In Honor Bound (18 page)

Rosalynde cried as she snatched them up, the gloves she had so painstakingly made for him. The stag's blood had dyed the fine white stitches red and the costly velvet was matted with gore. She shook the gloves in his face, wanting him to see them ruined.

With a quick glance at his father, Philip shrugged negligently. "I forgot I had them on."

"Do you weigh my gift so light, Your Highness?" she snapped, the words tart on her tongue. "Are they too fine, perhaps? I've often heard you have a taste for commoner things."

Philip turned his icy eyes on her. "If common things held any charm for me, madame, your behavior at this moment would have me entranced."

Catching her breath with a sob, she walked swiftly out of the room before she made an even greater fool of herself.

"Well, go after her, boy!" she heard Robert demand, and she slowed her step, listening still.

"What would Your Majesty have me to say to her?" Philip asked, his complaisance more insolent than docile.

"Apologize for ruining her gloves! Pretend, if you must, that there is more than ice in that bosom of yours! She's not done you wrong, I have, and before God I'll not crawl after you the rest of my life begging forgiveness. You go to her as I told you and do not let me hear any more of this."

"At once," Philip replied, the only expression in his voice faint, arrogant contempt, then he stepped into the corridor.

"My lady?"

Rosalynde whirled to face him.

"I suppose I cannot compare to all your other women."

He was not prepared for that.

"All what other women?"

"All the mistresses you've had and have still for aught I know."

"I have never had a mistress."

He said it coldly, steadily, his eyes on hers so unwaveringly that she would have sworn he spoke truth had she not known.

"You were no novice on our wedding night," she said with a contemptuous toss of her chin, and his eyes grew even colder.

"And upon what experience do you base that observation?"

The color flamed into her face, but she did not look away. "Well, were you?"

"I was what your father bought for you," he said haughtily. "Take your complaints to him."

He stalked back into the library and she flew after him, still clutching the gloves.

"I am your wife, my lord, and I mean no more to you than your harlot!"

"Far less, madame," he said with almost-inhuman calm. "Far less."

"Philip!" Robert reproved. "You will not speak so to her! Apologize!"

Philip bowed to him, rigidly submissive, and turned obediently back to his wife. "I ask your pardon."

She stiffened her spine at the lack of contrition in his too-proud expression and struck him hard across the face with the bloody gloves, then threw them down at his feet.

"Do not think to come to me tonight!" she cried, shaking with helpless fury. "Do not think to come to me ever again!"

"As you wish it," he said, a hint of triumph in his chilling nod, and she ran from the room blinded with tears.

***

"Philip," Tom began, but his father cut him off.

"Philip, have you no shame?" Robert demanded, grabbing his son roughly by the shoulders.

Tom could see the muscles under his hands quivering, taut as whipcord, but Philip made no attempt to pull free. Philip just looked steadily at his father, then turned his face, patiently offering his cheek for another slap.

"Oh, Philip," Robert murmured, releasing him and then quickly reaching out to wipe away the smear of blood the gloves had left behind. Philip flinched and Robert dropped his hand.

"Philip, son, can we never heal this hurt between us?"

His impassioned plea answered only with stony silence, the high majesty of Lynaleigh slunk from the room like a whipped cur.

"That was unworthy of you, Philip," Tom said gravely. "I've never known you to be so careless of whom you hurt."

"No more than he," Philip answered with another shrug of his shoulders.

"And when did you begin to let the behavior of others dictate to you yours? Besides, I did not mean him. I meant your lady. Whatever he has done, surely she is innocent."

"Innocent?" Philip lashed back, taking deep, indignant breaths. "Great merciful heaven! You heard what she said about Kate! Common things! My harlot!" He rubbed his cheek where it still stung and his hand shook. "And dare she strike me!"

His anger was as sudden as it was fierce, and just as suddenly it was gone. Tom watched in amazement as Philip forced his body to relax, forced his doubled fists to unclench, and banished his emotions once more into imprisonment. The calm emptiness in his eyes and the blood that marked a crimson line across his scarred cheek brought back too vividly that awful day in Tanglewood, when Philip had first sought refuge behind this mask of indifference.

"She was hurt," Tom said, feeling the same powerlessness he had felt then. "She does not know how deeply she hurt you. How could she? Please, Philip, do not–"

"I know I made her angry with me," Philip said dispassionately, "but I cannot help that. She has told me I am not to come to her and, naturally, I will respect her wishes. If she should change her mind, I am content to let things be as they have been between us. If not, I am content as much to let them be as they are now." He looked calmly at the stag's blood on his hand, the blood he had wiped from his face. "I had best wash before supper."

***

Rosalynde cried herself to sleep that night and several nights afterward, angry and humiliated and hurting. She had told Philip never to come to her again, and he was taking cold pleasure in honoring her wishes. She felt like a fool, wearing out her heart over such a man and wished she could be as he was – needing nothing and no one.

He was in the wrong, her wounded pride told her. Let him ask pardon. He was cruel and thoughtless and must be taught to treat her as his wife and a princess. He should beg for forgiveness, on his knees, before he expected her favor again.

Then, when the night deepened around her and her bed was wide and cold and lonely, her heart brought to her remembrance the love she had claimed to have for him. Was this the whole depth of her love, so easily tossed away for a pair of spoilt gloves?

It was not just the gloves, her pride flung back.

Her heart quietly reminded her that she had hurt him, too, that she had meant to cut him deeply with her sharp words, and the tears came again.

She knew she could stay here alone, match him pride for pride, and be miserable in her self-righteousness. Or she could go to him and teach him that her love truly was the love
Saint Paul
had written of, love that would bear, believe, hope and endure all things.

Still, if she did dare to go to him, she knew he was likely to accept her apology as coolly as he had accepted her gloves, thank her politely, and send her back to her bed alone. She could not bear the thought of that, not quite yet.

"Dear Lord God, help me," she wept in anguish. "Help me to love him as You love him. Oh, God, he needs to be loved." She sobbed and hiccoughed, then buried her face in her pillows, weeping for the love she so desperately needed herself and did not have.

Her tears finally run dry, she fell into a heavy, restless sleep. She woke later to find him standing over her, barely visible in the dim light, his shirt only half tucked into his breeches, his sleeves pushed carelessly to his elbows, one mislaced boot bunched around his ankle. She had never expected him to come to her, not until she had humbled herself, but he was truly there. Her pride forgotten, she held out her arms to him.

"Oh, Philip–"

He put his hand swiftly over her mouth. "Be quiet, my lady. I already woke your gentlewomen to get you dressed. Be sure they do not make a sound."

"My lord–"

"Shh. You must be quiet. Stephen's soldiers have somehow gotten inside the walls and are coming here. They mean to take us by surprise, but we caught wind of them. Still, we haven't enough men here to fight them, so we must creep away before they know we have found them out."

"Oh, holy God, save us!"

"Shh! Get up, get dressed. We have only a moment."

Her ladies had come in by then, their own clothes pulled carelessly over their shifts, and scurried to dress her. Fear and sleepiness made them clumsy and slow at their tasks, and Rosalynde's heart pounded harder and harder at the thought of the enemy stealing upon them, at the thought of what would happen if they did not make it away in time.

She could see Philip waiting in the doorway, watching the dark corridor for movement. Silver moonlight edged his drawn sword, and she could tell by the lift of his head and his wary stance that he was ready to spring at the first sign of the enemy. There was no one yet.

Finally dressed, Rosalynde pulled her cloak around her and came to his side. "We are ready, my lord."

He nodded and, with another cautious look, he led the women into the corridor. Tom met them coming from the other way, bringing another half-dozen waiting women with him.

"They may be in the castle already," he said as he padded lightly up to Philip.

"I sent Rafe and a few of the men down to the stables to ready some horses," Philip said. "We can trust the women to him until we have made sure there is no use in fighting here."

"I sent Palmer down there as well."

Philip nodded. "Take the lead. I will see we are not taken from behind."

Tom gave the women a reassuring wink and led them to the end of the corridor towards the winding stairs that ended down in the kitchen. Trailing after them all, Rosalynde wished for her husband's comforting touch, but he merely pushed her ahead of him and kept his attention on the darkness behind.

Most of them had made it to the stairway when there was a sudden light at the end of the corridor and the sound of soldiers.

"Down there!"

Philip whirled to face them. "Tom, they've found us!"

The women on the narrow stairs began to scream and push each other, frantic to escape. Rosalynde grabbed Philip's arm.

"Oh, run, my lord!"

"Get down there!" he thundered, shoving her away. Terrified, she obeyed.

***

Philip watched the small group of Stephen's men, six or eight at most, stop a few yards down the corridor. Though he was alone, he had reputation enough with a broadsword to earn their respectful distance. He held the weapon now with both hands, battle ready, and one of them stepped cautiously forward.

"Surrender, my lord."

"Not until I've seen these ladies safe and, even then, not until I've seen the man who can take my sword from me."

Stephen's men started towards him, and he glanced backwards.

"Are they down, Tom? Tom?"

Hearing nothing but the fearful squealing of the waiting women, he backed swiftly down the stairs, glad at least that the narrow passageway prevented the enemy from coming at him more than one at a time. He knew they had the advantage in their numbers, but, even so, they found his reputation was not undeserved. He killed the first of them easily and gained some distance as they wrestled the body to one side to get past it.