The Agents of William Marshal Volume II: A Medieval Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  I hear Derica de Rosa is a beautiful woman.

  God help him, he had been right. The stakes of the game grew.

  It had been, in fact, one of the longest afternoons of his life. Bertram de Rosa, having been the more congenial out of the group of de Rosa men, had turned into something of a barracuda when his daughter had left the room. It was as if, suddenly, a taper had been lit in his mind and he pounded Garren with questions for several hours. Politics, religion, and education – no subject escaped him. It was if he suddenly had to know everything about the man, immediately. By the time the sun set, Garren was exhausted. Sup was a few hours off, but he fully expected the interrogation to resume at mealtime. At the moment, he was grateful for the intermission.

  It was the first time He is been at Framlingham and discovered it to be an enormous place. The wall walk seemed to go on forever. He had made his way up onto the battlements, watching the last of the sun, the dancing colors across the deepening sky. It was peaceful and he welcomed it. Now and again a sentry would pass him and hardly give him a glance.

  A chill breeze was kicking up. Garren leaned back against the stone, his big arms crossed and his brow furrowed in thought. The Lady Derica de Rosa, he repeated over and over in his mind. He pondered the long honey-colored hair, silken-looking with its loose curls. He thought about her great green eyes, huge things that stared back at him as if they could read into his soul. He mulled over the shape of her face, the way her lips curved into the shape of a rosebud. He even liked the contours of her nose. She was rather tall for a woman, and rather robust, with delicious curves. Not that she was heavy by any means, but she wasn’t a frail little thing, either. She was quite tasty in his opinion. The Marshal hadn’t lied in the least.

  A gust of cold wind came up, whistling past his ears. He was standing near the northeast tower when he heard something that didn’t sound at all like the wind. There was someone lingering in the shadows of the tower, just inside the top of the stairs. He didn’t flinch or try to see who it was; he simply stood there and waited. Whoever it was would make themselves known soon enough. His dagger, well concealed, was within easy reach.

  Another gust of wind arose and he caught the distinct scent of flowers. He didn’t know which kind because he wasn’t very good at that sort of thing. But the scent alone told him who was lying in wait for him.

  “You know,” he said casually, “if your father finds you out here with me, without an escort, we would both be in for a good deal of trouble.”

  There was no immediate reply. After a moment, he heard soft footfalls coming towards him. Very leisurely, he turned his head to see Derica emerging into the moonlight. She looked beautiful, dressed in a burgundy surcoat and a matching heavy cloak. Garren wasn’t sure if he should smile at her or just look at her. He settled for just looking at her.

  Derica gazed back. She wasn’t sure what to say to him, or why she had even followed him for that matter. The only reason she could manage to pinpoint was curiosity. Pure, wild curiosity.

  He wasn’t as she had expected or imagined. Garren was taller, taller than any of her uncles or brothers, and his shoulders were enormously wide. He had sand-colored hair with a hint of copper in it, cut close to his head. His eyes were clear blue, she had noticed, and his jaw was very square. It gave him a rather brave appearance, she thought. She could believe that he spent so much time in the Holy Land, fighting the infidels. Surely those dark-skinned natives must have been afraid of him.

  He wasn’t deformed, maimed or pimple-faced, as once suggested. He was, in truth, a large and quite handsome man, and therein laid her curiosity. The moment she had set eyes on him, everything she had feared had taken flight and now she found herself with an entirely new set of fears. The fear of attraction.

  They gazed at each other in the ghostly gray light, each appraising the other. It seemed that all they had done in the two times they had met one another is stare at each other in an attempt to satisfy the insatiable interest about the person they were going to spend the rest of their lives with. It was a hunger that grew by the moment.

  “Well?” Garren finally said.

  Derica seemed to snap out of whatever silly trance she found herself in. She’d never in her life experienced anything so strange. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  He wriggled his eyebrows. “About your father. If he finds you here, he’ll berate us both.”

  She acted as if she hadn’t heard the question. “Why is it you have never married?”

  Garren couldn’t help it; he laughed softly, his straight white teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “I must say, you are direct.”

  Derica realized she sounded like an idiot and her cheeks grew hot. Trying to recover, she leaned back against the wall a few feet from him, trying to act as casually as he was.

  “I simply meant that you’re obviously old. Why is it you have never married?”

  Garren laughed harder. “Old, am I? How old do you think I am?”

  “Thirty years, at least.”

  He was greatly amused. “Thank you for the compliment, but I am nothing of the sort.”

  “Oh. How old are you, then?”

  “Thirty-one years.”

  Her jaw dropped, just as quickly shut. “Good Heavens. I had no idea….”

  “That I was as old as God himself, eh?”

  She shrugged; he grinned. Garren turned back to the night sky, noting that the wind was picking up.

  “It is getting rather cold,” he said. “Mayhap you should return to your chamber.”

  “You did not answer my question.”

  “What is that?”

  “Why have you not married?”

  “I have never had the time or the inclination. Had my father not set up this betrothal, I would not have considered it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just told you. I have never had the time nor….”

  Derica looked at him, then. “You mean to say that you have never met a woman you have wanted to marry? Not even in all of your travels?”

  It was Garren’s turn to shrug. “I have met a few interesting women in my lifetime. But it would have been unfair to marry any one of them and then leave her while I go about my vocation.”

  He could see the thoughts racing through her mind. “Then you are telling me that you plan to give up your vocation? That you are ready to stay in one place? Is that why you have agreed to our betrothal?”

  He could sense something behind her questions, something he couldn’t quite single out. “I agreed because my father went to a lot of trouble to secure this marriage for the future of my family lineage,” he said carefully. “At some point, I will need to produce an heir to carry on the le Mon name.”

  It wasn’t the answer she was looking for. “So that’s all I am? A breeding cow?”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite that way.”

  Derica wasn’t quite sure what she had been driving out, but the breeding stock line hadn’t been it. She felt insignificant the way he described his views on the marriage. Pushing herself off the wall, she headed back toward the tower and the stairs. Garren called after her.

  “Lady Derica?”

  She didn’t answer. With every step, she felt more and more distress and had no idea why. Garren called out to her again and she whirled on him just as she reached the steps.

  “I am not breeding stock, Garren le Mon,” she nearly shouted at him. “If all you wanted was a brood mare, you should have had your father select someone else. I am not interested.”

  She had a lot of fire, Garren would admit. He moved away from the wall and walked towards her, slowly, watching her body language. He was a man who had made a living from watching the twitches of others and he could tell just how furious she was, though he wasn’t entirely sure why.

  “Isn’t that what marriage is, my lady?” he asked. “To perpetuate the family lines, to strengthen allies? If there is something else involved, then I am ignorant of it.”

  Deri
ca felt as though she had been slapped. She didn’t understand why she suddenly felt so hopeless. He had entirely logical views of their marriage. She wasn’t sure what her views were at all.

  “As am I.”

  Garren watched her fade down the steps, into the darkness of the tower. He knew that somehow he had offended her, but wasn’t sure how. Still, he wished he knew her well enough to ask for her forgiveness for whatever it was that he had said. At this moment, he felt the distinct twinge of regret for something he didn’t fully understand.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “I am not going to sup,” Derica said. “You may tell Father that I am feeling ill.”

  Dixon de Rosa was thirteen months older than his sister. They had always been exceptionally close. He watched her as she sat before her vanity mirror, the slow movements of her hands as she braided her long hair, and knew something was wrong with her. Illness had nothing to do with it.

  “He’ll not disturb you, I promise,” he said. “Garren le Mon is an arrogant buffoon. We’ll chase him away before the night is out, just as we have done the others. You will see.”

  Derica’s expression was pensive, thoughtful, as she braided the ends of her hair. Her fingers would move quickly, then slow, then speed up again, then more slowly as her thoughts progressed.

  “I have a feeling he’ll not be run off,” she said after a moment. “He is not like the others who have come to call upon me.”

  “Of course he is. We’ll have him gone in the blink of an eye.”

  Derica cast her brother a long look in the reflection of her looking mirror. “You cannot run him off, Dix.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we are betrothed.” She secured the end of the braid and turned around. “The other suitors that have come were merely that – suitors. Sir Garren and I have a contract to be married, legal and binding. You cannot get rid of him, no matter how much you want to.”

  Dixon chewed his lip angrily. “Hoyt will.”

  “He doesn’t like to be called that and you know it.”

  Dixon rolled his eyes. “I have never been able to call him that.”

  “What?”

  “That.”

  Derica fought off a smile. “He is not been right since that blow to the head three years ago, has he? It still takes some getting used to.”

  “I cannot call him Lady Cleo Blossom, no matter how much he wants me to.”

  Derica stood up, facing her brother. “It matters not what you want. What matters is that if we do not call him Lady Cleo Blossom, he will become quite angry and, you will recollect, quite violent. He is perfectly harmless as long as you do as he wishes.”

  Dixon put up a hand. “I know, I know,” he sighed. “For the greatest warrior among us to take a blow to the head at a tourney and wake up thinking he is a woman is… is….”

  “I have heard this before, darling.”

  “It is tragic!”

  “I know. But it ’tis God’s will that our beloved Uncle Hoyt has become the Lady Cleo Blossom. We may not know the reasons now, but perhaps in time, it will become clear.”

  Dixon grumbled. “Woman or not, he still packs a wallop. And as protective as he is over you, perhaps Sir Garren will feel that wallop before the night is out. The beauty of it is that he wouldn’t dare strike a woman back.”

  Derica didn’t say any more. Her brothers and uncles were always hostile where suitors were concerned. Normally, they had her blessing to do anything necessary to drive the fools away. But Sir Garren was different; half of her wanted him to leave, but the other half was quite interested in him.

  She thought about him, standing on the battlements, the soft breeze blowing through his hair and the moonlight reflecting off his features. He had laughed at one point and the sight of his smile had made her feel strangely weak. No man had ever had that effect on her, and she’d known many to come to Framlingham on the quest to gain her hand. They’d tried every known trick, every known charm. But she hadn’t fallen for it.

  What made Garren different, she didn’t know. But she didn’t feel like seeing him this eve. She didn’t want him to go, she didn’t want him to stay, she didn’t want to speak with him, yet she felt the strange urge to be in the same room with him. She decided, at that moment, that she was going mad.

  “Go down to the hall and give father my message,” she didn’t want her brother standing there watching her in her moment of dementia. “Tell him I have retired for the night.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.” She smiled at her brother’s dubious face. “Please. Go now.”

  He left, reluctantly. Aglette slipped in when Dixon left and began preparing Derica’s bed for sleep. One of her duties was to brush out her mistress’ hair. Even though Derica had recently done just that, she was so lost in thought that she hardly realized when Aglette unbraided her hair and began running the comb through it again.

  “I fear I have said something to upset you.”

  The voice came from the shadows. Derica was so startled that she nearly fell off her chair. She’d been dozing by the fire in her chamber, having no idea how long she’d been in the twilight between thought and sleep. She knew it was le Mon before she even saw him. When he finally emerged from the darkness, her heart leapt into her throat.

  “You…,” she gasped, patting her chest to restart her heart. “How did you get in here?”

  He came to a halt, a respectful distance away. “Forgive me for startling you. But when your father told me you were feeling ill, I knew it was not the truth.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “What question?”

  “How did you get in here?”

  His blue eyes twinkled and he gestured at the door. Derica, calming somewhat after her initial fright, slowly shook her head. “That door was locked. I bolted it myself.”

  “I did not say I came through the door.”

  “But you pointed to it.”

  “I did not. I merely pointed to the obvious.”

  She was becoming irritated. “The obvious door? You’re not making any sense.”

  He remained cool, almost amused. “Does it matter how I got in? I would say that you should be more concerned as to why I am here.”

  Derica was still looking over at the door, almost hidden in the darkness. There was a lancet window near it, the oilcloth partially peeled back. It took her a moment to realize that the window was what Garren had meant. Her eyes widened.

  “Do you mean to tell me that you came in through the window?” she was astonished. “I am four stories up. How in God’s name did you climb up the side of the keep?”

  He smiled faintly. “I came to apologize if I said something to upset you when we met on the battlements. Whatever it was, I did not mean to. I sensed that you were perturbed when you left, and then when you did not appear at sup, I knew I must have offended you.”

  She eyed him. “Are you always so evasive?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I want to know how you came in through the window, and you want to discuss some silly conversation we had on the battlements.”

  “It wasn’t a silly conversation at all, I assure you. It was the first true conversation you and I have had, and I suppose I conducted it badly.”

  Derica cocked an eyebrow. She was coming to suspect he was not going to tell her how he came in through the window. But she was off-guard at his appearance and had no desire to continue a conversation with him.

  “My father will throw you in the vault if he finds you in here,” she said. “You’d better leave the way you came so no one will see you.”

  Garren stood there, watching the light reflect off her features. He also knew it was dangerous for him to be here, but for the duration of sup he had been seized with the determination to see her. A small seed of confusion was glowing somewhere in his mind, something that he suspected at some point would make it difficult for him to keep his mind on his mission unless he
kept it in check. Maybe if he could talk to her, to find out just how spoiled and petty she was, he could learn to dislike her. He needed to find a reason to dislike her in order to maintain his focus.

  He took a couple of slow steps, moving towards the other chair in the chamber and being very careful not to appear threatening.

  “You have no interest in me, my lady,” he commented quietly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He took the chair, lowering his big body. “I said, you have no interest in me. This marriage is as much a duty to you as it is to me.”

  He was a safe enough distance away and Derica was feeling more composed, enough so that she found herself responding to him.

  “Unless a young woman is intended for the convent, it is expected she would wed,” she replied. “I have no desire to become a nun or an old maid.”

  “But you were disturbed by my observation that one of marriage’s primary purposes is to produce heirs.”

  Derica shrugged, toying with the ends of her hair. “Sometimes the truth is disturbing.”

  “It is. But why should the production of a child disturb you? All women want children, do they not?”

  “My mother died giving birth to me.”

  “I see,” Garren understood. “Then childbirth frightens you.”

  Derica looked up at him, feeling an odd warmth coarse through her as their eyes met. “Not particularly,” she tried to sound uncaring. “It is a fact of life. One cannot avoid it.”

  Garren sensed she was putting up a front but he let it go. “Many, many women survive it,” he said. “True enough that some die, but the same pertains to any risks you take in life. Some live, and some die, but it is better to have taken the chance than to have had no chance to take.”

  For the first time since they met, he drew a smile from her, however reluctant. It was a beautiful gesture. “You speak like someone who has taken many chances, and has perhaps regretted the ones he never had.”