Beauty's Curse (14 page)

“No, he won't,” Galiana assured the loyal man. “We both know there would have been fighting if Father was here. 'Twas for the better that my parents were gone when Rourke and his men arrived.”

“We would have fought, my lady,” the bailiff said in earnest. “But they had ye slung over the front of that Scottish heathen's horse, and Ned trussed up on another. We had no choice.”

“I know, good sir. Please, feel no blame! If I hadn't gone to the forest,” she paused, filled with remorse over her careless act of frivolity. It was only right that she pay the penance.

“Never mind that. Lord Rourke wanted in, and he'd have gotten in. He's the kind of man who gets his way, I'm thinkin'.” The older man patted her arm.

Bailiff Morton was right. Either way, the end result would be her marriage to Lord Rourke Wallis. It had been ordered by a member of the royal house, and the Montehues were but vassals to the Plantagenet bloodline.

Her father might have demanded to see Prince John—but what would come of it? With King Richard being held for ransom, England's future was unstable. Aye, she told herself pragmatically, her father had sworn his fealty to King Richard through Queen Eleanor, but the wily woman had more than one son—and both wanted to wear the crown of England. Had her father's request for a written dispensation, stating that his daughters not be pawns in marriage, brought her name to the prince's attention?

Crowns and royal whims were for other people, she thought with a sigh of relief. She was to be married, she would have her adventure, and she'd prove herself more valuable to her new husband than the woman Rourke had originally intended to give the antique ring to.

He would come to care for her; she'd make it so. She thought, without conceit, of the men who had offered for her; for certes, she should be able to make the man she'd married give her his affection.

She was beautiful, and that mattered to some men. Rourke, as stunning as he was, was probably one of them. Galiana told herself she didn't need his entire heart. She understood that love was a rare and truly beautiful thing.

So why should she be miserable? Affection, respect, and—she blushed—the marriage bed held no fear for her. She had learned plenty from her mother and Celestia. A bit of pain at the beginning, which could be soothed with a numbing cream, and then—great pleasure. If, her mother said, it was done right.

Galiana adored the poems of chivalry and romantic love (when they weren't directed at her) even though she wasn't naïve enough to believe in them. Her tummy flip-flopped like a ball rolling down the stairs. She was enough of a romantic to want the evening ahead to be perfect, and pragmatic enough to not expect much in the way of perfection.

The bailiff shuffled from one foot to the next, recalling her wandering attention.

Smiling, she said, “Would you please tell Cook to create a feast out of what is available? She said we were almost out of eggs, so I know she can't make a cake, but something nice. Roast chicken, or a stew of some sort. And some spiced blackberry wine?”

He nodded. “Your favorite. I'll be glad when the snow stops, and we can get to the village, my lady.”

“I hope they've fared well. Tell the men to get along with Rourke's men and to keep Ed a secret. I have but one brother, remember?” And how to fix that little mess? Rourke would notice, eventually. She had no doubt of that.

“Aye,” the bailiff chuckled. “And what of the resident ghost?”

“Ghost, mademoiselle?”

Franz had suddenly entered the hall to her left, taking Galiana by surprise. She squeaked, “Oh!”

“My apologies, mon cher, if I've startled you.”

“No, no,” she lied, smiling and bobbing her head in a nod. The Frenchman was a good-looking man, but she didn't quite trust him. It wasn't that he'd been inappropriate—more that he was so … intense?

“I was but hoping I could accept your challenge?” His lips turned up in a practiced lilt that turned her cold with indifference.

She tipped her head to the side. “Hmm?”

“Chess?”

“Ah.” She remembered. “It is my turn to apologize, good sir. I'm afraid I need to pack. I have nothing to wear to court.”

“You will shine,” Franz said, his dark eyes blazing with masculine appreciation.

“I will fade into the walls, I'm certain,” she replied before turning back to the impatient bailiff. She'd not lead the knight into thinking his attentions were welcomed. “Bailiff Morton, ask our men to clear a path to my drying shed, if they can? I'll need to bring some herbs. Thank you.”

She dismissed the bailiff and turned to Franz with a polite smile. “Excuse me,” she said, brushing by him toward the stairs to her chamber.

She almost recoiled at the flash of anger in the Frenchman's eyes at having been so easily disregarded. Was he one of the men Rourke thought to protect her from?

“I'll see you tonight, mademoiselle.”

Galiana peeked over her shoulder back at him, but didn't stop. “I'm honored that you will be there to witness the vows I'll share with Lord Rourke.”

Facing forward again, she quickened her step, but she still heard the man mutter, “Merde.”

It probably hadn't been prudent to tweak his nose, but she had no interest in flirtations with anyone besides her husband-to-be. Rourke—gorgeous, fascinating Rourke—would consume her mind if she let him. At last, Galiana reached the safety of her room and closed the door behind her, her breaths coming more quickly as she remembered him sitting so confidently astride his black stallion, his powerful thighs—No.

This was not the time for her fanciful imagination to carry her away. Marriage. Court. Rourke would want a comely wife, one who wouldn't embarrass him with her country ways. Her options were limited. Rourke had been right about not needing five trunks of clothes. What she had would barely fill one.

Uncertain, she thought of what her mother might have tucked away—mayhap a dress or two she'd rarely worn that Galiana could make over into something fresh. “Oh,” she said, her eyes itching with unshed tears. “Court. How am I to know what they wear?”

Galiana had never been anywhere as grand as that. The invitation for her father to swear fealty to King Richard via Queen Eleanor hadn't included the family, and, even so, her mother had said the ways of court were not the ways of their family, and she'd been grateful they hadn't all been forced to go.

Which didn't mean she and her mother weren't followers of current fashions. They bought patterns and studied what the traveling players wore—which was usually an inexpensive copy of what was fashionable.

She adored fabric; its textures and colors spoke to her tactile senses. Soft silks were gossamer wings against her flesh. Bright colors could lift her mood when even her brother's jests fell flat. Pastels helped her paint, and she proudly wore sturdy, brown linen when she gardened. Barefoot, if her mother wasn't watching. The feel of fresh earth between her toes helped her stay connected to what was solid.

When she sang, or painted, or played the lute, she transcended to another level of herself, a spiritual place where she could be free. When she blended her perfumes, her mind took flight, and it was as close to magic as she'd ever come. Some days it was tempting to live in that other world forever.

“I can sew,” she said aloud, foraging through the trunk at the foot of her bed.

She had numerous simple white undergowns that were scalloped at the hem and neck. Gali gnawed her lower lip as she lifted a pale lavender tunic. She'd alter the longer sleeves to a three-quarter length, then add tippets that trailed so long they'd need to be knotted so as not to drag on the ground. Embroidery and gems would add decoration. Removable trims could change the look of a plain-colored tunic, and if she switched the buckles on her slippers to match, she'd be stylish in little time.

If Rourke thought she was leaving her cask of perfumes and scents behind, he would need to think again. It might not be magic worthy of her great ancestor, but it was her one true talent, and it gave her joy. Peddling her wares, she thought indignantly. Just see if she made a scent for him …

His skin would smell like summer nights by the lake—she could too easily imagine burying her nose in the warm crook of his bare neck, or mayhap running her sensitive hands over his naked shoulders—“Ah,” she moaned aloud. She was being felled by sensory overload.

A lady should never feel this way, but mayhap she wasn't a traditional lady.

The thought was oddly comforting.

Celestia had never cared about being a lady, not one golden arrow for following the rules of society, and now look—she was married to a handsome knight, and she was lady of her own keep. Gali said a quick prayer for Tia and the new babe before sitting back on her haunches in dismay.

Shoving a long braid over her shoulder, she accepted the sad fact that nothing new had appeared in her trunk since she'd last delved to the bottom. Her tunics and undergowns seemed to age before her eyes.

“The storage room!” Galiana leapt to her feet and headed for the small stone room that was but an overlarge closet. Her mother kept the expensive fabrics packed away with sweet-scented sachets inside cedar trunks.

When they were small girls, she and Celestia used to play dress up on long, rainy afternoons. They'd always made Ela be the baby. Come to think of it, her youngest sister had always hated it.

She reached the door and stopped when she saw Dame Bertha leaving her parents' chamber, a stealthy look on her weathered face.

“Dame Bertha?”

“Aye?” The old lady looked up, squinted, and then walked the hall toward Galiana.

All she could think about was Rourke resting on the opposite side of that closed door. But, no, she had to control her ridiculous desire to see him. She'd but ask the old woman to help her search for fabric, or—she eyed the closed door—mayhap Dame Bertha would go through her mother's trunks with her? But instead of either of those questions, “How fare's Lord Rourke?” popped out of her mouth as soon as the woman was close enough to hear.

“Just fine, my lady. He's sleepin' deep. But he'll be right as rain”—she chuckled—“for the dinner and vows tonight, eh?”

Galiana gulped. “Good, good—”

“Yer not scared, are ye?” Dame Bertha reached out a shaking, wrinkled hand to pat Galiana on the arm.

“Scared? Of Rourke? Nay, I mean, why should I be? It—well …” Galiana could feel the blush start from her toes and end at her scalp. She might know about such things as the marriage bed, but talking about them—that was another matter entirely. Ladies didn't do that—she didn't think.

“I can help.”

“Nay, nay,” Galiana quickly interjected before she was on the receiving end of some archaic bedding advice. “I was actually hoping you could help me find some cloth. I'll need finer things for court.”

Dame Bertha grinned. “Aye, that ye will! Well, now, yer mam has a green silk that sets off her eyes and would yours, too.” She stepped back and summed up Galiana in a snap. “It should fit ye like a second skin! Mother Mary knows it's been a decade or more since she fit into it.” The old woman cackled.

“Silk?” Galiana could practically feel the softness between her fingers.

“Your mam has a chest under her bed that holds some of her favorite pieces, but we'll need to be quiet, lest we wake Lord Rourke.”

Galiana's heart skipped the tiniest bit faster. Rourke, sleeping in the big bed whilst she was in the same chamber. Her mouth dried. It was different, now that he wasn't ill or down with the fever. She'd been able to separate herself from the man as he lay injured. Guilt had trapped her senses, as had her fear of harming him further with her ineptness.

Now her nerves were in a jumble. Rourke was quite fully a vibrant man who stirred every heightened sense she had.

What would it be like once their lips finally met?

Would his lips be soft, as hers were? Or hard? Would he be forceful, or would he allow her to come to him?

“My lady?”

“Oh—yes, Dame Bertha, I'll be quiet. Under the bed, you say? I'll look, as quiet as a mouse, and then meet you back in my chamber. No sense both of us risking our necks.”

The old woman nodded briskly at that. “Would ye care for a refreshment whilst we work?”

If she sent her to the kitchens, she wouldn't need to rush. “Yes,” Gali replied, hoping her racing pulse wasn't evident in her voice. “I'd love a goblet of spiced wine, if you please?”

“Aye, my lady.”

The old woman left, and Galiana paused, her hand hovering over the latch on the door of her parents' chamber. Dare she enter without invitation?

I miss you, Tia. You'd do what you wanted, and, oh, how I need to borrow your courage!

She loved her sisters dearly—they'd both inherited the legacy of Boadicea: her warrior-like courage, her beauty, and her healing magic. Even though there was supposed to be but one girl gifted in each generation, theirs had been gifted with two.

Galiana had gotten nothing.

Well, mayhap ‘nothing' was not entirely true, she considered as she bit her lower lip. People said she was beautiful. Men wrote ridiculous sonnets in her honor, and her father received many offers for her hand in marriage—from rich barons to poor ministers. They all left her cold.

What was beauty without magic? Yes, she was tall like the legendary Boadicea, and she had the long, rippled, red hair of myth. Green eyes, full lips, porcelain skin.

It was an outer shell. She lacked the fire that true magic would bring. Gali searched for that power in every medium she could—painting, music, singing, cooking—the closest she got to self-fulfillment was when she created her perfumes. Then it was as if she could float on a cloud.

Magic equaled power. Beauty didn't grant power. Beauty was a pain in a girl's backside, truth be told. Her father had finally taught her how to shoot a bow and arrow so that stupid men would stop trying to kidnap her when she took her horse out on her daily rides, and then they'd forced her to accept an escort, too. Bothersome. Especially when she longed for freedom.