Outrageous

by Christina Dodd

  “Not everything.”

  “Aye, there’s the gold the queen sends you. But you hoard as much of that as you can, don’t you? I wonder why.”

  His faint smile kept her anxiety at bay, and she answered honestly. “Lionel must have every advantage, and that’ll take money. Living off your charity is not so dreadful, I’ve discovered. The only fatality is my pride.”

  “You’ve developed a rather wry humor about your situation, haven’t you? Most amusing.” But he looked as if he’d found half a worm in his apple. “The new clothes, I confess, are nothing but a sop to my conscience. I obviously have failed to maintain a decent surveillance of my property.”

  Cheered by his perturbed expression, she said, “Perhaps your grip on your followers is slipping.”

  “You’d best hope not, my dear, or chaos would ensue.”

  “Speaking of chaos, did you set Adrian Harbottle on me?” she demanded.

  Wenthaven stopped washing the dog to peer at her. “Well, well. You are discerning. I thought I had hidden that from you.”

  Instantly enraged, she shouted, “You told him to rape me?”

  Honey growled again, and again Wenthaven calmed her as he stared at his daughter. “Rape you? When?”

  “Today. At the hunt.”

  To her horror, her whole body shuddered, and his cool gaze noted the betrayal of her emotions.

  “You defended yourself successfully, of course.”

  “There is no ‘of course’—but, aye, I did.”

  He suggested, “Most women would be honored by the attentions of—”

  “Of a stupid peacock with ambitions above his station?”

  “Sometimes, my dear, you show signs of having my intelligence. It fosters a kind of paternal pride—an alien emotion, and a disconcerting one.” He scrubbed at the dog. “So use that intelligence, and tell me—would I give my daughter to some man as a gift?”

  “You might if you could use that man to control me.”

  He laughed, short and sharp, and he avoided a direct reply to that accusation. “You are an heiress yourself, and even besmirched as you are, you’re worth much on the marriage mart. Men are willing to forget much for a large dower.”

  “I’ve not been overwhelmed with offers since my return from court.”

  Wenthaven chuckled, soft and low. “There have been some, and as the memory of your sin retreats, they increase. I’ve simply seen no reason to bother you with them.”

  “They weren’t lucrative enough?”

  “I’ll not sell my daughter for money.”

  “Ah. The offers were not from powerful families.”

  “How well you know me.”

  “Aye, I know you. Know you well enough to wonder if you’re telling me the truth.”

  “In all honesty, I assure you, I will never offer you to Adrian Harbottle. He has slipped his leash.”

  “Then what did you encourage him to do to me?”

  “Ah. I’d hoped you’d forgotten that.”

  She waited, tapping her toe.

  “I encouraged him to duel with you.”

  Confused, she demanded, “In the name of the Virgin, why?”

  “For excitement.”

  “I don’t like being prodded like a bear facing a bull.”

  “Most people don’t—if they realize it. When you first came to Castle Wenthaven, you paraded every grievance. But as time has gone on, you’ve conformed more and more to society’s demands, and—dare I say it—you’ve become dull.” He waved his hand, and drops of water flew. “Witness the marriage offers I told you about.”

  “Why did you encourage me, when I came from court, to do mad things?”

  “Give a dog a bad name and hang him, my dear. You’d ruined your reputation in the worst, most permanent way, and you might as well be hanged as try to recover your good name. You wanted to show you didn’t care, and I helped you show it.”

  “Despite the further damage it did me?”

  “Did it?” He leaned forward until his forehead almost touched hers. “Do you remember when you were a tiny lass of five, and I sent you to Lady Elizabeth to serve her? Do you remember the advice I gave you the night before you left?”

  Looking into his eyes, she could almost imagine the years had melted away and she stood before her father once more—afraid to leave her home, more afraid to tell him so, and clinging to the hope that if she did as instructed, she would make him proud enough to bring her back. Did she remember? “Aye, I remember. You told me to cultivate the ability to please, to recognize my lady’s misdeeds and advise her against them, and if she did not listen, to exhibit the most extreme loyalty and take responsibility for the results.”

  “Was it good advice?”

  Without hesitation she said, “It was.”

  “Now I will give you more good advice. Never apologize for events past. Never explain, never ask forgiveness for who you are. You are Wenthaven’s daughter, and you are a force to be reckoned with in England.” He leaned back and returned his attention to his task. “Don’t ever forget that.”

  Somehow she felt like that frightened child again, trying to comprehend something just beyond her grasp.

  “That young man will have to be watched,” he said.

  “Who…oh, Harbottle. I don’t think so.”

  Wenthaven lifted Honey from the slimy water. “Did you kill him?”

  “Not I. I kicked him—”

  “How unimaginative.”

  “—in the throat—”

  “Better.”

  “—but Sir Griffith rode up in a fortuitous manner, and he assures me I should worry no more.”

  “Sir Griffith ap Powel?” Honey yelped as if Wenthaven had tightened his grip too much, and he placed her gently in the rinse water. “Powel is quite the chevalier.”

  She didn’t like the way he said it. From Wenthaven, it sounded like an insult.

  He continued, “As a matter of curiosity, why did you move him into the tower?”

  His daughter, Wenthaven noted, wasn’t as skillful at juggling the truth as he was. It made her uneasy, and it gave him, finally, the upper hand. The whole conversation had been a revelation to him, a worrisome indication of his own incompetence. He’d thought Harbottle too stupid to take the initiative, but he’d underestimated both the youth’s conceit and the size of his cock-stand. He’d have to do something about Harbottle.

  He’d underestimated his daughter, too.

  In all his dealings with royals, with courtiers, with common folk, he’d not found a soul in this world with half his intelligence or capacity for intrigue. But his daughter—damn, she was good. What he’d originally taken for stupidity had proved to be naiveté. With a little guidance, she could easily be his equal.

  That should have alarmed him. Instead it fostered pride in him—an unfamiliar notion. Now he would have to probe her mind to discover the depth of her interest in this Griffith ap Powel. It pleased him when she stammered, “He—he wanted a room where he could speak without having your spies listen.”

  “And how did he discover my spies were listening?”

  “I don’t know.” She threw out her arms in an excess of innocence. “I don’t know, Wenthaven. I only know his servant questioned me about your spies. Probably King Henry knows about it. Probably the king’s spies are spying on your spies.”

  That was a thought. A depressing thought, and one worth investigating. But he wasn’t done with Marian yet. “Why were you in Powel’s room in the middle of the night?”

  She made it clear she didn’t like it, but she answered bluntly, “I was collecting my money.”

  “Of course.” He didn’t believe that, but it wasn’t important. “Back to the original question—why did you put him in the tower?”

  “I don’t know what you’re asking.”

  A fine parry, but he thrust under her guard. “Is Powel your newest lover?”

  “Nay!”

  Well accustomed to interrogation, he leveled an
accusing stare at her. “You wanted to put him in the tower because there you could indulge yourself without my knowledge.” He felt that stab of pride again when she visibly pulled herself together.

  “Nay. Sir Griffith is ill tempered, ill mannered, and ill favored. He thinks me a whore and despises me for my wantonness. I’ve remained celibate since Lionel’s birth. Why do you think he would tempt me?

  Wenthaven wondered how well she’d learned the fine art of acting during her latter days at court. Did she hide an ardor for this Griffith ap Powel? Better than most, Wenthaven understood the illogic of passion. With his hands cupped, he lifted water from the tub and poured it around Honey’s ears. “Your mother wasn’t the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, nor the most interesting, but I never stopped pursuing her, even when she was mine. Even now, when I see a woman who resembles her…but they’re never the same.”

  As he had intended, this glimpse of his soft underbelly fascinated Marian. “So you mourned my mother when she died?”

  For some reason, he told her the truth in a neutral tone that he hoped disguised the old anguish that was still alive after almost twenty years. “If I could, I would level the tower that killed her.”

  “It would be difficult, but not impossible. Why can’t you?”

  “She won’t let me. I planned to do it once, and went into the tower to explain to the workers what must be done, and she…” He recalled a whisper of silk, a scent of rose, a quick turn to see…nothing. He pressed one wet wrist to his forehead, then plunged it into the water again. “I haven’t gone back since. It’s not a pleasant feeling, being dictated to from beyond the grave. Especially not by a woman who said so little when she was alive.”

  “Does she disapprove of you?”

  “Your mother was an innocent.” It made him angry that he still remembered, still longed for her. “She never approved of my activities, my little forays to gather information. She didn’t like the people I keep around me.”

  He didn’t look at her directly, but from the corner of his eye he could see her gathering her courage. He braced himself for another probe about her mother.

  But she asked only, “Why do you have those people here?”

  “What people?”

  “Those pathetic imitations of courtiers. Those poor souls who hang about, looking for a handout. These dogs have more dignity than they do.”

  “From your lips I heard the answer. Poor souls.” He relished the phrase. “If I didn’t take them in, who would?”

  “They’d have to do something useful with their lives.”

  “How? Most of them are noble. They have no skills. The younger sons can tilt at tournament, recite their own dreadful poetry, sit a horse—one of them can even recite a mass. He was a priest destined for high office in the Church until his bishop caught him with his hand up his daughter’s skirt. The bishop’s daughter’s skirt, that is.” Wenthaven rolled his eyes. “No political acumen.”

  “And the women?”

  “Ah, the impoverished daughters!” He blew an annoying strand of silver hair out of his eyes. “Who’ll pay for needlework and gossip? The unfortunate souls are dependent on me for everything.”

  “And that gives you power.”

  He slid her a sideways glance. “How clever of you, darling.”

  “Why do you want so much power?”

  “Ah. Are you asking about my motivation?”

  “I…aye, I suppose I am.”

  He clucked his tongue and kept his tone smooth. “’Tis the first time you’ve shown interest in me and my background. I’m flattered.”

  She wisely kept her mouth shut.

  He rewarded her acumen with a glimpse of his past. “When I was a youth, I was one of the unfortunate souls.” Lifting the dog out of the tub, he told the approaching kennel keeper, “I’ll care for Honey.” To Marian he said, “I was a poor relation of the Woodville family, and they were not, at that time, related to royalty. But when Elizabeth Woodville married King Edward and produced all those children—starting with your own Lady Elizabeth of York—that changed. Cousin Elizabeth Woodville—she’s the dowager queen of England now—had King Edward give me a title. She found me an heiress whose lands were not entailed, and I wed.”

  “My mother?”

  “Your mother.” He pointed at the stack of drying clothes. “Hand me that towel, would you?”

  Marian obliged. “What did she think of the marriage?”

  His smile wavered. “Your mother was not an easy woman to read.”

  “Did she love you?”

  “Aristocrats do not love.”

  “Then, did you love her?”

  He looked at her, noting the coltish grace of her legs and the tilt of her chin. For the first time in his life, he’d slipped. He’d revealed too much, and she’d gotten above herself. She imagined she could insult him without consequence. In the cold tone he often employed with such success, he replied, “I am not so low a breed as you think, my lady Marian. Not so low a breed as a pathetic soul who comes running home with her bastard and begs me for sanctuary.”

  She jerked her head back as if he’d slapped her. “You never reproached me before.”

  “Reproached you? For the failure of my dreams? For destroying the chance I bought for you?”

  She leaned across the dog to grab his arm. “I did what you told me to do.”

  With a snarl, Honey sprang toward her. Wenthaven grabbed the dog, and with a cry, Marian tumbled backward onto the grass. Barking frenziedly, Honey fought to escape him, to protect him. He wrestled with the dog, desperate to restrain her, furious with Marian for provoking the attack and more furious at himself.

  He should have let Honey maul Marian. It would have not only taught her a well-needed lesson, but put enough marks on that pretty face to stop Harbottle and Griffith and whoever else she’d been toying with.

  But in instinctive reaction, he’d pulled the dog back.

  He didn’t want Marian to bleed. He didn’t want her in pain.

  “Damn the dog!” Marian cried, her gaze fixed on the sharp teeth Honey kept bared at her. “Why did she do that?”

  He calmed Honey until she subsided into a fit of low growls. “She was protecting me.”

  “I wasn’t going to bite you.” She sat up and flapped her coat, trying to dislodge some of the grass and mud. “Honey never liked me.”

  “Of course not. Honey is the dominant bitch in the kennel, and she’s responding to the threat to her domain.”

  Still defiant, she said, “I don’t threaten her!”

  “I know that, but you’ll never convince Honey.” He tapped her untouched cheek. “She recognizes your scent, and after all”—he smiled with all his teeth—“you are top bitch in the kennel.”

  7

  Lionel wiggled on Griffith’s shoulders, and Griffith adjusted him without giving it a thought. How could he, when his discussion with the Welsh mercenaries, and particularly with the scarred and ruthless captain, proved so much more interesting than one small boy?

  But Lionel wiggled again, then tugged Griffith’s hair sharply.

  “Hey, lad!” Griffith swung Lionel down to his feet. “What do you mean by it?”

  Lionel laughed, a light, joyous sound, and pointed toward the kennel enclosure. Griffith’s gaze fastened on the tall, graceful youth closing the gate.

  Not a youth, but a woman with too much faith in a costume and too little in a man’s perception.

  Marian.

  The mercenary proved Griffith right with a grin that revealed a few broken stubs of teeth. In Welsh Cledwyn said, “Th’ earl’s mad daughter. I have plans t’ visit her some night.”

  Griffith gathered the front of Cledwyn’s grimy, knee-length garment—the only one he wore—in his fist and pulled him close. Looking deep into his eyes, Griffith replied in Welsh, “I’d reconsider, if I wanted to keep my family clappers intact.”

  “Is she”—the flesh of Cledwyn’s face quivered—“under yer protection?�
��

  “My protection, and King Henry’s.”

  “King Henry? Ooh, ’tis frightened, I am.” The mercenary shot two fingers out toward Griffith’s eyes.

  Griffith deflected them with a slash of his flattened palm.

  Cledwyn considered Griffith. “Ye can fight, can ye?”

  Calmly, making it clear he did it because he chose to, Griffith loosened his grip on the mercenary’s filthy garment. “How did you lose your teeth?”

  “Mace swing t’ th’ head.” Deprived of the structure that teeth lent a face, Cledwyn looked like a clay molding mashed from jaw to forehead. “Only a Welshman tough as me could live through it.”

  Griffith nodded. “’Twould be a cruel irony if it happened again. I doubt you’d be lucky enough to live through it twice.”

  Not at all alarmed, Cledwyn again considered Griffith. “Some Welshman ye are, threatening yer fellow countryman.”

  “Some Welshman you are,” Griffith countered, “dealing treacherously with King Henry of Wales.”

  Cledwyn seemed more surprised than sullen. “There’s money t’ be made.”

  Lionel pulled on Griffith’s coat, but Griffith only patted his head and answered Cledwyn. “That doesn’t absolve treason.”

  “Money absolves everythin’.” Seeing a chance to challenge Griffith, Cledwyn sneered. “Especially when Henry remembers he’s a Welshman only long enough t’ secure his arse on th’ throne, then do his dirtiest t’ my own dearest country o’ Cymru.”

  He ended on a sob that didn’t impress Griffith at all. “Your affection for Wales isn’t worth piss.” Lionel tugged at Griffith again, and Griffith shook him off. “If enough Welshmen think as you do and hire themselves out to a petty lord with dreams too big for his codpiece, Henry’ll have reason to betray Wales, won’t he? All of Cymru will be squeezed out at the little end of the horn.”

  Cledwyn’s voice rose. “Save yer breath t’ cool yer porridge. Ye’ll never convince me—damn little turd!”

  Griffith jerked Lionel away from Cledwyn’s hairy leg and swung him away just as the mercenary’s hand descended.

  “He bit me!” Cledwyn shrieked, lunging for Lionel. “Th’ half-wit whelp bit me!”