By Love Unveiled (19 page)

Garett lifted his hand to brush away her tears, fighting to eke out words past the lump forming in his throat. “I can’t do that, either, sweetling.” He trailed his fingers down her face, over the smooth curves of her neck to where her hair tumbled over the scarf of her bodice. Abruptly he dropped his hand.

Then he groaned and snatched her about the waist, pulling her roughly against him. “I can’t let you go without knowing it all . . . without knowing you completely.”

“That will never be,” she whispered.

“The hell it won’t.” Driven by anger and need, he cupped her head in his hands and kissed her with all the fierce fervor he’d suppressed for two weeks and more.

She tried to twist away from him. When that didn’t work, she brought her hands up to push against his chest, but he merely clutched her closer, kissed her more hungrily.

Grasping her soft bottom, he lifted her against him so he could feel her softness against his hardening loins. She gasped, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue entwining with hers. Her hands stopped pressing against his chest, then crept upward to clasp his neck.

Only then did he take his lips from hers. He rained gentle kisses over her face, tasting the salt of her tears.

She moaned. “You . . . you can’t simply kiss it all away.”

He pulled back to caress her cheek and wind a long lock of her dark golden hair around one finger. “True enough. But while I kiss you, I can forget it’s there.”

“I can’t,” she said, a tear trailing from her eye.

“My God, don’t cry anymore, sweetling.” Her tears made something clutch at his heart. He caught the lone tear on his thumb, then sucked it off as he fixed his gaze on her. “Your sorrow can be banished as easily as that. Just tell me what I wish to know.”

“That would truly begin my sorrow.”

Burying his fingers in her hair, he forced her head against his chest. “Nay. You underestimate my desire for you. I have the power and wealth to give you whatever you wish—a house of your own, rich gowns, enough gold to make you content for a lifetime. And if it’s fear that keeps you silent, I can shield you from whomever you fear . . . especially Tearle. Just trust me.”

She threw back her head, her umber eyes as wild and tormented as those of a hunted fox. “Trust you? The only one I fear is you!”

Then with a sob, she thrust him away, lifting her skirts and running toward the manor.

He started to follow her, then stopped himself. Her parting words hammered themselves into his brain. She feared him.

He’d known she disliked his being a nobleman and disapproved of his obsession with vengeance. And he’d realized early on that she’d do almost anything to keep him from knowing her secrets.

But truly fear him? That he hadn’t known. Until now.

Slowly his disbelief turned to anger and then fury. He had never hurt her. He’d imprisoned her, true, but with silken bonds. She’d slept in a soft bed between clean sheets and eaten the best food she’d probably tasted in her life. He’d never forced her to join him in his bed—some men would have.

Yet she fought his touch as if he were some scarred beast. Why? Because he was nobility? Or was there some other mystery in her past that made her dart from him?

He clenched his fist so tightly that his fingernails dug into his palms. She feared him, did she? A little gypsy who’d probably run from soldiers and constables all her life feared him—the one man who hadn’t tormented her in any way except to desire her.

Well, then. Perhaps it was time he gave her something to fear.

*  *  *

“A pox on you, old fool!” Pitney Tearle shouted at the moneylender who sat with stony countenance behind the lacquered desk. Pitney stared at the man’s treasures, crammed into every inch of the tiny room, and the sight increased his fury. “How dare you refuse my business? How dare you, a . . . a heretic!”

The moneylender’s eyes were cold. He didn’t flinch but met Pitney’s gaze squarely. “I no longer lend to Christians,” he replied with a shrug. “One minute they claim usury is a sin, and the next they want to reap its rewards.”

Pitney sneered. “It’s Papists who hate usury, not good, solid Englishmen. I hate Papists and all they believe in, so you’ve nothing to fear from me on that score.”

The old man crossed his arms over his chest. “ ’Tis all the same to me. Christian dogs. I’ll have no part of it anymore.”

Pitney threw himself at the man, grasping him by his doublet to lift him off his chair. “You’ve lent to me before, and you’ll lend to me again. You still lend to Christians every day, old man. Don’t you deny it! I know of three ‘Christians’ at least that you regularly lend money to.”

The dark eyes that stared back at him showed no fear. “I lend to whomever I choose. I choose not to lend to you.”

Pitney dropped the man in the chair with a curse. Should he try another tack? Intimidation clearly wasn’t working. And he needed money badly. The fortune he’d gained in stealing Garett’s lands was running out. Pitney had spent part of the last of it helping his friends with their fruitless attempts to regain a footing in the new government. The rest had been given over to a cause equally unsuccessful—trying to eliminate his nephew.

If only he could rid himself of Garett, then he truly would inherit the Falkham estates. Never again would he be at the mercy of moneylenders. He scowled at the old Jew. This was the fifth moneylender or merchant he’d tried. No one wanted to lend him money—Jew or Gentile alike.

“Why won’t you lend to me?” He pinned the man with a baleful glare.

Everyone else evaded the question. But this one smiled. “You’re a poor risk. ’Tis unlikely I’ll see any return on my money.”

Rage filled Pitney at the man’s audacity. “I’ve always paid you back before. You’ve made a great deal of money off me, you fool.”

“That was before,” the man replied smugly.

Pitney planted both fists on the desk and leaned down to stare into the moneylender’s face. “I’m a friend of Cromwell’s son. I know half the merchants in this city, and every one of them will attest to my reliability.”

“Aye? Then where are your fine friends? They don’t want you now that they know how you got your money. No one loves a thief—even one in fine clothes.”

Dread gripped Pitney. What stories had the man heard about him? Until now Pitney had been careful to cover his tracks in his more unsavory endeavors. No one who couldn’t be trusted had been left behind to tell tales. Even with his treachery toward Garett, he’d been cautious. He’d burned the letters Garett had sent. He’d made very public the funeral of the boy who’d taken Garett’s place in death. When Garett had returned, Pitney had pretended to be as surprised as any.

Had all his caution been for naught? He rounded the moneylender’s desk to thrust his fist in the man’s face. “What do you mean, calling me a thief?”

“You’d be surprised how easily rumor runs its merry dance through our fair city. Everyone knows about you, Sir Pitney.” The man’s eyes sparkled with malice.
“When you were having my fellow Jews burned for witches, no one dared cross you, especially not someone like me, with a family to feed. But now even your friends know your treachery to your own nephew. And they know he won’t let it pass. So no one fears you. Including me.”

Pitney cuffed the man viciously, but the old man merely winced and rubbed his jaw. Then he continued to level that accusing stare on Pitney.

“Strike me if you like,” he grumbled. “But except for the paltry power in your fist, you’ve no other strength now. Your power is gone. Your nephew has seen to that. And I’ll die under your fists before I lend you one more pence.”

“Damn you and all of them!” Pitney whirled on his heels to leave.

He found his way down the rickety stairs with difficulty, his knees shaking with his anger. He
had to
eliminate his nephew’s threat to him. Though the king’s championing of Garett had struck him with dread, until now Pitney had been certain he could salvage his reputation in the eyes of the court. He’d groveled before the king he despised, hoping to counteract the effects of Garett’s tales.

But the rumors accompanying Garett hadn’t been so easily squelched. The exiles had spoken of Garett’s sufferings. That pompous rake Hampden had insinuated that Pitney had tried to have Garett murdered in France. That had sent the merchants fleeing, suddenly loath to do business with him.

He knew Garett couldn’t prove a thing, but that was the worst of it. Garett didn’t have to. Innuendo and rumor did it all. And if Garett ever suspected . . .

Pitney ground his teeth together. Garett had to be rendered ineffective. Or wiped off the face of the earth.

Loyalty is still the same,

Whether it win or lose the game;

True as a dial to the sun,

Although it be not shined upon.

—Samuel Butler,
Hudibras

A
fter hours passed, during which Marianne saw nothing of Garett, William showed up to bring her into town. As soon as he led her into Lydgate’s finest inn, she began to fret. Garett was making good on his promise to involve the townspeople in his search for the truth.

And he’d commanded that she come unmasked. It made her feel undressed. She hadn’t appeared publicly in town without her disguise in weeks.

Quickly she scanned the ale room for some sign of Garett. When she saw nothing of him, she shivered.

“You mustn’t let the master worry you, miss,” William whispered as he led her toward a chair near the hearth. “It’s just that he don’t know what to do with you. You and your aunt being so closemouthed and all . . . well, that bothers him.”

What an understatement. “Where is he?” she whispered back as William beckoned her to sit.

William cocked his head upward. “We’re to wait ’til they send a message down for us to go up.”

She groaned. The town council used one of the inn’s upper rooms for their meetings. Garett had obviously called them in.

A pox on him! How she wished she hadn’t become embroiled with him. If she’d only acted more meekly the first time they’d met . . . if she’d just been more careful when she’d treated his wounds . . . if—

This serves no purpose
.

Instead, she should prepare for what was to come and decide how to act.

Telling the truth—that she was Sir Henry’s daughter—was one choice. But Garett, with his loyalty to the king, would follow his duty and give her over to the soldiers. Aside from the danger to her—the possibility that she might hang for her involvement in the supposed plot to kill the king—the truth would endanger others as well: her aunt, Mr. Tibbett, any townspeople who’d knowingly aided her. Given the choice, the council might prefer to have her keep her secret rather than risk being accused of treason for harboring her. At least if they said nothing, Garett could never really prove they knew all along who she was.

Of course, she might be trusting too much to their loyalty. They might just reveal her secret to the earl the moment they saw her face. They might claim her mask had kept them from knowing the truth.

No, they’d never betray her so easily. Nor could she betray them by telling all at the first sign of trouble. Her only safe recourse was to keep silent and hope everything worked out.

Shifting uncomfortably in the hard chair, she glanced around the room. The guarded looks occasionally thrown her way by the other patrons of the inn were, for the most part, kind and encouraging. She took some comfort from that.

Then she caught a stranger gazing at her as if he knew her. But how could he? She would have remembered the sly coldness in his manner. He nodded at her with blatant insolence, and a chill swept through her.

She leaned over to William. “Who is that man wearing the sword?”

William followed the direction of her gaze, then grew wary. “ ’Tis Ashton. M’lord believes he’s Tearle’s man. He’s the villain who stabbed that soldier attempting to burn the fields.”

Good Lord. She’d often wondered who’d been responsible. Garett hadn’t lied—it had been another of Tearle’s men. “Why does the earl let him roam freely about Lydgate?”

“Oh, Ashton serves his uses. You can be sure he only reports to Tearle what m’lord wishes him to report, though the cursed bastard don’t know it.”

When Marianne looked at William questioningly, he dropped his gaze.

A sudden suspicion twisted her insides. “That’s why
he’s here—to see me and tell Sir Pitney your master has caught me!”

“Nay!” William clasped her hand. “I’m sure m’lord has nothing to do with his being here. The bastard’s a curious devil, and most probably heard about the council’s being called. He’s here to see what the whole thing’s about, that’s all.”

Marianne couldn’t quite believe him. It wouldn’t surprise her if Garett’s intentions were to send another of his oblique, vindictive messages to Sir Pitney.

Her stomach churned. Regardless of what Garett intended, if Ashton had recognized her, the results would be the same. Either he would immediately tell the earl her identity or he’d pass his knowledge on to Sir Pitney. Who knew what Sir Pitney might do with it?

She cast a furtive glance Ashton’s way again, but this time his head hung low over his mug of ale.

Please, God,
she prayed.
Don’t let him have recognized me.

After a few minutes, he stood and left the inn. She didn’t know whether to be glad or terrified. William watched him go with a scowl, which only distressed her more.

Stop it!
she told herself.
You have enough to worry about at the moment.

Then her thoughts turned to a new source of concern—whether Garett had played any part in Father’s arrest. That no longer made much sense to her. Garett was the king’s man—she knew that for certain now. He
would only have planted the poison if he’d been certain he could keep His Majesty from taking it and couldn’t be caught.

Would he plan such an elaborate plot—and risk his future with the king—just to regain his lands? Garett did seem obsessed with Falkham House, and he did seem to resent Father for having bought the estate. But his hatred of Sir Pitney overrode all of those. Garett would more likely have plotted his uncle’s ruin than Father’s, for Sir Pitney was the one truly at fault for his exile.