Suzanne Robinson (34 page)

“My lord, have you lost your hearing? I asked when you would leave.”

“What?” He blinked at her. Then, as she planted her hands on her hips and gave him one of her sparkling looks of defiance, he suddenly smiled and laughed. “Pen, Penelope Grace Fairfax, Gratiana, my fabulous madcap, I want you.”

Pen took a step backward as he spoke and gazed at him as if he’d suddenly grown a tail. “You mock me.”

He caught her hand and kissed it. When she tried to pull it away, he squeezed it in both of his.

“Only for you will I say this. Forgive me, Pen. I’ve been monstrous evil to you.”

“Aye, you have,” Pen said, staring at him.

“I beg to make amends, my love.”

“You? You beg? Have you been at Nany’s ale?”

“Forgive me, Pen.”

He kissed the back of her hand, noting the way she shivered as his lips touched her flesh. He breathed on her skin, then grazed his lips across her knuckles.

“Morgan?”

There it was, that softening of tone, that quiver in her voice. Saying nothing, he drew her into his arms and kissed her, drowning in the pliancy of her lips. Blood churned to his face and down to his groin as she seemed to dissolve into his arms. He breathed in the scent of her hair and sighed. He could be with her if he strove to preserve a small distance and thus protect himself from his own need.

He murmured against her curls. “God, I missed you, Gratiana. I won’t be gone long. When I’m in London or in the country, you’ll be here.”

“I will?”

“I’ll send provisions and funds.”

“You will?”

He nuzzled her neck. “Jesu, I’m pleased you won’t be like the others.”

Pen tilted her head back to look at him. “Others? Prithee, what others?”

“Oh, no one of importance.”

“By all the saints in heaven, I think you mean Maria and Lady Ann.”

“What know you of Maria and—Christian again.” Morgan sighed. “Forget them.”

Pen stepped back and folded her arms across her chest as she stared at him. “Make yourself clear, my lord.”

“I but meant that you should remain on Penance, where it’s safe.”

“Safe! Safe for you to prowl about other cats while I’m in a cage by myself. I’m not quite the antick you think me.”

“Jealous mistress, I didn’t purpose to—”

Pen wasn’t listening.

“By the cross,” Pen said. “I understand now. You think me unworthy of your magnificence. You have the temerity to assume that I will sit on my island all chaste and pining for your glorious presence while you rut and spew every time your cock—”

“Penelope Fairfax, you watch your tongue.” He began to lose patience as Pen’s voice deepened and boomed at him.

“By God, sirrah, I’ll not have it. I’ll not be your common doxy.”

She stalked toward him, and at the look on her face, Morgan’s ire increased. By God’s wounds, she didn’t trust him—again!

“That’s not what I meant,” he snapped.

“Puffed-up, rutting, deceitful bawd!”

He halted and planted his hands on his hips. “Puffed up? Now, you hold a moment, Penelope Grace Fairfax. You wanted me almost from the beginning. My memory
works now, and I haven’t forgotten one kiss or one moan. Was it a dream that you bathed every part of me with your mouth?”

Pen gasped and whirled around to her chair. Scooping up her mending, she threw it at him. It sailed onto his head. He clawed at it and emerged to find Pen sailing past him on her way out of the solar. He charged after her only to come up short when she rounded on him.

“I thought some wondrous enchantment brought you to me, but now I see that I was cursed by some wicked fiend of hell when that storm brought you to my island.”

“Belabor me not with such yammerings,” Morgan said. He leaned toward her, grinning. “You want me as much as you always have. I may sail upon the morrow, but I’m coming back. And when I do, it will be to your bed.”

“When the devil sits at the right hand of God!” Pen shouted.

He would have retorted, but Pen rushed out of the solar and slammed the door in his face. He almost kicked it. Instead, he whirled and began to stomp back and forth. The little pestilence had done it again. She’d lost faith in him. God’s breath, but she made him want to bellow and howl with her intransigence. How dare she accuse him of such foul stratagems, when he’d offered himself freely? He loved her, but she was still a woman, and should trust and be guided by him. Why wouldn’t she bend to his will as had other women?

He couldn’t tell her the truth about why he wanted her to remain on Penance. He almost shuddered at the thought of revealing his craven fear of endangering her. But she knew about Ann and Maria, who hadn’t entered his thoughts in weeks, not since he’d seen Pen.

Still, he wished Pen would conduct herself more like they did. Usually he had but to threaten to withdraw
and they hastened to accept affection according to his dictates. With Pen, the more he tried to govern their dealings, the more she tried to banish him from her. This was not the way matters were supposed to progress.

Morgan bent and picked up Pen’s piece of mending. Tossing it on her chair, he began to smile. God’s breath, she was as inconstant as a black squall, and as rousing.

There was no other like, nor would he care if there was. His smile turned to a grin. He’d seduced her before. He but needed to persevere, and she would change again, and finally succumb. Then he could look forward to a tolerable arrangement—he pursuing his work with Christian and Pen waiting for him here, away from danger. His craving for her wouldn’t go away, but he would keep it in check. If he didn’t, he was much afraid he would drown in his need.

Before dawn the next morning Pen huddled in her warmest gown and heaviest cloak beside the fireplace in her chamber. She read a long document while Father Humphrey warmed his hands. She glanced up from her reading. “You’re certain he won’t relent about issue?”

“Certain,” said Father Humphrey.

Pen glanced over the document once more, then sighed. “Ah, well. I won more points than I’d expected. Come, Father, before the others wake.”

They left her chamber and crept from the keep without meeting anyone. At the gatehouse they found Dibbler, Sniggs, Nany, and Twistle waiting with horses. At a signal from her, Erbut lowered the drawbridge. As its rusty chains screamed, Pen cringed and glanced back at the keep.

She expected Morgan to descend upon her at any moment, but he didn’t. She led the way out of the castle, walking her horse until they were clear of the bridge. Then she kicked the animal and trotted off in the direction of Much Cutwell with Father Humphrey and her Highcliffers close behind.

Her course was set. It banished any chance of love, but after Morgan had played with her so brutally, she wanted no more of love. And she believed his threat to return and take her to bed. She wouldn’t be misused. Bending to Morgan’s will would lead her to more hurt, more shame. For a too-short moment she’d hoped for reconciliation and marriage. What amazement. Of a certainty, the world would have thought her a wretched match for the exquisite Morgan St. John in any case. Too plain, too poor.

Yet in the last few weeks she’d learned something about herself—something inside her refused to endure maltreatment anymore. She’d admitted to herself, but to no one else, that her father and mother had sent her away rather than put themselves at risk on account of her gift. She didn’t want to be hurt like that again. Therefore she had to insist that Morgan treat her with regard. She didn’t want adoration, but neither did she want disrespect, but he didn’t seem to understand that.

Marry, all he seemed to understand was rutting. She’d searched deep within herself and come to the perception that although she must admit to longing for Morgan, she could not have him. And so she must protect herself. Which was why she was going to Much Cutwell. After all, she’d neglected the welfare of her people too long.

Her mood worsened the closer she came to Ponder’s manor. By the time she dismounted in the outer court, she might as well have been a new-made widow. Ponder
was waiting for her on the front steps, garbed in his best raiment.

The sight of Cutwell in yellow and red satin jolted Pen out of her fugue. The sun had risen and glinted off the gold braid that edged his robe. He wore a flat yellow cap with a jaunty red feather in it secured by a diamond pin. Pen gaped at the diamond buckles on his shoes as he conducted her into the house with great ceremony.

“At last you’ve seen reason,” Ponder was saying. “Although I mislike the haste upon which you insist. I’m willing to abide by your wishes for the sake of harmony.”

He paused as they entered the great hall. “Behold. I’ve managed to make some preparations, my dear.”

The hall was bursting with Ponder’s retainers and decked with Ponder’s best tapestries. Tables had been piled with enough beef, mutton, cakes, and ale to feed the entire island for the winter. In the musicians’ gallery three fiddlers supplied tunes more appropriate for a May festival. Serving men passed among the guests, supplying everyone with wine. Pen gaped at a lad bearing a large silver cup trimmed with a branch of gilded rosemary.

“Allow me to help you,” Ponder said as he pulled on her cloak.

Pen shrugged off the garment while staring at the bunch of rosemary tied with ribbons and stuck in his belt. Ponder noticed her preoccupation.

“The traditional token of manly qualities, I believe.”

Pen swallowed hard, then turned to face Father Humphrey. She hadn’t thought Ponder quite this foolish. Dibbler was eyeing the man as if he were beholding a dancing pig. All at once the ceremony began, and she heard herself repeating vows she never thought to take.
Refusing to think upon the consequences, she gave her promise. After that, she lapsed into a kind of stupor.

From a distance she heard Ponder repeating his own vows. His small red mouth moved wetly. She couldn’t seem to look away from it, even when she heard a jostling sound behind her. She was watching those plump lips wiggle, when a silver blade descended past her to point at the chin below them.

“If you complete those vows, they will be the last words you speak.”

Pen fluttered her lashes, struggling to comprehend what had happened. Gasping, she whirled around to face Morgan as Ponder yelped and skittered out of striking range. The group around them hastened to increased the distance between them and Morgan. The priest barked a protest, which Morgan ignored.

“Cutwell,” he said evenly as he followed his prey, “you’re not going to marry Mistress Fairfax. If you so much as kiss her hand, I’ll geld you.”

“Peace, my son,” said Father Humphrey.

“There will be peace, Father, as soon as Cutwell gives me his word not to come near Mistress Fairfax.”

Pen suddenly found her composure and her voice. “You’re too late.”

Morgan smiled at her with toleration. “I think not.”

“She speaks the truth,” said Father Humphrey. “The purpose was clear, and most of the ceremony completed before God.”

The sword blade faltered, then dipped. Morgan turned away from Ponder to stare at the priest. He searched the man’s face for the truth, then looked at Pen. She met his gaze with a defiance that barely concealed her own misgivings. Around her the guests muttered and whispered in small groups.

He swooped at her and grabbed her wrist. “You lackwitted little fool, why have you done this absurd thing?”

“To prevent you from making me your doxy!”

The last word echoed in the hall and banished all whispers. Morgan paled and went silent. His gaze became distant as he appeared to lapse into inner converse for a brief moment. Pen bit her lip to keep from bursting into tears, suddenly aware of how mad her conduct must appear. But what else could she do to protect herself? She heard a curse from Morgan as he suddenly wakened from his silent dialogue. She tried to shrink back as he turned the full blast of his rage upon her.

He yanked her close and shouted at her. “God’s blood! This wouldn’t have happened if you’d listened to me instead of losing your wits to jealousy. You’re not marrying Cutwell. I won’t allow it.”

Setting her jaw, she stared back at him without flinching.

“You’ve no choice.”

He glared at her while the entire hall seemed to hold its breath. When his eyes seemed to turn to black ice, several men-at-arms took a step back from him. All at once he smiled a smile that made Pen want to duck into the nearest cupboard and wait for mountains to crumble.

“Father, this marriage is unlawful.”

“How so, my son?”

“Because the lady has given herself to me. Surely you knew that, Cutwell.”

Pen felt herself redden as a collective gasp traveled around the hall. Ponder began to sputter.

“I knew this not. What—how—my honor!”

“Oh, close your teeth,” Morgan said. “I but meant that
the lady promised her hand to me. A prior betrothal takes precedence over any later agreement.”

“Why, you arrogant plague of a man.”

She pulled free of Morgan’s grip, picked up her skirts, and turned her back to him. Shouldering her way through the crowd, Pen left the hall and marched to the stables, where her horse stood, waiting to be unsaddled. Dibbler and the others trailed after her. She was shivering and attempting to mount her horse, when someone threw her cloak around her shoulders.

“A wise course, my love.”

Pen gasped as Morgan picked her up, thrust her into the saddle, and stood grinning up at her.

“We’ll be more comfortable marrying at Highcliffe.”

“Marry?” Pen squawked. “
Marry
?”

“Aye, Gratiana. After all, I have to prevent you from marrying that pig-lover Cutwell. Cutwell, ha!”

She stared at him as he burst into a loud guffaw.

“Cutwell, you and Ponder Cutwell. By my troth, what a thought.”

Rage blistered through her veins, but she waited until his laughter subsided. Gathering her reins, she frowned down upon him.

“Laugh as you will, my lord, but harken to this.” She spoke calmly and carefully. “You may have ruined my chance of becoming a wife, but you haven’t won. And do you know why? Because, my lord, despite your belief in my undying love, I’d sooner marry Margery than you. I believe your ship is waiting. Good day to you.”