Beauty's Curse (8 page)

“Nay, Jamie was getting some air, visiting with the other men upstairs a while. He's loyal to you. He barely ever left your side.”

He didn't hear anything suspicious in her voice. Which, damn it, was all he had to go by. He heard regret that he'd been challenged by his knights in her tone, and, yes, he sensed she even felt some indignation on his behalf. Rourke's blood warmed, and he wished he could see her. A skilled spy required all of his senses. He had to read the way people held themselves, or their eyes, to get to the truth. Or past the lies.

“I heard your singing; 'tis a beautiful voice you have.”

“Thank you,” she answered stiffly.

“Why do you get so angry when you receive a compliment?” She had the confidence of a beautiful woman, and yet she'd said she was not. His men had been complimentary, but knights were trained to speak to noble ladies that way, even if a lady were uglier than a two-headed lizard.

“I don't want flowery words. I want … more.”

Rourke laughed. “For most women, poetry is enough.”

“Pah, I am not ‘most women.' Do you know I can trace my ancestors back to Queen Boadicea, the Welsh Warrior who took on the Romans?”

Stifling the urge to mock her grandiose claim, he made a noncommittal noise in his throat.

“'Tis true,” she insisted.

“Hmm. I thought that was a tale along the same lines as Merlin,” he tried to jest, which he immediately regretted. He had to stay away from the topic of the mythical wizard.

“Well, it is not,” she answered sharply. “But it is the reason that King Richard has granted our family the right to choose our mates.”

“Ah,” Rourke said, properly impressed by the way she'd neatly brought the conversation back around to what she'd wanted to talk about anyway.

“Our family is filled with great healers, and one daughter in each generation is supposed to be able to heal with Boadicea's magic flowing through her hands. Our generation got two. My older sister, Celestia. She's very petite and has one green eye, one blue.”

Rourke frowned.

“And my younger sister, Ela, who looks like she's supposed to. She can see auras. And I—I can play the lute and make perfume. Do you see how this is unfair? My grandmother can heal, and my mother—well, she cannot. But she's beautiful—so beautiful that my father fell in love with her when he was raiding the Welsh lands and he took her. Which is why she thinks that beauty should be enough. She doesn't understand that I want to be more. And when I try and explain it to her, she makes me learn another instrument, or bids me concoct another lotion.”

“How many instruments do you have?” Rourke asked, remembering the light callous he'd felt on her thumb.

“Seven.” She laughed softly. “I used to dream of cutting my hair and running away to join the traveling players. But then,” her sigh was heavy, “I would think of never seeing my family again, and I just couldn't do it. They love me, and I love them. Oft times that emotion is more binding than chains. Have you ever been in love?”

“No.” His answer was immediate. Being raised among the court by nursemaids and servant girls hadn't been horrible, and, thanks to his foster siblings, it hadn't even been that lonely. He'd always been quick to find the girl who would give him sweets in exchange for a smile, and as he got older, he learned to trade his smile for other things. Love was most often a commodity to be bargained over, and in those instances of true love, it was a weakness.

“I have never been in love either. Although I've seen it, and I believe in love's power, I have never fallen under its spell.”

Intrigued, Rourke said, “You sound like a jaded court pet.”

“I am not jaded, or spoiled. I, Lord Rourke, am a realist. Because I also believe that a marriage between two people with the same values can last, and perhaps affection can turn into love.”

Her smoky tones made her a natural storyteller, and her subject matter made her even more compelling. “I'd wager you'd have been a popular minstrel, perhaps even in the king's court.” Where someone as fresh as she would get trampled, until finding a protector, Rourke thought.

The sound of liquid being poured came between them, and then Galiana said, “Here, it's lemon and honey. Careful, though, 'tis hot.”

He heard her sit across from him, and she took a sip.

“You didn't need magic to heal me. My leg is better.”

Her cup clanked against the saucer, and he imagined her hurriedly setting it aside. “You could've died.”

“But I didn't.”

“Well,” she paused, “it was only because I was able to follow my sister's directions. She kept a book of medicines. Although from what I have been reading, your inability to see most likely stems from the blow to the temple, not the cut so close to your eye. Or perhaps the blow to the back of your head.”

It was the way she said it, so sorrowfully, that made him reach out his hand. “I am sorry,” she said. He was surprised when she joined her hand to his.

As soon as their fingers touched, he was hit with inspiration. He needed her, and she was bored with her life as a lady in the country. She went on about proposals of marriage for the beautiful people, and yet she was unwed. Galiana had to be one of those passively pretty girls who never called attention to themselves. No wonder she rebelled against a beautiful mother!

He could tell her just enough to win her assistance, and perhaps she would play along. Rourke could not tell her all of the truth—it would be a death sentence—but he could share enough information to get her on his side.

She said, “The only thing you can do is rest. And pray for your vision to return. Will you continue to hide it from your men?”

He rubbed his chin. Galiana's compassion was evident, and there was a good chance she would do as he asked.

The door swung open with such force that Rourke reached for his sword, which wasn't there. Damn.

“I've caught the treasonous little bugger. Found him scratching a letter to the bleeding King Philippe, asking for France's aid to bring King Richard back from Germany.” Jamie's steps were heavy, and Rourke was able to hear the sound of scuffling feet. “He actually wrote, wrote—for the love of Christ, what were you thinking?—that Prince John is a usurper, with his eye on the throne. A coward who wants to steal England,” Jamie spluttered. “Thank the sweet Lord that it stops there.”

Chair legs scraped against the floor as Galiana rose. “Oh, Saint Vitus,” Rourke heard her implore the patron saint of crazy people.

“Eh, Ned,” she said, “What have you done?”

Rourke clenched his fists, furious that he couldn't see who else had come down the stairs. Squinting, he could make out a nondescript blur, which was at least better than grayish black nothing, but not bloody good enough.

Franz, with his cultured accent, said, “I went up to liberate the young man, and saw him writing this. He had your paper, Rourke. Your quill and ink all set out along his desk. What could I do?”

“Here, my lord. He had this, too, but I've put everything back where it was.” Will dropped the pack with a thud to the floor next to Rourke's bed.

“How soon can ye ride? The boy will have to go to court and stand trial for crimes against the crown.” The sound of Godfrey's ringed hand closing over the hilt of his sword made Rourke bow his head to hide his fury.

“Crown? Prince John doesn't have it yet,” a young man sneered.

“Ned, Ned, oh, dear, shut your mouth.” Galiana's voice rose as she spoke. “He's a boy, a child; he can't stand trial.”

“I am not a child,” Ned argued in a voice cracking between manhood and youth.

Rourke pulled the bag onto his lap, casually searching in every single corner and pocket and seam. He ground his back teeth together in frustration. What he'd hidden was gone. Bloody hell.

This changed everything, and he had to think fast. If the person who stole the key understood what was in hand, it meant the end of Britain. Rourke had to get to court, immediately.

“Everyone needs to calm down,” Rourke said, leaning back on one elbow as if he hadn't a care in the world. “Jamie, did you find the dispensation?”

“I've got it.”

There was no way out of this situation. He would have to make the best of a bad bargain and hope that in the end the English crown was worth the price.

The problem was, he genuinely liked Galiana. She'd cared for him, despite the fact that he'd taken over her home and imprisoned her knights. She'd stood by him, even when he'd lied. A woman like that was worth her weight in gold. Mayhap he would make her a gift of that, when all of this was over. Any chance at their relationship remaining friendly was about to die.

“Franz, fetch the priest.”

“I will not marry you,” Galiana said, her light footsteps coming toward him. “Your knight has the dispensation in his hands, which is proof that you cannot force me.”

If he'd had more time, if he had his sight, mayhap he wouldn't need to be so cruel. But he was out of options.

He needed an ally, and Galiana had already shown she had honor. A commodity he admired, since he had none himself. She loved her family. In order to gain her cooperation, her brother would have to go to the tower in London. He didn't have anyone else to trust.

He made his voice deliberate and cold. “Lady, you have no choices. Your brother has been caught in the act of writing defamatory remarks regarding our future king. He will stand trial.” He heard the catch of her breath as she sought to control her emotions.

And felt like an ass. Colder, he commanded, “Jamie. The dispensation? Burn it. Where's that damn priest? We marry now, and leave for Windsor tomorrow.”

“How dare you threaten me? Or my brother? You have no rights here.” Galiana's voice shook with anger. Her belly knotted with nerves as she was overcome by emotion. How could Rourke turn so hot and cold? She'd seen a glimmer of a heart, or mayhap she'd just been praying he had one.

“Me Lord Rourke has every right, lass.” Jamie lifted the rolled dispensation bearing King Richard's seal with his left hand, and her brother with his right. The man was an ogre.

“Since when has brute strength ruled over common sense and chivalry?” Galiana felt the heat in her cheeks burn as she spouted the nonsensical question. Courtly manners meant nothing in the face of strength. Muscle was always the victor, and if she weren't a lady, she'd, well … Her gaze swept the work table, pausing at the small eating knife still on top of it.

“I don't believe ye're as innocent as that,” Godfrey grumbled.

Galiana breathed in through her nose, wishing she could suck in a deep, bracing gulp of air instead of a dignified sip. Her fingers curled within the fabric of her skirts, and she edged closer to the table. “I don't particularly care what you think,” she said with a jerk of her chin. Her mother would faint dead away if she heard her daughter talking in such a manner.

The thought bolstered her courage.

Ed, who Jamie and everyone else thought to be Ned, squirmed in Jamie's grasp, knocking his head back into the knight's chin.

“Argh, ye little bast—”

In the commotion, Galiana scooped up the knife and ran to her brother. She tried shoving him behind her, but he wouldn't stay. She had to be content with standing side by side. The two Montehues stood with their backs against the stone wall, her weapon out in front of them.

“You only have that wee little blade, lass?” Jamie's low voice taunted her. It was the sad truth that her hand trembled as she held the blade, but it was all that she had.

“You'll not take my brother to the tower. He's done nothing wrong—”

“Liar!” Robert said over the ringing sound of his sword being drawn from its sheath.

This time she went for that deep, courageous breath and refused to think about Mam—who wouldn't be pleased at this situation, no matter what.

Ed elbowed her, “Give me the knife, Gali.”

“I think not. They'd skewer you for certes.”

Her heart beat rapidly in her chest. She'd been given an easy job—lady of the manor had sounded so simple. How had everything gone so wrong?

“Galiana,” Rourke called over the chaos in a voice as smooth as Cook's lemon custard. “You are right. We cannot force you against your will, and there's no need for Ned to go to the tower.”

She lowered her arm, grateful that he, at least, was being reasonable. His face was turned toward her, and she realized he was listening for her. Calling herself an idiot for helping him at all, she cleared her throat. His eyes focused on where she was standing, and she had the impression he could really see her.

The man was a chameleon.

Her face warmed beneath his blind scrutiny. “You'll not burn the king's writ?”

Rourke's entreating expression slowly changed. Starting with the upward tilt of the left side of his full lips, closely followed by the right side of his mouth, resulting in a devilish grin that made her knees go weak.

Nay, the man was a demi-god, and she had the insane urge to write bad poetry. Galiana discovered a newfound sympathy for some of her admirers. She'd never been deliberately cruel in her rejections of them, and she'd never encouraged their attentions, but if they'd felt so strongly, so—

He coughed. “I am proposing a trade,” he said with a dip of his forehead.

She would have agreed to anything that fell from his lips—if his knights hadn't laughed aloud, breaking the spell he'd bound her in.

“What is wrong with you?” Ed hissed.

Shaking her head, she lifted her useless weapon. Really, she thought with sudden clarity, who brings a cooking knife to a sword fight? “What trade?”

“We burn them both.”

“What?”

Visions of poor Ed being burned at the stake had her preparing to attack. “Never!” Galiana waved the knife in front of her and her brother, as if that would keep the knights away. She risked a look at her enemies. Aside from Jamie, who was rubbing his chin and glaring at Ed, they looked bored.