Beauty's Curse (7 page)

The jest broke what was left of the tension. The knights needed a leader, and Rourke was it. “Leave that letter, Godfrey. Since the cat is out of the bag, we might as well discuss the details, eh, my sweet?” This time the squeeze he gave her shoulder was more of a caress, and it made her blush, as did the brush of his lips against her cheek.

He was insinuating that they had a much closer relationship than patient to healer, that she had agreed to marry him when both things were a lie. She opened her mouth to protest, but he angled his head and whispered softly, “Take the letter from him.”

Godfrey stalked past her, giving Rourke an odd look as he held out the letter. “We have to talk, Rourke. Privately.”

Disappointment washed over her as she realized the extent of the façade Rourke was putting on. Godfrey did not know that Rourke was blinded, and understanding that this would make her life potentially more difficult if he did, she again chose to help Rourke.

“Here. Let me take that.” She plucked the letter from Will's fingers before he could protest, and put it in her apron pocket. “Now, I insist that you all go back upstairs. Surely Cook can get you something to eat, and you can take your ease by the fire. Tell me,” she chattered, effectively separating Rourke from the men, herding the knights toward the stairs. “Has it stopped that infernal snowing?”

Franz answered with a wink, “Non, my lady. But we've cleared a trail from here to the stables. I offer my escort if you need a breath of fresh air.”

“Thank you,” Galiana answered, instinctively polite. “Have we enough food? Enough wood?” Without Bailiff Morton to take charge, it had been up to Galiana to delegate duties. Cook was self-sufficient. Jamie had allowed Galiana brief visits with Ned, who was not badly injured, praise Mary, and the Montehue knights. Bored with their captivity, she'd snuck them in a chessboard and some whittling tools after begging them to help her keep the peace.

She could only handle so much more. Galiana had a new appreciation for what it took to run a household. And one under an inside attack and locked away from the rest of the world due to a snowstorm, the likes of which no one alive could remember … She sighed and pushed a tendril of hair behind her ear.

Franz lightly touched her elbow, “Oui, we have enough of everything, even entertainment.”

“How so?” Her pulse spiked. If traveling players could get through, for certes, someone, like Ed, could get out and get help before she ended up married—to a man who had her more confused than she'd ever been in her entire ordered life. Her prayer to Saint Jude for some kind of adventure had resulted in much more than she had expected. She should have been shocked and mortified at the things she'd done.

A woman alone—not counting Dame Bertha and the kitchen servants—in a manor filled with strange men. Nursing a man when she'd never even seen a grown one naked before. Perhaps, Galiana thought with an inward smile, she should practice fainting just so that she did not forget how. Although her mother always recommended finding a good chaise before falling into a swoon.

“—the round dances with the two maids and the old woman.” Franz paused, gaining her wandering attention. “And then there's the haunting—candles being blown out, food disappearing, young Will's shirt was hung over the door,” he chuckled. “How enchanting to have a ghost that gets on so well with the servants.”

Galiana, skilled at hiding her expressions, thanks to her mother's teachings that a lady must always look interested no matter how boring the dialogue at hand, waved her hand dismissively and laughed. “Well,” she said, shaking her head and wondering what she could say that wouldn't ruin whatever story Ed had concocted.

“The pranks are fine, my lady, but putting vinegar in the ale, though, that was cruel.” He sent her a genuine smile. “It amuses me.”

Did he think she was doing it? Galiana nodded at Franz as he walked up the stairs. He knew there was no ghost. For now, Edward was safe. She would have to get word to Father Jonah to get her brother to stop his tricks.

A ghost should never mess with a man's drink.

Robert, the last knight up the stairs, turned and smirked at her before slamming the door behind him. And locking it. Galiana shivered with trepidation. She had never liked the dungeon. Never. It was dark and confining. Then she remembered Celestia had installed a door leading outside from the sick room so her patients could have privacy. Although it was more than likely snowed in, eventually spring would come.

The thought enabled her to breathe through her panic.

Rourke asked, “Are they gone?”

Galiana turned, torn. Rourke's face was pale beneath his olive tones, and the stitches were stark against the reddened skin. She might send her very first patient into a relapse of fever if she beat him with, with—she looked around the room, growing angrier by the minute that he hadn't thought to mention the betrothal he must have known about from their very first meeting.

A silver candlestick.

Aye, that could do some damage.

“Do not be angry with me,” Rourke demanded. Then he walked backward until he hit the edge of the bed and sat down heavily, his hands out to steady himself. Straightening his shoulders, he turned his face toward where she stood. She could see from his set expression that he would make no excuses.

Something else replaced her anger.

Her stomach plummeted, and Galiana dropped the dagger she'd been clutching to the work counter with surprise. What she truly felt, and it did not matter that it was inappropriate and most unbecoming of a lady, was pride. Pride, that despite his injuries, he'd stood up for himself, and for her. Oh, Saint Agnes, what did that say about her moral character?

Since she was already doomed, she took a moment to study the sight of him, bare-chested with chiseled muscles that rivaled any sculpture she'd ever seen. His rich, dark brown hair was cut longer than what was currently fashionable and rested in waves on his shoulders. She dropped her gaze to the line of masculine hair that led below the sheet, a trail that her fingers wished to follow. Aye, she was going to go to hell, for this feeling had to be lust.

His was a beauty greater than her own, and she was certain he was aware of it, just as she was aware of hers. While she tried to be more than her looks, she sensed that he used his to gain whatever advantage he could.

“Why did you lie and insinuate that I welcomed your attentions?” She gathered the dishes and the tray Rourke had knocked over as he'd come to her aid.

“I was saving you from a group of bored knights bent on mischief. Is that so wrong?”

Put like that, she supposed not. “They are your knights. And they were after your blood.” Remembering the letter she'd put in her apron pocket, she said, “I think we should talk about this.”

“We don't need to talk,” Rourke said, his mouth set in a stubborn line. “Prince John has ordered me to marry you. No discussion.”

Putting the tray away, Galiana leaned against the center table and pulled the letter out, smoothing the wrinkles. If he would not tell her anything, then she would see for herself.

“What are you doing?”

“I am going to read the letter.”

“You read?”

“Yes,” Galiana rolled her eyes at the look on his face, just because she knew he couldn't see her do it. “English, French, Latin, and Welsh. My German is not as good as it should be.”

“You could be a bloody priest. Give me that letter; it is private.”

“Hmm, as private as keeping your reason for coming here? Because, as you said so romantically, our secret is out.” She tapped her finger against her lower lip and asked, “I wonder what else is in here that needs to be known.”

“If you read that—”

“What will you do?” She smiled, certain she finally had the upper hand—then squealed.

Jamie held his large knife to her back. “Fold it up—there's a good lass—and I can put the knife away. I owe you a debt of thanks for saving my man's life, but even that won't keep you alive if you read things you should not.”

Her breath caught in her throat; then she carefully folded the letter and shoved it to the center of the table. “There.”

The pressure at her back disappeared, and she turned on her heel. “You have a lot of nerve, falling asleep when you were supposed to be standing guard.”

Jamie's ruddy cheeks grew even ruddier. “'Tis true, the ale got the best of me. Lack of sleep, worry, and, er, did ye know that you have a ghost? It's been hard to sleep, what with all of the noise.”

Rourke's skin chilled as the eerie voice from earlier, in what he was blaming on a drug-induced dream, seemed to echo in his ear. “There's no damn ghost,” he rubbed the side of his face that wasn't sore, feeling the four days' worth of growth on his cheek. “I need a shave.”

“You can't do that,” Galiana said, as if he would attempt it.

“No.” he smiled. “You can.”

“Are ye daft?” Jamie asked. “You want to give the woman you've angered a sharp blade and tell her to put it at yer throat?” The sound of Jamie snorting with disbelief brought the first piece of normalcy to his day. He caused that sound from his foster brother at least thrice a week. He'd missed it.

“Do you have the letter, Jamie?”

“I do now,” Jamie said.

“I am not going to shave you,” Galiana primly announced. “And more importantly, I am not going to marry you. My family has a special dispensation from King Richard himself. We, the Montehue's and all of our kin, cannot be forced into a marriage for political gain.”

“Jesu.” Jamie slammed his fist on the table, and Rourke heard the small sound that Galiana made in protest. “You can't have.”

A royal dispensation? Christ. Rourke raked his hair back from his forehead. How to get around that? He supposed he could force the issue, wed her and not bed her, and get an annulment later. Galiana Montehue needn't know that he was already promised to another; he'd add that omission to the pile of others. Hell, if he could keep being a spy from Prince John, this little country-bred lady wouldn't be a problem. He was a gifted liar, after all.

“God's blood, I need my sight back.” Rourke said aloud, as if that truth might go unheard if it remained only a thought in his head.

“It might not return,” the lady said in clipped tones resonating with frustrated anger. “Ever.” The sound of her tapping fingernails against the table was another sign. “It would serve you right.”

“That's harsh,” Rourke said, wondering if it could be true. Mayhap he was paying a steep price for something he wasn't sure he wanted. Power.

“It matters not at all, sight or none,” she said with more heat. “I do not have to marry you, and I won't. You may stay here at the manor until the snow melts, and then you and your men need to be gone.”

Rourke almost smiled, but he'd been cruel enough. She was vanquished, even if she did not know it. “Jamie. Go upstairs, find that dispensation.”

“No!” He heard her tug on Jamie's clothes.

“Aye,” his foster brother said, clomping his way up the stairs to the door. “Who the hell locked this door?” He pounded on it. “By God, open it, or I'll break it down,” he shoved his shoulder against the wooden door, causing it to shake in its frame.

“No hurry, Jamie,” Rourke spoke loudly, in the chance that one of his knights was on the other side, listening in. “Galiana and I have much to say to one another that does not require an audience, in celebration of our upcoming vows.”

“There will be no vows,” she said, clanking dishes together.

The door opened, but it was Father Jonah on the other side. “No need to break it down; 'twas one of your own who locked it. Patience, son.”

“Patience? I'll give you until the count of ten to show me where the dispensation from King Richard is, else I'll cut off yer head.”

The voices faded as the door shut.

“'Tis a good thing Father Jonah is deaf as can be. Why are you going on with this? I won't be coerced into marriage.” He heard the determination in her tone and, coupled with how she'd handled herself earlier with Robert, that jackass, as well as her aim—he acknowledged she would be a worthy opponent. If his life were different, perhaps even a partner.

Sighing deeply, he said, “I can't leave until I can see. You wouldn't force me to travel in the snow while injured, would you?” Playing on her compassion, he rubbed the back of his head, which was hardly even sore. The only thing hindering him from success was his lack of sight. “I had it, although it was blurry, for a mere second or two. But now it is gone,” he deliberately layered despair in every syllable.

Rourke heard her come around the table and felt regret for playing upon her sensibilities. But he had to have her. She'd be his cover. Robert, Franz, and Godfrey had been acting strange for the past month. At first he'd attributed it to lack of battle and boredom, but then he worried that Prince John had discovered he harbored a spy in his midst. Her hand lightly brushed his temple.

“It is time for more medicine.”

“Nay, I do not need any more herbs. They are affecting my sleep, and I see demons. Dragons.”

“The Breath of Merlin? It comes from a dragon?”

It took every emotion-masking skill Rourke had ever learned to not erupt at what she'd so innocently said. “Dragon's breath?”

She walked away, and he heard her busy herself with crockery. “No, no I am quite sure that you said Breath of Merlin, but it was in that rough Scots dialect, and mayhap I have the translation wrong.”

He forced himself to laugh. “Whatever you've given me to sleep has brought on night terrors. Claws, blood.”

“And lions. You were most vocal last eve. As you were conquering the fever.”

Rourke's stomach clenched. A spy who wanted to keep his head attached to his shoulders never let a secret slip. Damn it. No way would his foster brother have allowed her to stay and hear all of that. “Where was Jamie, or was the sod already foxed by then?” His voice sounded light to his own ears, and he hoped she heard none of the stress he was trying so hard to smother. Christ, they could all be dead if he'd said the wrong thing.