Beauty's Curse (33 page)

On behalf of King William, whose English wife had just borne a healthy baby girl, prompting the rush for action.

On behalf of Prince John, who didn't trust a soul alive, and thus kept him on a tight leash. John liked to drop tidbits of vital information, and then watch to see what those around him did with it.

Rourke thought back to Galiana's questions at the village and how she'd gone straight to the heart of Prince John, setting him up to win her hand. Why had Prince John wanted Rourke Wallis wed to Galiana Montehue? Was it specific to the lady? Or to Rourke? King Richard needed to be nudged into naming an heir—preferably Arthur of Brittany, whose mother, Constance, had been married to Geoffrey Plantagenet. Galiana had been right: Hereditary tradition said the crown of England should pass to the heir of Richard's older brother.

By right of might, especially if Prince John held the Breath of Merlin, the youngest brother, John Lackland, could win it all.

And then there was Eleanor, the queen who'd taught him subterfuge at her knee. Charm, manners, and deceit were rewarded with rich prizes of weapons, horses, and land.

She'd never told him who his mother was, although she'd hinted broadly that his heritage was royal. And that he could think of her sons as family.

Yet it was King William, above all, to whom he swore his allegiance.

Rourke glanced at Jamie, who was staring into the fire. The shadowy profile of his foster brother was dear to him, and he wondered if Jamie was thinking of the love he'd left behind in Scotland.

“Margaret?” His whispered question floated like an arrow to its mark.

Jamie sucked in a startled breath. “Aye. She's on me mind.”

“Do you regret leaving her?”

“Nay. We were given orders, and what kind of knight tells his king to kiss his arse?”

Rourke snorted. “It was wise of you to hold your tongue.”

Rubbing his hands together before holding them out to the fire's dancing flames, Jamie said, “She won't wait. I told her not to.”

“She loves you.”

“Love.” Jamie stabbed his booted toe into the dirt. “We don't believe in that, remember?”

“I don't personally believe in it, no”—Rourke ignored the tickle of doubt in his belly—“but for you, mayhap a miracle will happen.”

“What miracle would that be, man? Men and women disappoint one another; that's the straight truth of it.”

Rourke would normally have agreed right away, but something caught his tongue. Galiana stirred against his chest, her palm rising to cover his heart. The damn thing beat faster.

“We were reared at court, and nothing is true there. Margaret is a woman who doesn't even know what a lie is. She's got”—he looked down at the peep of brown hair poking from beneath Galiana's hood—“honor.”

“Aye,” Jamie blew out a disgusted breath. “Another reason she's too good for me. She wanted me, ye ken? But I wouldn't lie with her. It was too important. What if I got her with child? I'll not donate my seed to another generation of court bastards. I couldn't leave her to bear the title of whore.”

Stunned, Rourke felt his rationalization for bedding Galiana crumble. He'd been careful, true, to keep from spreading his get all over the breadth of Britain, but he'd never gotten to the heart of what drove him to caution.

Galiana was a lady, not a courtesan. Did he have the right to take her maidenhead, when he knew he would set her to the side as soon as his liege demanded it? He wanted her, and now, thanks to Jamie, he was forced to acknowledge that the taking would be dishonorable.

Being a spy didn't mean he could ruin an innocent woman's life.

She grew heavier in his arms, but still he didn't release her.

“What will ye do?” Jamie prodded the fire with another stick.

Rourke sighed, then leaned closer to Jamie's head and whispered, “I don't know. There's a chance King William will not ask me to wed Constance.”

“His new babe is a girl. Not the male heir our liege was hoping for. That means he'll want ye closer to the throne.”

“Aye.” Rourke dropped his chin to the top of Galiana's head. “But do I want to be there?”

Jamie whipped his head around, and clasped Rourke by the shoulder. “Jesu, man, ye can't back out now. The king would kill ye, as would the prince. Ye've got to follow through on the plan. Too many sacrifices have been made.”

“Sacrifices.” What was one more? He'd lied, cheated, stolen—all for a chance to grab the prize for his king. He'd given up everything. Galiana's breath was steady, real against his face.

What if following through on this plan involved losing Galiana forever?

He and Jamie would be two worldly knights, bereft of the women they lo—Sweet Christ.

Rourke got up, with Galiana in his arms. His duty, which was wrong, warred with his desire for what he wanted. “This shouldn't take long.”

“What are you doing?” Galiana's voice was a whiskey croak as Rourke lifted the hem of her damp skirts.

Rourke had never been so glad of the dark. “We must consummate the vows, lest Lord Harold take you. If something happens to me, then you'll get my property.”

“The broken-down keep?”

“I have other land,” Rourke said defensively.

“This doesn't feel good. I'm cold.”

“It won't take long.” Despite his dissatisfaction with the circumstances, his cock was ready for what must be done. The feel of soft skin against his fingers as he untied the ribbons at her waist stirred him, and he knew that wishing things were different wouldn't make them so.

“You're really going to—we're—I don't like this at all, Rourke. You promised me great pleasure.”

He groaned. “My lady, the men are all on the other side of your cloak. The barn doesn't have a door, and if Lord Harold, or any other enemy that I may have at my back, decides to come in with their swords drawn, I can't be singing poetry to my shy bride.”

His hand traveled up her chilled hip.

Then his fingers bumped into the ring, sewed into its pocket.

He could take it; she would never know.

But Rourke couldn't stomach stealing two things from her this night.

Her nipples were pointed with cold; he could see through her sheer chemise. His groin hardened. “Kiss me,” he ordered. “How can I do this with your teeth chattering?”

“Wait,” she said. “I need my bags.”

“I brought them. We are back here on the premise of getting you into some dry clothes.”

“Now that sounds lovely.”

“You understand that we must do this?” If she could only absolve his guilt…

“Aye.” She dug around the bottom of the pack. “But just because you are in a hurry doesn't mean that I should suffer. I can do my duty, even though my body is far from ready, with this cream.”

“Lotions—even now? I'll not go round smelling like a rose.”

“It smells of honeysuckle, and if you want me to keep from screaming, you'll smell of it. I will help you put it on.”

Rourke's penis throbbed, and he knew one touch of her dainty, ladylike hand on his manhood would make him explode. He grabbed the tiny jar from her hand.

“I'll do it.”

“This is supposed to be fun, Rourke.” She took the jar back, and kissed him. Her lips were warm, the only warm thing around them, and he clutched his hands to her upper arms. The chemise was soft, but her skin was softer.

“You need to put the cream on me, too,” she whispered against his mouth. She lay back against the bale of hay as if it were a bower of flowers and this was their love nest, and not a stable.

The chemise fell to mid-thigh, and Rourke gulped. Her legs were shapely in his shadowed vision, and the dark patch of hair at her mound beckoned beneath the linen.

His mouth was dry, and his body trembled. He unlaced the front of his breeches, and yanked them down. She shook her head.

“Take them off, my lord.”

His boots were out drying by the fire, so it was no big matter to do as she ordered. He swept his tunic over his head, and his shirt, until he stood before her, naked and proud.

“Are you ready?” she asked in a low voice.

He opened the jar of cream. “Aye.”

The sound of Godfrey yelling as he stumbled over something startled them both, bringing them back to the reality of what needed to happen. Fast.

“I'm sorry, my lady. I will make this up to you.”

She shivered and opened her arms.

A few minutes later it was over, and she was his wife, in all ways. It felt a hollow victory.

Rourke was avoiding her as if she were a leper.

Hadn't consummating their marriage vows been what he'd wanted? Far from the hot kisses of before, she thought with irritation. Thanks to the cream, she wasn't sore—not from that, anyway. Rourke should be treating her like a princess, and yet he was finding a multitude of things to do that didn't involve being next to her. She'd applied an extra touch of her lavender and lemon scent this morn just to make sure she wasn't repelling him with the smell of damp blankets.

Will was now her boon companion, while Jamie and Rourke rode ahead like the indomitable warriors they were.

This was their third day of riding, and she was worse than miserable; she was molding. The icy rain had crusted the top of the snow with a thick layer of ice, and they were able to plod along on top of it rather than break through the snow to make a trail.

She shivered, wet through all hundred layers, and chilled to the tips of her toes. Her lips were chapped, and the village they'd stopped at the night before had but one room to let and someone else had already rented it. They'd been given thin blankets and seats by the fire, and after paying extra coin, she'd gotten warmish water to bathe her face with.

Galiana couldn't even imagine looking worse than she must at this moment as she rode through the snow alongside the men. It would be her rotten luck that Rourke, who already thought her barely pretty, would gain his sight now and have all of his nightmares confirmed.

“Mademoiselle looks tired, non? Would you like to rest?

She was a hag. Looking over at Franz, who was rather white around the mouth and nose, she shook her head. “If I stop, I may not get back on.” She attempted a lame smile.

He nodded and rode ahead, leaving her to her thoughts.

She passed the hours thinking of a hot bath, filled with crushed rose hips. She'd soak until her toes pruned, and then she'd generously apply chamomile lotion to her abused skin, and jasmine oil to her poor lips and fingers.

Windsor castle began to take on a mirage-like state in her head. Was that a stone turret she saw? Or a gatehouse? The towns they came to were never London, but not one disappointment stopped her from hoping.

She kept Rourke in her line of sight, as if there were an invisible tether tying her fate to his. If he could ride with shoulders straight, so could she. He never slumped over, nor lost the reins. If only he would come back to talk to her, to ascertain her welfare, but nay. He sent Jamie to ask after her.

Galiana spent a lot of time dreaming of the wizard and the babes. No matter how many times she'd tried to get Rourke to explain the secret of the Breath of Merlin, something always came up, leaving her to her own vivid imagination.

She knew that the vision had taken place in the British Isles. The land was wild, untamed, and mountainous. Scotland, mayhap, at the dawn of man. It sounded right to her. Who was the lover she was with? Rourke's face was constant. Galiana touched the ring for luck, aye, and the hope that she'd travel back again. But the ring, while warm, was simply a ring and not a portal through time.

Her gifts were tactile; her nature, that of a dreamer. Was that why this ring affected her as it did? Not that it mattered—she'd finally been touched by magic, and it filled the empty crevice around her heart that had been longing for something more.

It was very similar to when she touched someone and knew what scent belonged to them alone. Like that, but bigger. More encompassing. It was as if she were coming home.

Rourke had inadvertently given her exactly what she'd always wanted: magic. And he hadn't fallen prey to her beauty, when she'd been beautiful. She sniffed. He'd reached inside her frozen soul and made her feel.

Not always wonderful, 'twas true, but real. Rourke never put her on a pedestal and gifted her with pretty lies.

Mayhap he'd be forever impaired, and then he'd never know the truth of her trumped-up beauty. He might need her … but she immediately halted those ill thoughts. Rourke was a warrior; she surmised he was even more than that. He had to see clearly to survive.

It wasn't his fault her heart and body reacted to him the way they did. It was middlingly amusing that she wanted him and he was ignoring her.

His shout brought her from self-pity, and Will immediately perked up in his saddle. “'Tis Runnymede. At last. Not far now, my lady.”