The Tenth Suitor

by Laura Strickland

  “In this crush? I think not. Dance with me.”

  An instant later they were turning and whirling, her hair and his both flying out, their skirts tangling. All part of the gaiety and fun it seemed, and no one took notice. He danced her smoothly to the door through which they had exited before and out into the waiting night.

  What of the guard? But the man must have stepped inside to watch the revelry, for the gateway stood empty.

  They were alone.

  And no moonlight, after all. Instead the sky had clouded over, and snowflakes drifted down in a dizzying, magical swirl.

  How did the fool know Edwina had always secretly longed to dance among snowflakes?

  With the man of her dreams.

  “You look so very beautiful tonight,” he told her in his own voice, warm and sweet as honey. She wondered if he would taste of honey, as well. “I could scarce keep my eyes from you, nor remember my lines.”

  “You were very good, and quite funny.” Edwina leaned into him and encountered false bosoms—pillows, surely, and even bigger than her own. “I admit, Lord Fool, I find it a bit disconcerting to be in the arms of a woman.”

  “I am no woman, so I assure you.” But he halted their whirling dance long enough to pluck the offending cushions from the front of his borrowed gown and toss them on the ground. “Better?” He drew her hard against him.

  “Much better.” Edwina’s senses swam; she told herself it was from the dance. “But I cannot see your face.” She reached up and brushed the strings of the wig aside.

  “You can scarcely see me anyway. ’Tis dark.”

  “Not that dark. And I wish to look into the eyes of the man I am going to kiss.”

  “Are you going to kiss me?” he wondered, and shoved the wig from his head.

  Edwina breathed, as she leaned still closer, “Oh, aye.”

  Their lips met tentatively, soft and searching, in a rush of sweetness. He did taste of honey, she thought—or at least of honey mead—and then desire kicked her in the belly like a bull calf, and she tumbled into pure sensation. Heat, taste, wonder, all poured through her like a spring flood and sent the last of her common sense spinning into the night.

  And oh, she had always dreamed of this. On some level she had known he existed in the world, this man who could claim her heart and heat her blood as well. And here she held him in her arms.

  Fire raced from his mouth to hers, surged wildly, and streamed along her blood. His lips wooed hers, persuaded and parted them; willingly she opened for him and felt the touch of his tongue like an invading spear of flame. Claiming her, owning her—wondrous, marvelous fool. Perfect man.

  He made a sound deep in his throat that sent another bolt of desire through her. Edwina stretched herself against him, twined her arms about his neck and thrust her fingers into the thick, brown hair.

  His hands slid down her back to her buttocks—oh, highly improper, but delectably titillating—and hauled her still closer. She felt… By the sweet heaven, her fool stood as ready for her as a stud horse. She knew she should be shocked, but it felt far too wonderful, because her body fit his, and every part of her longed to welcome him.

  He broke the kiss on a ragged breath and said, “By God, I have been longing to do that since first I laid eyes on you.”

  “Have you, truly?”

  “Most truly—among other things.” His hands, palms still spread across her buttocks, moved suggestively. The fire inside Edwina flamed higher.

  “I confess, Lord Fool, you have aroused my curiosity as to what.”

  “And I ache to show you.”

  She could feel that. And she longed to fuse her body to his in still another dance, one which she could only imagine. But they stood here on the perilous edge of discovery. How long before someone came looking for her, or the guard returned to his post?

  “Do you mean to spend our precious time talking,” she demanded on a rush of breathless laughter, “or do you mean to go on kissing me?”

  In answer he bent his head again, found her lips, and claimed her mouth like a man starving for her. His tongue entered her, searched as if memorizing her heat and flavor, and a delirious languor possessed her. The world narrowed to the taste and feel of him, and the desire to be with him in the ways of a woman with a man.

  Not until he set her back down on her feet—when had he hoisted her up against him?—did a small measure of sanity return.

  “Fool, Fool, Fool,” she murmured, “this cannot be.”

  “Faith, beautiful lady, it already is.”

  Edwina knew that. She understood full well what this feeling meant. Had she not been waiting for it all her life?

  “Ah,” she nearly sobbed, “why could you not be some lord’s son? Why not a sprig of some elevated family?”

  “Because I am not.” He went very still in her arms, though she could feel his heart beating, slamming like a hammer against her breast.

  She told him, on an upsurge of grief, “My father will never accept this, accept you.”

  “Why not?” He gazed into her eyes, all serious now, and intent, with the snowflakes gathering like feathers on his dark hair. “You said he is a self-made man.”

  “That is just the reason he wishes to elevate his descendants—his grandchildren.” Edwina’s stomach tightened at the very thought of bearing this man’s children, and all that implied.

  “He seems a kindly man.”

  “Kind and stubborn. He has planned, ever since my brother’s death, for me to wed into nobility.”

  “There must be a way.” Thorstan’s arms tightened. “I will not see you go to one of those greedy halfwits. Perhaps if you speak to your father, implore him.”

  Desperately, Edwina demanded, “And say what? That of all the noblemen he selected, I desire the fool?”

  Again, he stilled. “Do you desire me, lady?”

  With all her heart. But how could Edwina speak the words, or those other still more meaningful ones that hovered on her lips? Aye, she had always believed she would know her true love when she looked into his eyes—merry, dancing eyes—and she might well find being with him here among the swirling snowflakes even more romantic than she had dreamed. But it would be the height of madness to tell him she loved him.

  Desire, though—that already raced through her, impossible to deny. So she whispered against his lips a moment before she claimed them, “If you cannot tell that, you are a fool, indeed.”

  Chapter Five

  “A word with you, Mistress Edwina, if you will.”

  Edwina, who had just entered the hall, started and turned to find Lord Julian at her elbow. Her ragged nerves jumped wildly. Following last evening’s pageant and her stolen moments of pure romance, she had slept little. Julian’s was not the voice she longed to hear.

  But one sweeping search of the hall failed to locate the jester. Her heart fell. Where could he be? Surely he would not leave without a word to her?

  She turned to the man at her side. He at least looked hale and well. Had he taken nothing to drink last night?

  “Good morning, Lord Julian. I hope you are enjoying your stay with us.”

  His cool, gray eyes looked impatient. But he said with a smile that barely touched his lips, “Who could fail to enjoy the comforts your father provides?”

  “Who, indeed?” Edwina returned gloomily.

  “But I was hoping you and I might dispense with all the nonsense, mistress, and solemnize our agreement.”

  Edwina lifted her brows at him. “What agreement might that be?”

  “Come sit with me, please, and let us discuss it.”

  Another search of the room told Edwina that Thorstan still had not appeared. Again the hall stood mostly empty save for those who slept there, now arising, and the servants who hurried to set out the breakfast.

  She nodded toward the head table. “Then come.”

  It could not be denied Lord Julian made a fine sight, Edwina acknowledged as he took the place beside her. His s
evere, well-formed features had the chilly perfection of a carving. The gray eyes were well set and his hair held a glint of dark gold. But she had yet to see those eyes warm to a merry sparkle, and she doubted he would recognize a spot of delightful nonsense if it strode up and bit him in the behind.

  “Speak as you will,” she invited. “I am not one to stand on ceremony.”

  “Nor I, mistress. Just as I am not the man to waste time with songs, dances, or pageants—entertaining as they might be. The future is most earnest, and ’tis that I would have settled between us.”

  Edwina nodded, her gaze now as serious as his. “Let us be honest with one another, then, sir.”

  “You know as well as I you will not accept the suit of any of these woeful specimens who have come to compete for your hand. I make the best—the only—choice.”

  “Do you, indeed?” Edwina’s back stiffened.

  “To be sure. I have studied upon it these many days past.”

  “Have you!”

  “Let me give you the facts: I can bring to you the most advantageous match. Our estate, aye, has been reduced of late, through no fault of our own, but our prestige remains unimpeached. Why, Queen Mary herself has welcomed my family to her court. That is precisely the kind of connection your father seeks.”

  “How do you know what my father seeks?”

  Julian shrugged. “Both my father and I have spoken with him. He says,” Julian’s tone implied his unspoken opinion, “this must be your choice. Now, I cannot but find that entirely foolish, and you a lass not yet a score of years in the world. We are speaking of the welfare and continuance of a very wealthy estate, a grave matter, to my mind.”

  “That, Lord Julian, I do appreciate.”

  “Do you? I confess, I begin to wonder.” A gleam entered Julian’s eye. “What with you trifling with your suitors…”

  Edwina drew a breath. “I have not—”

  “…and,” he added deliberately, “dallying with fools.”

  All the air left Edwina’s body. Her eyes widened, and she swept the hall again.

  “Do not bother looking for him,” Julian said in satisfaction. “He is gone.”

  Edwina’s throat went dry. “Gone whence?”

  “Let us say he was persuaded to take his nonsense elsewhere. This, Mistress Edwina, is not about nonsense. It is deadly earnest. Deadly.”

  Edwina would have surged to her feet, but Julian snared her wrist, his grip like iron. He lowered his voice to a growl. “Did you think I would not see? Are you an empty-headed wench who can only think of kisses? Tell your father you have made your choice, and end this absurd business. We will announce our betrothal this day.”

  “I would sooner kill myself than bed you.”

  His cold eyes examined her as he might an ill-favored brood mare. “This is not about bedding. Oh—I shall need to get some sons upon you, if only for the benefit of the estate. Your father will expect that much. Apart from that, I assure you, you are little enough to my taste.”

  “Take your hand from me.”

  Julian did not move.

  “Take your hand from me, or I will have my father run you off the place.”

  “Do not be so hasty. You know very well I am the best on offer. Would you rather bed young Edelbert, who likely cannot get up for the job? Cormac, who thinks only of his lute? Angus, who would ride you like one of his sheep? Should you marry me, I will afford you a cordial and civilized union for the benefit of all.”

  Enraged and very fearful, Edwina demanded, “What have you done with the fool?”

  “Is that all you can think on? Best you come with me to your father now and make our announcement—or do you want me to finish the job, and see your buffoon dead?”

  Edwina broke free and leaped to her feet. “Sir, you forget yourself!” Heads turned all over the hall.

  Julian, his face like a thunderbolt, arose and stalked away.

  ****

  Thorstan awoke to pain and freezing cold in all his limbs. He struggled up and found himself sitting in a ditch filled with half a foot of water, along a lonely stretch of road, and with dawn’s light tinting the eastern sky. He shook his head in an effort to clear it, and groaned.

  Desperately he struggled to remember: last night after the pageant ended, following those wondrous, stolen moments with Edwina, he had returned the wench’s costume to Alfred and reacquired his jester’s suit. Snow had still been falling as he made his way back to the hall after a visit to the privy. A group of men had jumped him there in the darkness. Two had seized him, while a third pummeled him mercilessly. He had fought—he was certain he had marked at least one of them. But he had not succeeded in escaping, and when he was nearly senseless he heard the voice of an observer say, “Take him out and dump him somewhere—and good riddance to rubbish.”

  He swore now, flexed arms stiff with chill, and attempted to draw a deep breath. Pain flared in his chest, hot enough to tell him he sustained some damage there. It took him three attempts to hoist himself out of the ditch and onto the frost-rimed road.

  He had lost his hat of bells and torn his fool’s costume. No matter—it had been a poor costume, at best. A quick check assured him his dagger still nestled in his boot, overlooked by his attackers.

  Who were they? Thorstan felt convinced he knew the voice he had heard at the last, but could not place it now. Where was he? And how might he stop shivering? For deep, dangerous shudders took hold of him. But the anger that licked up inside held heat enough.

  Someone had seen him with Edwina and wanted him out of the way. Thorstan could not fault the man for that; it was, more or less, what he had done to Kenweth. One of the nine suitors, then. Which? It scarcely mattered. If the man thought an attack by his servants would keep Thorstan from Edwina, he had another think coming.

  He scrutinized the horizon and the position of the sun, turned about in the road, and began walking.

  Chapter Six

  “Smile, daughter! You are meant to be having fun.”

  Edwina offered her mother a feeble smile and let her eyes scan the countryside one more time. The day had dawned cold and sunny after last night’s snow—magical, enchanted snow! The world gleamed white and blue, blinding to the eyes. Led by her father, they had all gone out in a group to gather greenery with which to deck the hall.

  Edwina usually adored this part of the Christmas celebrations. She enjoyed the feeling of lighthearted abandon and loved the way the hall smelled when filled with fir and pine boughs. To be sure, everyone else seemed to be having a wonderful time. But she had too much on her mind to allow for frolic.

  “Mother,” she said, “I wish to put an end to this madness.”

  “What madness is that?” Marta looked puzzled.

  Edwina waved her arm. “The suitors, the competition for my hand—all of it.”

  Marta’s face lit. “Does this mean you have made your choice? Oh, it is young Cormac, is it not? His sweet music is enough to win any girl’s heart.”

  “No one has won my heart.” A barefaced lie, that. She had bestowed it among the whirling snowflakes last evening. Edwina knew that as she knew her own name. But the fool had been foully taken from her. The thought brought a rush of anger and helplessness that confounded her where she stood.

  “What is it, daughter? Are you unwell?”

  “Mother, when did you last see the jester?”

  Marta stared as if Edwina had taken leave of her senses. “Who?”

  “You know, the fool with bells on his hat and toes.”

  “You are indeed unwell. Perhaps you should go back and lie down.”

  “Someone must have seen him.”

  Marta shrugged. “He may well have left. You know how these vagrants are—away with a change in the wind.” Her eyes narrowed. “What is it to you?”

  “Come, daughter!” Cedric bellowed then. “Help Lord Michael gather the holly.”

  With a leaden heart, Edwina went.

  ****

  In the
end, Lord Angus carried the great pile of greenery in his brawny arms—showing off, no doubt, since he cast more than one look in Edwina’s direction. The rest of them trailed him, most still talking and laughing, the mood light.

  Edwina, walking close behind her father, knew a grand repast awaited them in the warm hall, and a masked dance later in the evening. But none of that served to raise her spirits.

  What had Lord Julian done with Thorstan? For she did not doubt the despicable Julian had a hand in the fool’s disappearance. Her stomach turned over as she eyed the back of Julian’s head where he walked alongside her father. How could she learn the truth without betraying her feelings? She needed to know if Thorstan had been chased away alive or hauled away otherwise.

  Her father’s lands made a valuable and tempting prize—enough to entice a ruthless man to murder?

  They entered the hall, where servants bustled around setting out the noontime feast, in a large noisy throng. The greenery made an unwieldy mound against one wall, and with everyone milling about discarding cloaks and shedding snow, Edwina did not at once see the figure lounging beside the fire.

  When she did, her heart leaped in her breast and then began to pound madly.

  Her fool! But what, oh what, had happened to him? His brown head lay bare and damp, his bright suit hung off him in ruins. Scrapes and bruises mottled his face, and his eyes—formerly so merry—narrowed intently on the face of each man who entered the hall even though he maintained an attitude of casual ease.

  Edwina went hot and cold in quick succession. Aye, some ill fate had befallen him, because of her. But at least he lived.

  She longed to rush straight to him but knew very well she could not. Instead, she laid her cloak carefully across the hands of a servant and bit her lip. She heard her father’s voice boom out and saw him place a friendly hand on Cormac’s shoulder.

  “How about some of your music, my good man, to play us into our feast?”

  Nothing loath, Cormac fetched his lute. Soon the troubadours joined in and the confusion in the room intensified.

  Edwina’s gaze encountered Thorstan’s and, as if forcibly drawn, she made her way across the hall, feigning a lack of concern.