh, yes, I will wager she is anxious to reach Exeter and rejoin the Earl's womenfolk before they take ship."
"So we surprise her on the stair?"
"No," corrected his master, perusing him thoughtfully, "we shall not stop her."
"Not— By the Rood, master, shall I cart you off to Bedlam? After all that hurly-burly, spreading rumors about the King's men being so close and the to-do about hiring the carter and abducting defenseless…" Matthew spluttered to silence. Richard waited, trying not to smile at the larger man's discomfort. "Aye, well," muttered his servant with a sulky sniff, "if you're still interested in anything else other than the wench upstairs, sir, the steward's waiting outside looking like a prisoner about to have his thumbs screwed. Shall you put him out of his misery?"
"Aye, very well, in a few minutes then." Richard dismissed him with a nod.
Alone, he emptied the goblet and buried his head in his hands. By all the Saints, what had he gotten himself into? It was against his nature to act so rashly where women were concerned. Was he going to regret his foolhardiness? But any addlepate could have seen that the Kingmaker was hurrying the girl out of the realm along with the rest of his entourage, making for Calais no doubt as he had done before when in trouble. It would have been foolish not to seize the opportunity to take the wench. After all, prising her out of the stronghold of Calais would prove costly. That was why he of all men, the reputedly calm and foresighted King's Receiver, had acted unusually. Capturing maidens was like something from the tales of King Arthur that old Sir Thomas Malory was compiling, Richard chided himself; it was not a role with which he was comfortable. And besides, Margery, curse her, was no maiden.
If only she had not allowed the King to seduce her. That morsel stuck in the gullet of his pride threatening to choke him. Thank the Almighty, he still had a few days' grace to make up his mind about what to do with her. The die were almost out of his hand and on the table but the decision was still his and yet… And yet taking the wench to the King involved a risk—that the royal whoremonger would still want her. But not to take her to the King was an even more perilous enterprise—she was Warwick's ward and she was who she was. No, mayhap he had little choice, after all. The King had to be told she was in his possession.
As to the little fire-eater herself? Whether he could tame her within a few days, he doubled. Better to keep a tight bridle on her and stay master of his own passions. Besides, he needed to learn more about Mistress Margery of Warwick. Feeling a stirring in his groin was not enough. The next few days would determine him one way or another. Would it not be sport indeed to make the color come and go in her cheeks like sunshine across winter fields? And tonight, tonight he would fly her like a young unhooded falcon.
"I want her glad of my protection," he said fiercely to the empty room. "By Christ's blessed mercy, she will be glad of me before the morning comes."
Margery stealthfully followed the old housekeeper down the candleless stairs. She held her breath while the latch was lifted, but her new ally did it skillfully. Out in the yard a dog snarled, but Mistress Guppy threw him an unexpected meat scrap to content him and led Margery around the back of the barn. Behind the stable the woman's grandson was waiting with a mare saddled.
"I'm not afeared," whispered the elderly woman. "We are the Earl's servants, at least until yesterday. We're helping you for my lord's sake and we pray you will tell him so."
"It shall not be forgotten." Margery leaned forward and brushed her lips against the withered cheek. "God keep you."
"You had best take this, my lady. 'Tis all I could find for you."
Across her palms lay a kitchen knife, its blade wrapped in a cloth. She proffered it as if it were a magic sword and Margery could not have received it more thankfully had it been Excalibur.
Sticking it in her belt, Margery shivered, wondering not for the first time that night if she was actually clambering out of a cauldron of boiling water onto the burning coals below. The wait into the dark center of the night had been hard enough but now, with the frosty breath of midnight on her cheek and the blackness of the lane ahead of her, it took all her determination and courage to carry out her plan.
With a sigh, she set her face to the southwest and led the horse along the track. The rustling in the thickets and the looming shadows dismayed her. She was not used to being alone, especially at night. Without servants to protect her, the highway was as dangerous and unpredictable as the man who had captured her.
Once past the dark copse and out of sight of the manor buildings, she swung herself awkwardly into the saddle, glad of the stirrup. It was neither easy without a mounting block or a groom's cupped hands to help her, nor had she counted on using a man's saddle. Like the Kingmaker's daughters, she was used to riding sidesaddle on a docile mount. Now she found it unnatural to sit astride and the mare, sensing her new rider's discomfort, misbehaved, wasting valuable moments as Margery sought to establish which of them was in control and to stop the creature turning for home.
The Maiden and the Unicorn Page 3