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  “Lionel, don’t eat the bugs.”

  He looked up from his meal of cricket, antenna waving from between his lips. “Nay!”

  She stood up and moved toward him. “Yech. Spit it out.”

  “Nayoo!”

  The cricket took advantage of Lionel’s opened mouth to hop out, distracting Lionel and saving Marian from a tantrum. She offered bread in lieu of bugs, and he accepted, though grudgingly.

  She watched the play of light on his dark hair and thought how much he looked like his father, how little like his mother. She thought how much she wanted for him and how difficult it would be to get it for him. She thought how alive he was now, and how likely he wouldn’t see his third birthday. And she knew she would defend his life with her own, for despite what Griffith said, he was her son. The son of her heart.

  Griffith. He knew too much now. He thought he knew everything, but he didn’t. No one knew everything except Elizabeth—and her. The others who had known were dead. All dead.

  Why hadn’t he told her sooner that Henry had sent him to watch over her and Lionel?

  Maybe because he hadn’t had the time or the place. Maybe because he’d been so annoyed with a mission he perceived as inconsequential. Maybe because she’d annoyed him so much.

  But she hadn’t only annoyed him. She’d challenged him, mocked him, laughed at him. It had been a dreadful, backward flirtation, born of…what? Springtime and flowers? Need and passion? Or the simple recognition of one lost soul by another?

  His seduction had struck at that wretched conceit she’d harbored, the conviction she would do nothing to jeopardize Lionel’s safety. That had made his betrayal strike all the deeper. He’d been sent to spy on her—or worse, he’d been awaiting the order from Henry. The order to assassinate her child.

  What had he said?

  That she must rely on his protection, for Lionel’s safety depended on it. What did that mean? Did that mean he would protect Lionel if she cooperated with him? If she bribed him, if she slept with him? Was that what he meant? How long would he be satisfied with such a bargain? Until he tired of her? Until Lionel annoyed him? Until Henry sent word Lionel should be killed?

  Damn him and his rugged face and his muscled body. He had masqueraded as a dread warrior, then he’d proved to have the heart of a poet and the mind of a scholar. He had lulled her into trusting him, then he’d proved to be deceit personified.

  If she had understood how their minds meshed, she would have been prepared. She would have been resistant. She wouldn’t have fallen in his bed like some round-heeled draggle-tail paid twice the normal fee.

  Could something that wonderful be so disastrous? Could a man who punished with pleasure be all bad? Could she have misjudged him so badly?

  Suddenly she lifted her head and glanced around. Could Lionel have gone so far in so short a time?

  “Lionel?” He didn’t answer. “Lionel?”

  She listened, but she couldn’t hear him. He was hiding from her. ’Twas a game they played in less stressful times, but now it brought her to her feet. In a singsong, laughing voice, she called, “Where’s Lionel?”

  A giggle answered her, and she relaxed. He wasn’t lost. He wasn’t kidnapped. Now she had to pick him up and put him on the horse once more for another bone-jarring, weary ride.

  “Lionel?” She stalked her son. “Where’s Lionel? Where’s Lionel?” With each giggle, she got closer. At the last moment, he broke cover and ran—right into a stream. “Oh, Lionel,” she exclaimed, chasing after him. The water topped her boots, soaking her hose. He stumbled and fell. She swooped him up, wetting her sleeves and the hem of her coat, and dragged him onto the bank. “You’re all wet,” she lamented, holding the dripping child out straight. “I hope you don’t get sick. Oh, Lionel.”

  Too much. This was all too much. She held back tears as she changed him, emptied her boots, squeezed out her sleeves.

  Bright, cheerful, and phony, she chirped, “Time to go, Lionel.”

  “Nay.”

  She wrestled with him. “Mama put you in the sling—”

  “Nay!”

  “—and climb on the horse—”

  “Lionel no go,” he said clearly.

  She faltered. Yesterday he’d said his first word. Today he’d said his first sentence. She spared a thought for Griffith’s mother, who had complained of Griffith’s sudden eloquence, and for Griffith, who had promised her Lionel would speak. And she wished the man she had thought Griffith to be were there, for the birds had stopped singing and once more she heard the faint echo of a stranger’s footstep.

  9

  “My arse is tired of sitting on this horse. We’ve searched half of Lancaster in the last two days, and for naught.” Art waved at the threatening forest around them. “All we’ve found is tracks that lead nowhere. No one’s seen Lady Marian, and if ye want my opinion, we’ve been duped. She probably is still at Castle Wenthaven, hiding in a comfortable room with a bed.”

  Griffith grunted. “Perhaps. But I would have sworn she would run like a flushed deer. Think you someone else is playing us false?”

  “Someone has her, ye mean, and is laughing through his socks as we make fools of ourselves searching?” Art rubbed the aforementioned posterior. “’Tis possible. I’m starting to think ’tis probable.”

  Turning his horse toward Castle Wenthaven, Griffith said, “Let us go back, and try flushing our game another way.”

  Art followed willingly, tired and showing his age, and Griffith resolved to wring Marian’s neck when he caught up with her. If he caught up with her. If she were well. Could it be normal to wish to embrace and punish all at the same time? Or was it simply another of the ways Marian had discovered to undermine his control?

  He’d ask her when he found her. If he found her.

  “Do you still have the letter from Elizabeth?” he asked.

  “Ye’re worried about that letter, aren’t ye?” Art patted the pouch that hung at his side under his jacket. “Aye, I’ve still got it. It says nothing seditious?”

  “’Tis a plain, loving letter from a lady to her friend in exile. It says nothing…unless one knows what to look for.” Griffith ducked beneath a branch and surveyed the area. They weren’t far from the road. Before the afternoon ended, they’d be among the discontents and misfits of Castle Wenthaven. They’d be searching for Marian with stealth, and their every word would be monitored. Art, with his devious turn of mind, might shed a new light on the contents of Elizabeth’s letter—a light Griffith couldn’t see for his involvement.

  Slowing his horse, Griffith pulled alongside Art and, drawing from his formidable memory, recited:

  From the Lady Elizabeth to her dearest Sister of the Heart, Lady Marian. I greet you well and send you God’s Blessing and mine, asking most tenderly about your child, Lionel. I pray this finds him in good health and sturdy, and pray also for a long and varied report of his boyish and learned behavior. I find much comfort in your tales of his bright wit and charm, knowing full well that my son, Arthur, must soon follow along the footpaths Lionel now treads. I would that they could be together and much mourn your absence and miss the comfort you would bring me. Arthur fills the hole in my heart I believed burned away when my brothers disappeared and all around me betrayed my trust. All except you, dear Sister.

  Therefore I must tell you of my dear Lord Husband, the King. He often speaks of you kindly, although he’s never met you, and is most generous and encourages me to send money to you, for he’s beholden for the support you gave me during my most trying times. In memory of those days, please take this purse and use it as needed for the support of your dear son; my godson and the child of whom I think and pray every day.

  “The poor lady,” Art said, his sympathies easily aroused. “She’s torn in her loyalties, and trying to warn Lady Marian not to upset the fishcart or it’ll cause a terrible stink.”

  “Do you really think that’s what she’s saying?” A great weight lifted off Griffith’s mi
nd. “Because that’s what I thought she was saying, but at times I’ve been known to misconstrue a woman’s true meaning.”

  “Ye’re the only man in the world to do that.”

  “And with Marian, I’ve made mistakes.”

  “If ye hadn’t told me, I’d have never known.”

  “But if you think that’s what the lady Elizabeth was saying…” He observed Art’s smirk. “Arthur, are you making a jest of me?”

  “Nay, my lord, why would I do that? I wouldn’t dream”—Art ducked when Griffith swung his riding gloves—“of making a jest of a respected warrior such as yerself. Why, when I think of the wisdom contained within yer smallest finger”—he ducked again, cackling—“I couldn’t imagine sitting in judgment…in judgment…”

  His voice faded as he lifted a hand and tilted his head in a listening attitude. Griffith, too, halted in midswing and heard the sound of a man running. He urged his horse onto the main road to see Marian’s guard from Wenthaven round the curve toward him. Billy lifted his gaze from the ground just before he reached them and skidded to a stop. “M’lord.” He put his hands on his knees and panted, trying to get enough air to speak. “If it pleases ye…I have news o’th’lady Marian.”

  Griffith and Art exchanged glances, then Art handed Billy a water jug. Billy drank greedily and poured the rest over his head, and when Griffith judged Billy could speak, he commanded, “Tell us.”

  “She left two mornin’s ago.”

  “How do ye know?” Art snapped.

  “I let her an’ th’ sleepin’ babe out o’ th’ gate meself.” At Art’s indignant outcry, Billy defended himself. “She’s th’ lady, an’ she’ll do what she wants, an’ I thought ’twould be better if I did it than some other one who’d see th’ chance t’ do her ill. Good thing I did, too, ’cause I wasn’t th’ only one what saw her leave.”

  Griffith straightened in his saddle. “Has she been captured?”

  “Nay, m’lord. Th’ last I saw her, she was fine. I stood guard, ye see, after I let her go. That mercenary captain knows too much what goes on at Wenthaven, an’ his men are always a-pokin’ their noses where they don’t belong, an’ I don’t trust any o’ them. An’ first thing I know, there’s that Cledwyn, observin’ her. Then that Harbottle joins, an’ they go a-followin’ m’lady, an’ they don’t realize I’m a-followin’ them.”

  “Good man,” Griffith said.

  “’Tis me duty,” Billy answered. “Besides, I don’t much like all these foreigners comin’ t’ Shropshire wi’ their strange languages an’ such. Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lord.”

  Griffith well remembered Billy’s challenge the night he walked Marian home and inquired curiously, “You mistrust Cledwyn and Harbottle, but not me?”

  “’Tis a hard choice fer a simple man like me, m’lord, but”—Billy straightened and stared at Griffith with accusing eyes—“there’s no one else at Wenthaven what cares about her. Ye care…although I don’t like why ye care. Sniffin’ around her like one o’ Lord Wenthaven’s spaniel studs wi’ a bitch.”

  “This stud’ll do right by her,” Art said.

  The testimonial left Griffith unimpressed, but Billy eyed Griffith with much the same consideration as he would a prize spaniel. “Aye, I’m thinkin’ his intentions are good even if he’s thinkin’ o’ dippin’ his wick.”

  Annoyed with the men who should behave as his servants, Griffith spoke through his teeth. “I’m going to wed the lady.”

  Like a lazy wind clearing a cloudy sky, relief eased Billy’s furrowed brow. “’Tis good. She’s not as worldly as she would have ye believe. Ye keep her busy wi’ th’ babes, one a year, an’ she’ll not have so much time t’ gallop about seekin’ trouble.”

  “That I will.”

  Griffith gave his pledge solemnly, as if Billy were her father, and Billy accepted it just as solemnly.

  “So where is she?” Art demanded.

  Billy shuffled the dirt with his feet, looking worried and uncomfortable. “I can’t tell ye exactly where she is right now. I had t’ come an’ get ye, ye ken.” He brightened. “But I can tell ye where t’ start lookin’ fer her. Cledwyn an’ Harbottle followed her south fer most o’ th’ mornin’—an’ me after them—an’ she finally turns west, toward Wales, an’ keeps a steady line straight into that pagan country—beggin’ yer pardon—an’ th’ two eel-skinners satisfy themselves that’s where she’s a-goin’ an’ turn back.”

  “Into Wales?” Art was incredulous. “Why would she go into Wales? She doesn’t speak the language, and Wales is our home. To go to Wales would place her in our power.”

  “If ye catch up wi’ her,” Billy reminded him.

  Griffith stroked the two-day growth of beard that covered his upper lip and chin. “Madness, but a sensible madness. She thinks we would never look for her there—and we wouldn’t, without Billy’s information. It keeps her well out of Henry’s grasp, and to disappear so completely within England, one must travel north to the Lake Country. That’s a fair ride.”

  “Ye think she went to—” Art sighed and confessed to Griffith, “Ye’re not the only one who doesn’t understand women. The men in Wales are not these mealy-mouthed, contemptuous lizards who live to bask in the sun—like the men of England.”

  Griffith smothered a grin. Art was getting his own back.

  Art continued, “They’re warriors, and live to kill the English.”

  “That’s not what you told her,” Griffith reminded him. “Remember? The night she left, you wove her some lyrical tale of a beautiful Wales whose welcoming people would take her to their bosoms.”

  Art’s horror was genuine. “Billy, are ye sure? We tracked her south.”

  “Cledwyn an’ Harbottle camouflaged her trail several times, not wantin’ anyone else t’ know where she was a-goin’.”

  “And created the false trails, I trow,” Art marveled. “Ye got to admire those sly dickweeds.”

  “I do?” Griffith was furious he’d not thought to check Cledwyn’s whereabouts before he left Wenthaven, and even more furious he’d not killed Harbottle when he’d had the chance. “They’re going to be worm food.”

  Billy approved. “That’s th’ spirit, m’lord. I followed Lady Marian fer two days, an’ she’s definitely in Wales, but movin’ slow ’cause o’ th’ child. Let me take ye t’ th’ last place I saw them, an’ we’ll go from there.”

  “Take us to the last place you saw Lady Marian, and Art and I will go from there.” Griffith leaned out of the saddle to get closer to Billy. “You will go back to Wenthaven. Perhaps there are some obstacles to be placed in the path of Cledwyn and Harbottle.”

  A grin inched across Billy’s wide face. “Aye, perhaps there are. Perhaps there are.”

  “Ah. Billy.” Wenthaven smiled at the guard who hovered in the doorway of his bedchamber, patting Honey’s head when she growled and giving her the command to cease. “Billy, come in, and welcome.”

  Wenthaven ignored the uneasy servant as he shuffled, inch by inch, into the room. He ignored the dirt Billy shed on the fine rug and the way Billy breathed through his mouth in noisy, moist exhalations. Instead Wenthaven poured two hearty cups of ale, called the spaniel to heel, and strode to the cushioned chair he called his own. “Come and sit down, Billy, and let us drink together.”

  “M’lord.” Only new serving maidens sounded so shy and embarrassed. “I can’t drink wi’ ye.”

  “But why?”

  “’Twouldn’t be proper.”

  Wenthaven chuckled indulgently and sank onto the chair, Honey at his feet. “I think I’m in the position to decide what’s proper, don’t you? After all, if I choose to have an ale with one of my oldest and most trusted men-at-arms, who’s to say me nay?”

  Billy mumbled an inarticulate reply.

  “Now, come and sit here”—with his shoe, Wenthaven scooted his cushioned footstool close—“and we’ll talk.”

  He ignored Billy’s groan, smiling with fixed goodwill until Billy crept
forward and lowered his bulk onto the low stool.

  “Are you comfortable, Billy?”

  Clearly Billy wasn’t, but he nodded.

  “Here’s your ale, Billy.”

  Billy took it with a hand that shook visibly.

  “Now, Billy, how long have you been one of my men?”

  “Ah…” The cup clattered against Billy’s teeth when he tried to drink. “Ah…in years?”

  Wenthaven closed his eyes in pain.

  He missed Marian. He missed having someone with whom he could match wits. He missed having one person out of all the fools around him who wasn’t incredibly stupid. Opening his eyes, he watched as Honey rose and began sniffing as if she’d picked up a scent. To Billy he said, “That would be fine.”

  “Ah…I came into th’ troop when I was about eleven, m’lord, an’ now I’m…” Billy squinted as he tried to cipher. “Ah, I guess, I’m thirty-two…ah, nigh onto sixteen years, I think, m’lord.”

  The earl almost sagged on his chair. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “That’s fine, Billy.” Honey reached the drapes that hung in folds against the wall and snuffled more loudly. “And how often have you left Wenthaven in those sixteen years?”

  “Never! That is”—Billy squirmed as he realized the direction of Wenthaven’s interrogation—“just two days.”

  “Yesterday and the day before?” Honey stuck her head under the curtain and wagged her tail.

  “Ah…aye, I suppose ye’d say that.”

  “Drink your ale, Billy. I hate to see you so uncomfortable, you make me feel an unworthy host.” Curious and suspicious, Wenthaven walked to the drapes. “You’re shivering. Does the breeze bother you? Would you like me to arrange the curtains to block it?”

  The drapes swayed, the dog leaped back, and Wenthaven almost laughed aloud as he realized what was happening.

  “Nay, m’lord, I’m quite warm,” Billy said. “I’m not cold, truly.”