Destiny Lies Waiting (9 page)

He waved his arm in the direction of the palace, "Forced to make merry and charm my way through the eve with a smile affixed to my lips that I just don't feel inside."

"You seem in a jovial enough mood. What is it that makes you sad?"

Now that was enough! She was going too far. She quickly lowered her eyes.

"Sorry. I must not pry. I am just asking out of curiosity. My thirst for enlightenment, of every kind, is one of my most serious flaws—so I'm told." She hoped that excused her rudeness well enough.

"'Tis not a flaw at all, but a most admirable trait. 'Tis a sign of an active, intelligent mind. I have hidden naught from you so far! Well, nearly. I daresay there is much more I would know about you. I am obliged to court a lady who needs a suitable
parti
."

"Ohhh." Disappointment snatched away her excitement, leaving her voice flat as her heart plunged. She forced her poise to remain in place as she said, "Alas, that's but one drawback of royalty and nobility. This lady, as you call her. Have you ever seen her miniature?"

She didn't want to ask who the lady was. She just didn't want to know. The fantasy was already dispelled.

He shook his head. "Nay, unfortunately, I am going into this without benefit of a glance at her countenance."

She gasped. "You and she are already betrothed?"
No! No, don't let it be!

She begged the fate that brought them together—
let him be free, please!

"Nay!" Droplets flew out as he shook his head. "I would be on the next vessel back to France lest anyone force me to marry a wench sight unseen. 'Tis only out of honor that I am meeting her at all! And 'tis all that I agreed to do—make her acquaintance. If our souls aren't resounding with compatibility in an eve's time, I shall bid her
adieu
. I shall have fulfilled my part of the bargain."

"Ah." Her sigh of relief must have been heard clear across the Thames. Oh, he's free! Her spirit soared, bringing her heart along. "Ah, so 'tis a bargain."

"Naught more, for certes. To me, the worst way to begin a courtship. 'Twould be doomed from the start. I'm a staunch believer in love. I intend to fight the odds and make a love match, not succumb to a loveless liaison just to seal a political alliance or save a homely wench from spinsterhood."

"'Tis very noble indeed, but rather presumptuous of you to brand her homely without having beheld her." She was already feeling sorry for the poor woman, who'd no doubt become hopelessly smitten with him.

"I've heard a description, albeit a sketchy one, from an objective party. With that I've formed a picture in my mind's eye, and I daresay 'tis not a pretty one."

"Well, it couldn't be King Edward or George. They can't be objective about any creature in a bodice and skirts."

"Nay, a much more indifferent, detached, and dispassionate source."

She nodded. "The Duke of Gloucester."

"How did you guess?"

"Simple. He is just about the only person in this kingdom who matches all three of those words."

"That I can't argue with." He chuckled.

"But why take his word for it? The lady may turn out to be a ravishing beauty." She flicked a lock of hair off her shoulder and raised a brow before meeting his gaze again.

She could enjoy this playful repartee, now that she knew he wasn't betrothed—and no wench of Richard's acquaintance could ever capture this man's interest. She had a feeling it was one of Richard's sisters, and tried to suppress a laugh.

"Somehow I doubt it. Were she that beautiful, the King would already be wooing her for his own, queen or no queen."

"So what did he say about her, my lord?"
What is this bargain?
was what she really wanted to ask.

"Oh, nothing especially derogatory. He never means any harm. He just tells it straight away, exactly as he sees it."

"Aye, Richard can be rather blunt." She was also admitting to herself she didn't want the hapless wench anywhere near him.

"And for certes whatever he said to me, he's said to her. He isn't one to talk behind others' backs. Nor am I!" he added quickly.

"Well, did he say she was a bit frumpy?" she asked, forcing her voice to spill over a tinkle of laughter as she conjured up a mental picture of Meg Plantagenet.

"Hmm…" He rubbed his chin.

"Or frowzy. I've heard him say that many a time!" The younger but more portly Eliza Plantagenet, perhaps?

"Nay, nothing quite that descriptive. He was rather vague, as he is wont to be when it comes to women." That was it for Richard's eligible sisters. "Is it his cousin with the one gray eye and one green...oh, what is her name?" She tilted her head. "Gonilda?"

"Nay. They're of no relation. She's a relative of the Queen's. They call her Dove."

She forced a dazzling smile and it froze on her lips, as her fingers turned to ice wrapped around the reins. "Dove, is it?"

"Aye, and he described her as being quite plain, actually." His smile faded. "Her eye color, oh, what was it...ah, yes, she's got eyes the color of...what was his description now...oh, yes. Bat guano!"

His words tripped over laughter, and he raised a hand to rub water out of his eye. If he hadn't done that at the precise second he did, his eye would have been gouged out by a scraping of nails meant to be a slap to his cheek, but missing the mark as she lunged forward and slipped into the water, crying out with indignation as her feet slid into the muck.

The shock of hitting the water was nothing compared to what assailed her senses next. Valentine's arms wound round Denys and brought her to her feet. Their brief contact sent the stars and all their brilliance searing through her body, as this intense surge drained all her energy.

They stood now, both waist-deep in the water. Her bodice clung to her breasts, rising and falling rhythmically as she breathed. She could feel his intensifying breath fanning across her cheek.

Before he could touch her any further, she stumbled out of the water, dragging her skirts behind her, her fists flailing through the air to fend him off, even as her arms ached to pull him closer…

Bat guano….

It had been
her
all along!
She
was the hapless wench with the bat guano eyes! How could Richard treat her so cruelly? The lout! She thought he had been a friend…

"Bat guano, you say? Is that any way to talk about someone you have never met? Do you always pass judgment without first seeing the subject with your own eyes, or is your discretion so flawed that you simply cannot trust it?" She unfurled her hurt and anger with the vigor in her voice.

"Those were Richard's words, not mine!" he exclaimed, his voice husky with a swell of desire.

"And for repeating them, you are just as guilty!" She climbed up the embankment to grab Chera's reins and stalked away, the animal striding beside her. She flicked away tears and flung them at him.

"Do come back, Mistress whatever your name is! Wait!"

She bent over a few times on her way back, and turned around shouting, "We shall see what freedom really means to you now, you spur-galled coxcomb!"

Tears blurred her vision; branches tore at her. She stumbled on exposed roots, not caring how scraped and bleeding she was. Her humiliation was too much to bear. She'd been degraded and belittled by the Queen before the entire court, but nothing had hurt as much as this.

Because it was
him
. He had the power to hurt her. She had longed to see him for days, and nights, but never imagined their reunion would be like this.

And Richard—how could he? He and this naked knight were two unfeeling buffoons who deserved naught better than each other as lifelong mates.

This knight who'd made her feel so special, so wanted—it had all been an act. A lie. From the moment he'd captured her gaze, he had been doing nothing but playacting.

It was all one big lie.

She led Chera back to the palace, throwing her arms around the animal's neck before parting at the stables. Chera nuzzled her cheek, her warm breath like a soothing lullaby to Denys.

"You'll always love me, won't you, Chera?" she whispered to the animal, who answered with a tilt of her beautiful head, another nuzzle, forever loyal; a mere beast, yet so capable of unconditional love.

With outraged woman and palfrey both out of sight, Valentine waded to shore and retraced his steps to reclaim the clothes he'd flung off with such abandon. But they were not there.

In the moonlight he could see every patch of grass, every clump of dirt, but nothing resembling a tunic, hose or doublet.

Then the startling realization hit him harder than the wine had struck the pit of his stomach: the vixen had pinched his clothes!

He sprinted down the riverbank like a wounded badger, crouching lest anyone see him. He tried to assuage his anger by concentrating on how soothing the air felt on his naked body, on places he'd never exposed to the outdoors before. In spite of the absurdity of the situation, he laughed.

It does feel good after all, doesn't it?
he asked himself, the softness of the moss beneath his bare feet and the gentleness of the breeze on his loins, thighs and stomach.

He climbed aboard a slumbering barge, looking for something to wrap around himself, a piece of cloth, a sail, anything, so he could enter the palace with a modicum of dignity. There was nothing.

So he clambered up the bank and grabbed a hunk of birch from the door of the first house he reached. Holding it to his loins like Adam with a fig leaf, he started running.

Past the formal gardens he pranced, as lightly as possible, for the pebbles under his feet were stingingly sharp. Finally the gatehouse was in view and he sprinted up the path, trying to let the heady aroma of roses and honeysuckle on either side calm him.

Only a little further to go, past the startled watchmen, whom he greeted with a breezy, "Lovely evening...er...modeling for a statue, holding one pose, tucking in me bum for hours."

The portcullis was still up, and the slap of his feet echoed through the tunnel that led to the inner courtyard.

Once safely inside, he allowed himself the luxury of a deep sigh of relief—he'd made it! Nary a soul in sight. A few lights glowing from the great hall indicated a few courtiers hadn't yet drunk themselves into oblivion.

Please let the King have retired!
he implored an invisible savior, for even though Edward by no means shared Richard's sense of prudery, he was the King after all, and wouldn't appreciate one of his titled subjects prancing round in such inappropriate attire. Birch was for covering doors during the Feast, not willies during a romp!

And heaven forbid if George should so much as glimpse him in this condition. The entire court would be asnicker until bloody Twelfth Night!

He saw a figure up ahead, hovering in the shadows outside the great hall, glowing in a lantern's faint glint. Startled, he froze in his tracks. The blurry figure came into focus and he could make out the features, a thin body and dark gray gown. It was one of the serving women.

She approached Valentine and let out a petrified scream. The lantern slipped from her bony fingers and shattered all over the floor as she clutched at her heart.

"Shhh!" Valentine frantically tried to calm her, but her howls intensified. She was yelping something intelligible, and he was finally able to make out her words.

"A ghost! A ghost!" she shrieked.

Too late he remembered the old Druid legend that ghosts wore birch when they came back to visit from the beyond.

The crone really believed she was seeing a ghost! Well, better that than to identify him and have him face endless humiliation, so he skirted the broken glass as the woman shrank back against the wall.

"Oooooooooo!" he sang in a haunting falsetto, slipping past her, turning and backing down the corridor, rustling the birch leaves before him as he fled into the darkness.

His bare feet slapped on the floor as he dashed up the grand staircase and down the corridor to his chambers.

Guards were posted at the entrance to the King's apartments, their swords glowing in the torchlight. He'd finally made it.

He flung open his chamber doors and scuttled into his privy closet. He tossed the bough aside, relieved himself in the chamber pot, and without donning a stitch of bed clothing, dived into the soft mattress.