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  Wenthaven tapped the drape with his fingers, then nodded. “As you say. I’ll not open the drape…yet. Come, Honey.” He returned to his chair. “Is the pillow soft enough?”

  Billy blurted, “Aye, m’lord, my arse has never been so at ease.”

  “That’s wonderful, Billy. Wonderful. ’Tis almost like we’re old friends, then.”

  “Aye…er…nay, that is…m’lord, I left fer good reason.”

  “Do you”—Wenthaven examined his nails—“want to tell me about it?”

  “I went t’ protect yer daughter,” Billy said stoutly.

  “She left quite early one morning, I understand?”

  Billy’s face was a study of confusion and distrust. “Aye, m’lord, but who told ye?”

  The way Billy demanded to know, quite as if it were his right, made Wenthaven smile. Marian had learned the lessons he’d taught her—she’d bound this oaf to her with chains of kindness, and Billy had proved a good servant. In reply, Wenthaven said, “There have been several unexplained absences lately, and I could not restrain my curiosity. I called young Harbottle in—are you acquainted with Harbottle?”

  “He ain’t worth scrapin’ off th’ bottom o’ me boot.”

  Unwillingly delighted, Wenthaven said, “I see you are acquainted with Harbottle. When I spoke to him, he seemed to have met with an accident. One which pulled his shoulder free from its socket. One called Sir Griffith ap Powel.”

  Billy had relaxed enough to admit, “Now he’s a good man.”

  “Do you know him, also?” Wenthaven asked in feigned surprise. “For he disappeared at about the same time as my daughter.”

  Billy’s forehead furrowed as he tried to think. Too obviously, he didn’t trust Wenthaven. Just as obviously, he didn’t wish to betray Marian or Griffith.

  “Sir Griffith was sent to my humble abode by King Henry himself.”

  Billy brightened, clearly impressed.

  “But I don’t know why the king sent Sir Griffith, and it worries me.” Wenthaven placed the back of his hand to his forehead. “Could Sir Griffith’s mission be less than honorable?”

  “Nay,” Billy said, sure of himself. “Sir Griffith is as dedicated t’ Lady Marian’s safety as ye an’…as I am.”

  “Very interesting. And how do you know this?”

  “Because he gave me his pledge.”

  A chill swept Wenthaven, and he leaned forward. “His pledge?”

  “He pledged himself t’ marry Lady Marian.”

  Billy faltered in the face of Wenthaven’s wrath, but Wenthaven couldn’t control himself. “To marry Lady Marian?” His voice rose. “He pledged he would marry my daughter?”

  “Aye, an’ give her a babe a year t’ keep her busy an’ safe.”

  Then he shrank back, raising his hand in reflexive defense, but Wenthaven never thought of striking him. It was not Billy with whom he was angry. It was Sir Griffith, for daring to imagine he could wed the earl of Wenthaven’s daughter. And it was Marian, that round-heeled slut, for not accepting her place in his plans.

  She was his daughter, damn it. He thought she’d failed him when she brought home a bastard, but she’d refused to apologize or explain, and when Wenthaven had mastered his anger, he saw why.

  Her son—what was his name?—Lionel? Lionel looked just like the York family. Just like Richard, king of England.

  Royal bastards weren’t worth much, of course, especially the children of a deposed king, but Wenthaven had his suspicions about the circumstances of the birth. And after all, what if he were wrong? What could he lose? He was one of the dowager queen’s Woodville relatives, and as Henry became more secure on the throne, so had he become less interested in retaining Wenthaven’s—and any other Woodville’s—goodwill. Wenthaven could see his position eroding with each day of Henry’s reign, and his oath to Henry couldn’t compete with his youthful resolution to become a power in England.

  So he was grateful to Marian. She’d brought him a royal child to manipulate. Maybe she hadn’t meant to, and maybe she didn’t want him to, but he was her father and he knew what was best.

  He had comforted himself with an insight into her character. She hated being so far from the court. She wanted the best for her son. He knew she’d appreciate his efforts when they came to fruition, so he’d waited and planned for the proper moment. And now the proper moment was at hand, but Marian had escaped—into the arms of a minor Welsh knight who imagined himself good enough to be her husband.

  Wenthaven clutched the clothing over his stomach. God rot her, Marian had brought a fire to his gut no amount of wine could quench. And look at her champion, Billy. He’d fled to the other end of the room and was eyeing the exit longingly.

  There were those who had told Wenthaven he looked quite diabolical when he lost his temper, but too much was at stake to lose it now. His task, as he saw it, was to ease his way into Billy’s confidence—not easily done, for Billy had been witness to too many years of fatherly neglect. But everyone could be molded under the correct pressure, and Wenthaven had to find the way to mold Billy.

  How could he convince Billy he wanted only Marian’s safety? He could intimidate Billy into telling the truth about Marian’s whereabouts and Griffith’s role in her disappearance, but he couldn’t force Billy to do anything to harm Marian or her son. Calming himself, he called, “Honey. Here, girl.”

  The dog sat up and wagged her tail in delight. When Wenthaven patted his lap, she leaped into it as if she trusted him with her life.

  Which she did. This dog, loving, loyal, anxious to please, had never failed him, nor had he failed her. She worshiped him, and he was well aware of the contrast her golden coat made against the rich cloth of his doublet. He was more aware of Billy’s reaction, a reaction Wenthaven anticipated.

  No man so beloved by a dog could be all bad. No man who cared for his pet could purposely hurt his daughter. Wenthaven knew, without looking, that with each stroke of his finger through the spaniel’s hair, Billy relaxed more and more. When he thought the treatment successful, he glanced up casually. “Billy, bring us that loaf of bread and the cheese. We need to replenish ourselves while you tell me how Sir Griffith came to give you this pledge.”

  Weighing every word before he spoke, Billy told him, “He was trackin’ Lady Marian, just like I was, an’ I wouldn’t let him go alone unless he gave it. Last I seen him, he was a-followin’ her int’ Wales.”

  “Into Wales?” True surprise colored Wenthaven’s tone. “What made her go into Wales?”

  “Sir Griffith claims she didn’t think he’d follow her there. I think”—Billy tapped his forehead with one beefy finger—“she was just runnin’ in a panic.”

  “Why would she be panicked?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “She spent the night in Sir Griffith’s bedroom.”

  Billy shook his head.

  “Didn’t she tell you that? And I’ll warrant Sir Griffith didn’t.” Billy was off balance, no longer so sure in his judgment of Griffith, Wenthaven noticed, and he congratulated himself on a successful attack. “So we discuss Lady Marian’s safe return.”

  “Her safe return?”

  “Of course.” Wenthaven scratched behind Honey’s ears. “Lady Marian has to come back.”

  Billy fumbled among the foodstuffs kept always on the table. “Not if she’s goin’ t’ wed Sir Griffith.”

  “Billy, we’re not discussing a peasant girl. We’re discussing the earl of Wenthaven’s daughter. If Sir Griffith wants to marry her—and I don’t doubt he does—he’ll do it, but rest assured, he’s not doing it out of affection. Marriage to Lady Marian Wenthaven is a rich plum. His family will want to know the extent of her dowry, and I’ll want to know what dower they will provide in case she’s widowed. There will be contracts to discuss, lists of the linens and clothing she will bring. Lady Marian will come back, for there’s lands and money to be transferred.”

  Shuffling back to him, Billy kept his gaze on the loaf and ch
eese in his hands. “Sir Griffith ain’t marryin’ her fer her money.”

  “Perhaps not. Would you cut the bread? I hate to dislodge my dog when she’s so comfortable. But Powel won’t reject the money, either. My money is going to Wales. I can scarcely credit it.”

  “That bothered me, too. Not yer money, but that Sir Griffith is Welsh.” Using the knife from his belt, Billy cut a chunk of bread and handed it over. “Think ye he’s a savage?”

  “I wouldn’t want to meet him on the battlefield, if that’s what you mean, but I doubt he’ll hurt Lady Marian.” Wenthaven fed Honey a crust. “Not seriously.” He glanced up and met Billy’s horrified gaze. “But then there’s Harbottle…I threw him out, incidentally.”

  “Good fer ye, m’lord,” Billy said warmly.

  “Aye, he was a bad piece, but Griffith showed true savagery—and a great deal of subtlety—when he pulled the bone of Harbottle’s sword arm free of its socket.” Wenthaven bit into the bread and chewed meditatively. “Did Lady Marian have any broken bones the morning you helped her leave?”

  “N-nay,” Billy stammered. “Nor any bruises, either, but ’twas dark an’ I couldn’t see.”

  “Mm. Well, she probably ran away from Griffith in silly, maidenly embarrassment. She’s not a maiden, of course, but ’tis possible.” The bread and rich cheese eased the knot in Wenthaven’s stomach, and the result of his campaign to discredit Griffith seemed only too successful. Relaxing back into the cushions, he began once more to plan. “I wish I could believe she’s a willing bride. I wish I could help her if she escapes the Powel fortress. But there’s no way I could ask a good Englishman to patrol in foreign territory, just so I’d be at ease about my daughter.”

  Billy lifted his hand, but Wenthaven waved it aside.

  “Nay, Billy, let me think.” He broke off a chunk of cheese for Honey. “I have the Welsh mercenaries, and they’d blend into the countryside, but in sooth, I don’t trust them. They’d take their pleasure of Lady Marian before they returned her, and demand their payment, too.”

  “I beg ye, m’lord—”

  “If there were some way…”

  Wenthaven took a large bite, filling his mouth so much he couldn’t speak, and Billy burst out, “But m’lord, there is a way. Put me in command o’ th’ mercenaries!”

  Wenthaven gulped down the cheese and cleared his throat. Looking into Billy’s shining eyes, he said, “You can’t command all those mercenaries. And who’ll take care of Wenthaven’s defense? You can’t leave Wenthaven empty of its men-at-arms.”

  “Ye’ve English men-at-arms,” Billy replied. “Ready an’ willin’ t’ defend Wenthaven. But if ye’ve got t’ keep th’ Welshmen, then give me three men. Three men, an’ I’ll get Lady Marian out o’ Wales.”

  “God save us, you might just have an idea,” Wenthaven said. He nudged the dog to the floor and bent over to pet her, hiding his face for fear his triumph would show. “Why, I’d be willing to give you five men. Take five of the mercenaries. They’ll get you through Wales, and you’ll bring Lady Marian home to me.”

  Billy moaned, so slightly Wenthaven almost didn’t hear it. “But what if she wants t’ marry Sir Griffith? I woulda swore he was an honorable man.”

  “There are many honorable men who don’t treat their women well,” Wenthaven said, and Billy agreed. “But although I had greater plans for her, if she wishes to wed Sir Griffith, I’ll give her my blessing and her dowry, and call the Welsh my dearest kin.”

  Billy looked rather ill at the suggestion of Welsh relatives, but he rose, satisfied. “I’ll pick out me men—”

  “Take Cledwyn,” Wenthaven ordered.

  “He’s not trustworthy.”

  “He’s the mercenary commander, and he speaks both Welsh and English. You must take him.”

  Billy wrestled with that, but in the end he couldn’t think of an alternative. “As ye say, m’lord, but I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  “I would.” As Billy moved toward the door, Wenthaven murmured, “And he will keep an eye on you.”

  Billy halted. “M’lord?”

  “Billy, my thanks. You’ve relieved my worry.” Wenthaven waved him out the door with a smile and leaned down to Honey once more.

  When he was sure the guard was out of hearing, he walked to the window and flung out the dregs of the ale. At the table, he poured two cups of wine, then lifted one and strolled to the drapes against the wall. With a mighty thrust of his arm, he flung back the curtains. “Come out and drink with me, dear one,” he said. “And never think you can spy on your master.”

  10

  “Marian lass is in there?” Art eyed the wretched hut as the wind and rain battered it. “Here?” He looked around the miserable hamlet in the Welsh mountains of Clwyd.

  “It boggles the mind, does it not?” How Marian had come so far alone, and why she’d stopped, Griffith did not understand. The inhabitants of the village had denied her presence at first, but a shiny coin tossed to one of the children elicited a nod at the hovel at the edge of the village. Now, sullen at being deprived of their wealthy boarder, the villagers huddled in their doorways and watched through the gale that swept down the west side of the valley.

  “Why didn’t she stay with the reverend brothers?” Art demanded. “At least she’d have been safe and warm.”

  “And been easy to find,” Griffith added. It was a cold comfort to discover he understood her so well and even half sympathized with her need for flight. Except that she fled from him.

  Art unknowingly fanned the flames of his ire. “She’ll snap at ye when ye try to remove her.”

  Drenched with a combination of rain and sleet, Griffith mocked, “Why, Art, do you mean you think she’d remain here rather than come with me to a place that’s warm and”—he lifted the soggy corner of his cloak—“dry?”

  “She’s a spirited one.” Art swept a glance over Griffith. “That’s probably why ye look like a warrior about to break a siege. Are ye going to sweep in like a thunder cloud or trample in like a stone giant?”

  Griffith glared and started forward.

  “A stone giant, then,” Art said with satisfaction.

  Griffith thrust open the pitifully small door.

  “And a thunder cloud,” Art observed.

  Bending down, Griffith stepped inside. A peat fire burned in the middle of the floor, emitting billows of smoke that swirled in the inescapable draft. The only furniture was a bench and a bed. Marian didn’t need to worry about spies in this hovel. Chunks of wall had fallen to the dirt floor, leaving holes no man could hide behind.

  But the wind and rain blew through, and Griffith blinked, his eyes irritated by the smoke. Marian huddled in a blanket on the tiny frame bed with her eyes closed. Beside her, Lionel piled sticks and bits of wood together. Glancing up, Lionel saw Griffith, gave a screech of joy, and scattered his blocks with a kick of excitement. “Griffith,” he said.

  “Nay, sweeting,” Marian whispered hoarsely, not opening her eyes. “No Griffith.”

  Griffith had come in prepared to roar, to fight, to use his strength unfairly—and found himself uncertain. Why did she lie so still? Why hadn’t she opened her eyes when the door blasted open? He walked to her bedside and squatted beside mother and child. Lionel extended his arms, and Griffith hugged him. “I’m here, Marian.”

  Her eyelids fluttered open. Recognition dawned, and with it a flash of joy—then a flash of fear. She struggled to sit up. Her mouth moved—“Griffith”—but no sound came out.

  He would have laughed at the irony of it, but her hectic flush and desperate gaze told him the truth of it. She was sick, so sick she could scarcely speak, so sick he feared for her life.

  She collapsed back on the bed, too weak to stay erect. She tried to reach for Lionel, but her arms were too heavy and fell to her sides. Her eyes filled with tears at her helplessness, and he ached with sympathy and distress. After removing his cloak and pushing up his sleeves, he pressed his hand on her forehead. The heat of i
t made him wince and summon Art with a jerk of his head.

  Art dragged his feet, as Griffith knew he would. Art had the courage of a lion coupled with the compassion of a monk. He didn’t fear death for himself, but he feared it for those he loved, and he already loved Marian. Looking down at her with tear-filled eyes, he whispered, “Is it the fever?”

  “Arthur,” Griffith rebuked. “Do not mourn the living.”

  Marian’s hand snaked out from under the blanket and took Art’s palsied fingers. She pressed it to her mouth and kissed it, croaking, “Art. My son…shield him…keep safe.”

  It was a plea, an effort made with the last of her strength. Looking every day of his sixty years, Art vowed, “We’re going to help ye.”

  “Lionel,” she insisted, her thin hand clinging to Art’s.

  “We’ll take care of him, lass.”

  “You.” Her fear-filled gaze flashed to Griffith, then back to Art. “You swear.”

  Stunned, Griffith tumbled backward, his rump hitting the ground with a jarring thud.

  She didn’t trust him. She feared for her son’s life with him.

  No matter that he, too, had wondered at Henry’s intentions. No matter that it was logical to assume he was an assassin sent by Henry. Damn it, she should trust him. He’d told her to trust him. He trusted her; he’d given her his seed.

  Art comprehended her terror more slowly, but when he did, he protested, “Lass, Griffith would not—”

  “Swear to her, Arthur.”

  Horrified, Art spread his hands in appeal. “But she thinks—”

  “I know what she thinks.” Griffith could almost taste his bitterness, his hurt. “Swear to her. Put her mind at rest.”

  With an uncharacteristic stammer, Art swore to protect Lionel with his life, against all peril, forever.

  Marian’s hand slid to rest on the mattress, and she looked with weak defiance at Griffith.

  Keeping his gaze fastened to hers, Griffith instructed, “Art, you take the lad.”

  “Griffith, she’s sick. She doesn’t know what she says.” Art leaned down and hoisted Lionel onto his back.