A Perfect Knight For Love (28 page)

He gritted his teeth again, spun, tamped down the instant flash of pain, and started back across the platform, listening to the echo of each step. He was alone but that was also his choice. He’d left five of his men in the vestibule beyond the doors. Waiting. Just as he was. Probably wondering at his actions, although no one knew the extent of Thayne’s worry or how nervously he paced. It didn’t seem possible. All day he’d been trying to banish the image of this woman in the place he’d envisioned always as belonging to Mary. His duchess. His wife. The mother of his children.

Thayne must be walking quicker, since he reached the ends of the platform sooner and sooner and that didn’t do anything more than working on the list, swimming until he was exhausted, and then wrestling four of his men into submission had done. It didn’t banish it. It didn’t change it. It didn’t keep the memory of last night at bay, either. He’d put another woman in Mary’s place. In his bed. At his side. But he refused to put her in his heart. That was where Mary’s memory was firmly ensconced. And just as firmly treasured.

But then there was last night . . . .

Thayne cursed aloud as he spun around for another walk to the end of the dais, his limp more noticeable. He’d bedded the woman and consummated their union. Honor dictated the act, but it should’ve been quick and abrupt. He shouldn’t have enjoyed it as much. Nor done it the second time, making certain of her satisfaction with each thrust. Nor should his loins be bothering him all day for more of the same.

Thayne threw his head back and howled the disgust toward the rafters. The fading sound accompanied the doors at the end of this chamber opening, resounding heavily in waves toward him. Thayne brought his head down, took a deep breath, and turned it to watch his wife from over his shoulder. He hoped she wouldn’t embarrass him too fully.

“The Lady MacGowan.”

At first he couldn’t see her over the heads of his Honor Guard. He caught a glint of silver from the tiara atop her head, brown-shaded curls of a lustrous volume, a span of light rose satin. They all stopped directly before the podium and parted, allowing her to step forward, hold her skirt out with an elegant hand and curtsey. She did it perfectly, with her head tipped slightly to the side, showing a wealth of curls, a glimpse of perfect bosom, and a hint of dimple.

Thayne’s jaw dropped. His heart sent a whoosh of blood to the top of his head, and he backed two steps before catching it against the chair’s arm. He very nearly fell into the seat and covered over the graceless act with a push back upright the moment his thighs touched wood.

“Good eve, my lord.”

She’d lifted out of her curtsey and stood, so slight her head barely reached the bottom of his podium. Thayne walked toward her, the echo of each step showing the limp, and then he jumped down, coming out of his crouched landing with the slightest groan as tartan and ceremony accoutrements settled about him. Then he reached for her free hand in order to bow over the fan she held in it.

“Good . . . eve.” His throat was suddenly parched. Thayne frowned slightly as he stood there, huffing the breath from his exertions or the experience of shock, and feeling a complete witless fool.

“Will I pass?” She tilted her head sideways a bit to look up at him.

“What?”

She giggled. His ears cursed him with noise matching his increased heart rate, and he barely caught the tremble of his hand before she felt it.

“This is a magnificent room.”

She tipped her head up farther and looked about as if he could move his eyes and follow.

“What?” Thayne replied again.

“It fits you.”

“It . . . does?” His voice was still croaked and showed little ability to form words. He was having a hard enough time breathing and sucking for moisture in his mouth and blinking. The woman was incredibly beautiful. Stunningly so. He was almost afraid to touch her. He tightened his fingers on hers without thinking.

“You. Dressed as you are . . . in Highland evening attire.”

“Oh.” Another one word comment came out of his mouth. His men started hiding grins and shuffling their feet.

“You’re magnificent . . . but I suppose you already know that.”

She may have thought she was whispering but the room had great acoustics. Her compliment went right to the rafters and started more than grins. He could hear chuckling. Thayne flushed; in front of God and her and nine of his Honor Guard. He swallowed and forced the reaction away. It didn’t work but he wasn’t surprised. Everything else he’d tried was failing.

“Are you sending me back to my room . . . or taking me with you?”

“What?” Thayne pulled himself to his full height and attempted to glare down at her. It didn’t work and he didn’t need her dimples as proof as she smiled to herself.

“It’s painfully obvious.”

“What is?”

“The decision you were making. Aside of which, I’m truly hungry.”

“Decision?”

“Whether I’m attending with you. Or staying behind.”

“Oh.” Thayne cleared his throat and dropped his voice an octave. “You’re attending.”

She smiled fully. Dimpled. And took his heart. Just like that.

“Is it a long walk?”

Thayne had to do something before she realized the emotion hitting him squarely between the eyes, before it suffused through his entire frame. What he was feeling had no description. He was rocking in place without moving, thrilling with shivers without end, and wondering how he was supposed to hide it. He’d never felt this way. Ever. Not even Mary had engendered this sort of physical and emotional response. He moved his eyes from her and blinked at moisture until the double doors came back into focus. What had she asked? Walk? At the moment the walk across the floor looked enormous.

“W-w-walk?” He should have waited to ask it. Thayne grimaced at his voice and the stammer. Then he endured the tremble at the end. In this room all of it was obvious as the sound ended.

She giggled again. His men shuffled feet and grinned. He reddened proportionately.

“I was told we were attending sup at your brother’s Renaissance Palace.”

“Oh. Aye. We are.” He had to get beyond one and two word sentences but couldn’t imagine how.

“Then . . . shouldn’t we be starting?”

Thayne made the mistake of moving his eyes back to hers. He lost his voice, and then his hearing with the duration and depth of the pulse beats in his ears. He might as well have a drummer at both sides pounding away at their stretched skins.

“What?”

“The sup. Won’t we be late?”

“Sean?”

“The carriages are at the door, my lord. Per your orders.”

“Carriages?”

His wife asked it so sweetly, tipping her head to one side and fluttering her lashes up at him, as if she didn’t know the distress she caused him! Thayne pulled in a semi-ragged breath, licked his lips, and suffered the noise in his ears rising to a crescendo level.

“’Tis raining.”

“Should I fetch a wrap?”

She trailed a hand across her skin just below her throat, touching perfect unblemished skin and shifting the necklace he’d sent to her. Thayne’s eyes were hooked on how the off-white shaded pearls caressed and molded before the weight of the center jewel pulled them back into the shadow between her breasts. Thayne watched the flesh warm to a shade akin to the satin that got to touch it. And then the necklace got lifted slightly by a trill of goose flesh beneath the strands.

He tried to physically stop the surge of motion propelling him the one step between them, but didn’t fully succeed. All he could do was turn his lurched movement into one that looked like he was ready to escort her by pulling her hand up and into his chest, putting her to one side, and then swiveling them toward the doors with an ungraceful motion. He covered it over by starting off, slowing his steps to accommodate two of hers while his Honor Guard dropped to their sides and rear. His steps got faster, taking her to a skip of movement before they reached the portal, and he didn’t even feel any wound.

He couldn’t wait to present her. She was lucky he didn’t lift her in his arms and carry her.

Chapter 20

The Ducal residence exuded light, and noise, and the crush of humanity.

Amalie could see light streaming out into the castle ground, flicking off raindrops with the sheer volume of it as they approached. It hadn’t taken but a few minutes to cross the ground in a coach and six, although the amount of work just getting their ride prepared for the trip seemed wasteful. She appreciated it as Thayne’s men held covering over their heads from the top of the coach to the vestibule entry, keeping everything dry and in presentation shape, despite the rainfall.

The moment they entered the hall, it was clear why he’d gone to such pains. The reception room was ablaze in candlelight, coming from a dozen chandeliers hanging partway from the ceiling. The light was reflected off the white plastered ceilings, sending light down on the inhabitants, making it the exact opposite of the gloomy dark halls in Thayne’s house. Carved wainscoting trimmed the walls, defining a line from the dark paneling on the bottom to where enormous paintings soared up into the ceiling. Amalie had seen paintings such as these. Ellincourt Manor claimed several of them from Italian masters, but the amount of them displayed here was awe-inspiring. Paintings were displayed adjunct to each other, atop each other, above the doorframes, and on nearly every available bit of wall, unless a sconce or window had already claimed the space. Paintings filled the entire room with color and beauty.

The room seemed filled with people, too, making it difficult to transverse. Amalie kept a hand on Thayne’s arm as he progressed through the throng, his Honor Guard about him, carving an opening for them. The noise was hard to hear over, and then the duchess had added an orchestra to the fest, the notes filtering down from the minstrels’ gallery where they played.

Manservants were everywhere, delineated by not only the small black hats atop their powdered wigs, but they all wore green jackets and white knee breeches and stockings that comprised their uniform. There wasn’t one thing Scot about any of it.

And the duchess was dreadful.

The woman was standing under a wooden trellis that was laced throughout with a myriad of fresh blooms. The entire structure was vainly attempting to frame the Duchess of MacGowan with beauty. The duke wasn’t anywhere in sight.

“Her Grace, the Duchess Wynneth MacGowan, kinswoman to Douglas Clan and the house of Stewart! Presenting Lord and Lady Thayne MacGowan!”

They got announced by another French-clothed fellow, using a volume that stopped most of the conversation. Amalie pulled out of her curtsey, keeping a hand on Thayne’s forearm as the duchess looked at Thayne with an expression Amalie didn’t want to decipher. And then the woman moved her attention to Amalie.

“So. You’re the servant.”

The duchess held a lorgnette to her thin nose to peer down at Amalie with one hand, while the other flicked at herself with a fan. The woman was overdressed, overpainted, wore enough perfume Amalie’s nose twitched, and looked old enough to be Jamie’s mother. Easily. Nothing alleviated her thinness, pale complexion, lack of beauty, and myriad lines running her skin. She was worse than dreadful. She was a caricature of the word.

“I’ll na’ abide insults to my lady wife, Wynneth.”

Thayne’s low-voiced reply conveyed the threat. His arm tightened into the consistency of an iron bar, as if reinforcing it. Amalie’s fingers tingled atop it. That sort of reaction wasn’t going to be helpful in a social gathering, of any kind and in any country; even here. Amalie glanced up at him. The duchess was making the stray hairs at his forehead move with the speed of her fanning and the proximity she’d achieved by stepping near him.

“I believe my former occupation is governess, your grace.” Amalie relaxed her lips into a slight smile, attempting a shy demeanor. The duchess looked back down to her, but took another step closer to Thayne.

“You don’t look old enough to leave a schoolroom, let alone teach in one.”

“How right you are. It just seemed so much easier to escape the betrothal arranged for me by pretending to be a governess.”

Thayne made a choking noise this time. Amalie studiously ignored it.

“You were . . . betrothed?”

“It was an arranged marriage to the Duke of Rutherford. He was imminently suitable. My father thought it a perfect union. Thank goodness Thayne came back when he did. I was quite running out of time.”

“Your . . . father?”

“The Earl of Ellincourt. It’s an ancient title, bestowed after the Battle of Agincourt. Surely you’ve heard of that, even in Scotland?”

“The Earl . . . of Ellincourt?”

The woman had lost some of her bravado and the ability to put sound in her words. She’d also backed up, taking her fanning with her. A look showed Thayne’s hair ruffled. The rest of him wasn’t in that condition. He’d stiffened into a statue of nonmovement, while his eyes were narrowed to slits. Amalie obviously couldn’t expect much help from that quarter, but it didn’t matter. This exchange of words was almost exactly what she’d playacted with Edmund, and she’d faced worse than a harridan with bitter words and features. The recent past was an excellent example. Amalie turned back to the duchess’s look of total malice. The woman didn’t understand prudence and tactical maneuvers.

“You . . . expect us to believe you’re . . . a member of the peerage?”

“Your hearing is excellent, your grace. Congratulations.”

Thayne might have found that amusing. His frame shifted slightly, and the restraint he’d placed on his arm slackened. He might even be smiling. Amalie didn’t move her eyes from the duchess to check.

“You weren’t waylaid on your way to employment at the Kennah Castle? You weren’t forced to claim a foundling bairn? You didn’t trick your way into the MacGowan clan by handfasting with my kinsman, Thayne, against his wishes?” Her voice warmed on the name. Now, it was Amalie’s turn to stiffen.

Amalie trilled a little laugh. It sounded brittle and forced even to her ears. That wasn’t good.

“You have a very vivid imagination, your grace. Or your spies aren’t worth their coin.”