Much Ado About Marriage

by Karen Hawkins

  “Thomas, don’t believe him.”

  “’Tis true,” said Walsingham. “The Queen will be furious when I tell her how MacLean forced you to wed that little Scottish doxy, and—”

  Thomas stood. “Did Fia know?”

  The minister hesitated. “From what MacLean said, your lady was aware of all.”

  “He lies!” Robert ground out, his fist whitening about his rapier. “Don’t believe him! Fia would never—”

  “I have no reason to lie, you fool,” Walsingham snapped. He turned to Thomas. “We were betrayed, you and I. They betrayed us both.”

  The words hovered in the air like rank perfume. Trust no one.

  “But Duncan had arranged a marriage for her,” he heard himself say. “Malcolm Davies and his clan had come to Duart Castle.”

  “Do you honestly think Duncan MacLean would welcome a marriage with a sniveling whelp like that? He and Fia had to have a justifiable reason for her fleeing the castle so you would be caught with her. Duncan had thought to catch the two of you together in the outer bailey, in front of a host of witnesses. I hear you made it even easier than he had hoped.”

  Thomas looked at the empty cask. “But where are the letters now?”

  “Perhaps your lady could tell us that,” said Walsingham carefully.

  Fia had stolen the letters? She’d crossed, double-crossed, and crossed him yet again.

  Robert made a disgusted sound. “Thomas, I cannot—This cannot be right. Fia couldn’t do this.”

  Thomas sat silently. It made too much sense. He remembered Fia’s face when he had discovered that she had broken into his trunk on ship. And then, when she had convinced Robert to show her the secret panel within the fireplace. Seemingly innocent actions now fraught with meaning.

  The minister closed the empty casket. “I can’t pretend I am not shocked by this latest turn of events. I need those letters. Thomas, you must get them from her.”

  Thomas had heard enough. He stood up so suddenly, the room spun. With a shuddering breath, he leaned on the table, his head low, struggling against the roaring in his mind.

  “Thomas?” Robert’s voice echoed through a long, deep tunnel. “What will you do, mon ami?”

  Thomas looked into Robert’s concerned eyes. What was he going to do? He met Walsingham’s pale, considering gaze, hatred burning within him at the detached curiosity in those eyes.

  “Damn your rotten, filthy soul,” Thomas said with quiet intensity. The emptiness of fury burned through each word. He kicked his chair across the room, then slammed his fists onto the table, splitting the wood. “Damn your soul and that little Scottish slut’s,” he snarled.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  If innocence had a face, it would have been hers. Curled on her side, her hand tucked beneath her cheek, she looked as untainted as a child. The rabbit snuggled against her, curved against her warmth.

  Thomas took a long drink from his mug and closed his eyes against the burn of the whiskey as it slid down his throat. He welcomed the pain, savored it. If he did not feel pain at this moment, he would feel nothing.

  Nothing but emptiness.

  He leaned his forehead against the smooth bedpost and stared at his sleeping wife. Silently, he toasted her sleeping form and gulped down more whiskey. He frowned into the empty mug, then turned to the fireplace, where the bottle rested on the mantel. Zeus raised his head and lumbered to his feet, approaching Thomas with a wagging tail. Thomas growled at the dog, showing his teeth in a feral gesture. Zeus’s ears flattened and he slunk across the room, wiggling under Fia’s bed until only his hind leg showed.

  Thomas felt a little shamed at his display. The dog had done nothing. He tried to coax the dog back to the hearth. “At least one of us should be warm and happy this eve, eh?” he asked the dog.

  Zeus wagged his crooked tail hesitantly.

  Thomas refilled his mug and returned to the bed, inordinately proud that his steps wavered so little. They could accuse him of having been duped by a Scottish wench, but he could handle his whiskey with the best of them.

  He stared into the amber liquid and wondered why he had even bothered to drink. The agony of Fia’s betrayal had disappeared late in the night, leaving a forlorn numbness, as if some part of him had been ripped asunder.

  Fia stirred in her sleep. Her hair flowed across the pillow. How he had loved to sink his hands into those silken strands. His loins tightened at the thought and he smiled bitterly. Sweet Jesu, he burned for her even as she poisoned him with her lies. His father had been right. Believe no one. Trust no one.

  After storming out of the tavern, he had ridden to his house as though the very hounds of hell were at his heels. Snarling at every servant who stood in his way, he had stormed through the house and thrown open the door to his chamber.

  He had wanted to rant and shout and drive her into the street, but she had been asleep. And for some reason, he could no more wake her than he could leave. He felt a wave of disgust for his weakness.

  He turned from the bed. It would be light within the hour. The time was swiftly approaching when he would have to speak with her. But what could he say to a woman who had purchased him like a pair of shoes?

  Fortifying himself with a swallow of the fiery whiskey, he threw himself into a chair, willing the creaking of the wood to awaken her. She didn’t move, and he scowled. He smacked the mug on the chair arm, heedless of the whiskey spilling over the sides. She stirred and his chest tightened painfully.

  “When did you return?” Her voice, heavy with sleep, had the consistency of honey. He stilled the urge to cover his ears to block out the sultry sound.

  He took a gulp and wiped his mouth, staring at his hand with bleary concern when he saw how it shook. Do not look at her. You will never be able to get through this if you do. He forced himself to answer, “Before midnight.”

  Fia sat up and shoved her hair from her face, wondering at the curtness of his tone. His meeting must not have gone as well as he had hoped. “’Tis late. You said you’d be no more than an hour.”

  Thomas flicked a glance at her, his eyes almost black in the shadows. She wondered at his stillness. He slouched in a chair, legs sprawled in front of him, his shirt loosened to his waist. His unshaven face seemed to have aged overnight.

  She felt the first flutter of fear. With a concerned glance at the mug he held so tightly, she asked, “Are . . . are you well?”

  He laughed, a bitter, self-derisive sound that chilled her. “Perchance you should tell me the answer to that, madam wife.”

  She scooted to the edge of the bed. He was different. “What has happened? You seem angered.”

  He exploded to his feet and crossed the room like a raging storm. He wrenched her from the bed, his fingers biting cruelly into her arms. “Am I not to be allowed even that?”

  “Wh-what are you talking about?” She could only stare up at him, her mind racing furiously.

  He sneered. “You and Duncan greatly mistook the matter if you thought I was a man of even temperament. Or wasn’t that one of the qualities you sought in your bridegroom?” His breath was laden with whiskey.

  “Thomas, I don’t understand. What did you—”

  “Lies!” he spat, and shook her roughly. “All you speak are lies! I saw Walsingham tonight, you scheming wench!” Through gritted teeth, he hissed, “Tell me the truth ere I kill you.”

  Fia began desperately, “Sweet Saint Catherine, you’re mad! I don’t know—”

  “Cease this pretense.” His eyes shot amber sparks, and Fia feared he would catch afire with such fury. Yet in a voice as cold as ice, he bit out, “I am tired of your deceit. I met with Walsingham. I know everything.”

  “What’s Walsingham have to do with anything? I don’t even know him or—”

  He threw her from him and she fell against the mattress. Though she was not hurt, she cried out in her fright.

  He winced. “Sweet Jesu,” he muttered, his voice twisted in anguish. “You have but to
cry out and I suffer.” He stumbled to his chair and took a shuddering breath. “How am I to deal with you when I cannot even stand to see you bruised? How am I to send you away when I . . .” He closed his eyes, a spasm of pain washing over him.

  Fia gathered the blankets to her, staring at him with concern. Whatever had happened, Thomas was suffering the torments of hell. “Thomas, pray explain what has happened.”

  He regarded her with haggard eyes. “I am ill, lady wife. I am sick unto death at the sight of every lying, manipulative inch of you.”

  “Thomas, please stop speaking in riddles and just tell me what’s happened.”

  “Tell you?” He turned red-rimmed eyes on her. “Tell you what? Tell you that you have brought your ill fortune into my house and I am now cursed with it?” He shook his head. “Nay. We have discussed enough. You will sit there until I have decided what to do with you.”

  He stood and crossed to her desk, pulled a parchment from a cubbyhole, and held it out. “You see here our contract, Lady Wentworth. Let me show you the worth I place on your word.” He wadded the paper and tossed it into the fire.

  As Fia watched the flames lick hungrily at the parchment, her heart hardened. Whatever ailed Thomas, she was not about to accept his vile temper. “I know not what demons possess you this eve, my lord, but I will not stand for your wretched manners.”

  She gained her feet shakily and crossed to the door. Grasping the handle, she threw it open. “Leave my chambers immediately. We will speak when you have slept through your ill humors.”

  He laughed, a low, taunting laugh. The sheer ugliness of it made Fia shiver. “Aye, you would love to write Duncan of how you threw me out of my own bedchamber, wouldn’t you? How amused he will be to see how well his plan has worked.”

  “Plan?”

  His grin thinned into a bitter snarl. “You may think you have purchased a gullible, manageable bridegroom, but you are wrong, madam.”

  She frowned in confusion. “You make no sense.”

  “Determined to play an innocent to the last, aren’t you?” He shrugged. “And why not? It has been amusing thus far. So let’s continue this charade a bit longer. Allow me to recount my discovery. This very eve, I found ’twas no coincidence we were thrown together at Duart Castle.”

  Fia thought he looked like an avenging angel, beautiful yet dangerous. She clutched her hands tightly together.

  “You and MacLean may have purchased me outright from Walsingham like a side of beef in a butcher’s shop, but no more. I have cut my fetters and I stand before you a free man.” His gaze bore into her before he turned away, as if he could not stand the sight.

  “Who told you such nonsense?”

  “Cease your playacting, madam,” he snapped. “You know it all! I was traded for a packet of letters proving Queen Mary’s guilt.”

  “You have been misinformed. Neither I nor Duncan would do such a thing.”

  “Duncan delivered those very letters into my hands and bade me carry them to Walsingham.” Thomas chuckled harshly. “But then, you know about the letters, don’t you, comfit? After all, you stole them, did you not?”

  “I haven’t stolen anything!”

  “What happened, Fia? Did you and Duncan think you could make a deal with the devil and not pay?” His eyes raked her body with insulting intent. “Wasn’t I worth even that? Didn’t I meet your expectations? God’s wounds, I made you cry with pleasure. Surely that was worth payment of some kind.”

  Heat washed through her and then receded, leaving her cold and shaking. “I don’t know anything of these letters, but if you mean to suggest that Duncan or I had any kind of dealings with Walsingham, you err. I’ve heard Duncan mention Walsingham before and he holds no faith in him.”

  “There is little trust on either side of that fence. But I am far from mistaken in my beliefs.” Thomas spoke with a quiet, merciless certainty that chilled her. “I will never forget the duplicity of your behavior. Never. Even if we remain married for all eternity, I will hate you every minute of every day. I will despise your breath, your laugh, your love—I will hate you, madam. That is what your perfidy has purchased you.”

  Fia almost gasped from the pain. “No more. I will not hear this! I am tired and confused and . . .” She pressed a trembling hand to her head. This was a nightmare. She wished with all her heart she would awaken to find the Thomas she loved nestled in bed beside her. Anything but this bitter, angry stranger who stared at her with such virulent hate. “I-I cannot bear to hear this. Please stop.”

  Thomas stared at her quivering lips. Pure desire, hot and immediate, raced through him. He cursed himself that she still had the power to stir his blood. “Don’t bother to act so tragic, madam. There is no need.”

  “There has been some mistake. If I could but speak with Duncan, I could—”

  “Did you not hear me? Duncan asked me to deliver those damn letters to Walsingham myself. I had the casket from his own hand.” His mouth curved into a derisive smile. “Sweet Jesu, he even told me to tell Walsingham that they were now ‘even.’ How he must have laughed, to have me deliver the payment.”

  Fia wrung her hands and took a step toward him. “Duncan would never do such a thing! Walsingham must be telling a lie and—”

  “Do you think I have not considered that?” he snapped. “But what has he to gain from such a stratagem? What reason would he have to speak falsely? Meanwhile, Duncan and you gain all. Duncan found a fool to wed his cousin and take her safely away from war. And you, sweet, were ever loud in your demands to go to London.”

  “Nay!” She took a step toward him, her hand outstretched. “Thomas, you must listen to me—”

  “Silence!” His eyes hardened. “I know you for what you are: a liar and worse. There is nothing you could say that would make me believe otherwise.”

  Her hand fell to her side. “Then there is naught left.” Her voice was hollow with disbelief and loss.

  “Oh-ho, a playwright and an actress!” He clapped loudly. “Excellent! Such unexpected talents!”

  She stiffened. “Enough! You barge in here, calling me names and accusing me of vile crimes; then you refuse to believe me no matter the truth. Well, I’ve had enough of your nonsense.”

  “So have I, madam. I have been made a fool a thousand times since we met.” He threw himself into the chair, his face contorted in fury. “I even asked Essex to give the queen one of your plays, hoping she would sponsor you.”

  Her lips parted in amazement. He had never said a word. Through the pain came a thrill that he had thought her plays of a quality to have risked giving one of them to the queen. “I . . . never knew you had read them.”

  He stared at her, his eyes lingering on her mouth. “I have read every word that has ever come from your pen.” He met her surprised gaze and a bitter smile curved his mouth. “I thought ’twould please you if the queen took you to heart.” His laugh was full of loathing. “A romantic lackwit, was I not?”

  A smile trembled on her mouth. No matter what he said, he loved her. But Walsingham had led Thomas astray. Why?

  “Well, madam, you will have no chance for fame and fortune now.” He stared into the fire with bleak eyes. “’Twas all a lie, and I shall inform the queen of it first thing tomorrow.”

  Fia’s throat tightened painfully. She wanted to tell him that she loved him now and forever, but he would just use the words to wound her more. Whatever poisonous lies Walsingham had told Thomas, she must find the truth. Find the truth and cure him.

  Fia struggled for breath. “You are just angered. In the morning we will talk, and this misunderstanding will end.”

  He smiled, his mouth a grim curve. “Oh ho, but I have barely begun. I will spend the rest of our time together reminding you of your trickery and deceit.”

  Fia gathered the last vestiges of pride she possessed and said tiredly, “Then there is no more to be said.” She turned and went to the bed. Grabbing up the blanket and a pillow, she headed for the door.
<
br />   Thomas reached it first. He kicked the heavy panel closed and leaned against it. “Nay, madam. You will not leave this room until I have decided your fate.”

  “Decided my fate?” Her brows drew together. “I vow, sirrah, you test my temper. I want nothing more to do with you.”

  “You no longer desire my presence? Is your purchased husband too base, too loud for you?”

  “Aye, and boorish and rude as well. I will not listen to any more of your false accusations.” She lifted her chin, her hands clutching the blanket and pillow like a shield. “Move.”

  He pushed away from the door, and for a heart-stopping moment Fia thought he meant to grab her. She backed warily away.

  He smiled, satisfaction curling his mouth. “Finally, you begin to realize your danger. But ’tis too late. I know you well and true now.”

  “And I know you,” she replied evenly. “There is no more to be said.”

  The dull pain in her eyes gave him pause and suddenly, his anger disappeared, leaving him hollow and aching. He was silent for a long moment. “You’re right,” he said wearily. “We will wait until tomorrow to continue this. By then I will know what to do with such a beautiful, willful little liar as you.”

  “There will be no tomorrow,” Fia snapped. “Don’t expect me to be here when you return.”

  “Oh, but you will.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a key, opened the door, and inserted the key into the outer lock.

  “Don’t!” she cried. If she wasn’t free to find out the truth, how would she ever be able to prove Walsingham’s base lies?

  “Do not think, Mistress Deceit, that Angus or Mary will come to help you, either. I will have them closely guarded. I will leave you here to think on your sins. Come morning, you will have one chance—only one—to confess your sins and return the letters.”

  “And if I don’t have them?”

  “Then you will be banished, my lady. Banished where the sound of your voice will cease to torment my soul. Locked away and forgotten.”