The Beloved Scoundrel (18 page)

Jordan roused and glanced out the window. “No, but we’re right on time.” He stretched. “Good man, George.”

“Where are we?”

“Soon.”

If he said that one more time, she would not wait until they returned to Cambaron to murder him.

The carriage stopped, and George jumped down and opened the door.

Jordan got out and lifted Marianna to the street. The stones felt damp and cool beneath her bare feet.
“Now will you—” Her gaze traveled up the cathedral spire. There could be no mistake. She knew where she was.

“The Minster,” she whispered. “Sweet Mary, we’re in York.”

He nodded. “The Lady Chapel of York Minster, to be exact.” He looked at the now fully risen sun. “Come along. It’s time.”

She took an eager step forward and then looked down at her robe and bare feet. “I’m not dressed. They won’t let me in.”

“They’ll let you in.” His lips set grimly. “I’ll see to it.”

Dazedly, she let him lead her into the dim chapel. She knew what she was going to see. Papa had seen it once, and her mother and grandmother had often talked of making a pilgrimage to view it.

Glory.

She stopped before the Great East Window.

Bold blues and reds and greens.

Sunlight wedded to brilliant color and superb artistry.

The arched window towered seventy-six feet high by thirty-two feet wide. Below the tracery panels of angels, patriarchs, prophets, and saints were twenty-seven panels, each three feet square, of Old Testament scenes, beginning with the first day of Creation and ending with the death of Absalom. Nine rows of panels followed, illustrating eighty-one scenes of dire prophecy from the Apocalypse. In the two bottom rows was the kneeling donor, Bishop Skirlaw of Durham, flanked by English kings, saints, and archbishops.

“It took Robert Coventry three years to create this
window over four hundred years ago.” Jordan said. “He was paid the princely sum of fifty-six pounds. Do you think it’s worth it?” When she didn’t answer, he glanced at her expression and nodded slowly. “I can see you do. So do I.”

“It’s magnificent,” she whispered. “It’s everything.…”

“I thought you might like it.” He smiled. “I can give you until noon to worship at Coventry’s altar if I’m to keep my promise to Dorothy.”

“Noon?” She shook her head. “I need longer. This is only one window. The Minster has one hundred and thirty.”

“I promised Dorothy that—” He stopped as he saw her desperate expression. “Oh, what the devil. Sunset.”

She nodded eagerly. “Then I can see the Great West Window properly.” She turned back to the East Window and said dreamily, “Do you see how he combined color and grisaille? Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Wonderful,” he said, smiling indulgently. “I’ll speak to the archbishop and see that you’re not disturbed.”

“I won’t be disturbed.”

“No, I doubt if anything could disturb you at the moment. I’ll go to the nearest inn and see if I can find you shoes and a gown to wear on the journey back to Cambaron.”

Coventry had added touches of humor to a few of the panels. Papa had not told her.… What had Jordan said? “That would be pleasant.”

“Or perhaps you’d prefer to wear sackcloth and ashes?”

The blues were magnificent but, dear heaven, those reds.… “Whatever you like.”

She was vaguely aware of him shaking his head and then the sound of his receding footsteps.

How had Coventry attained that astonishing shade of red?

J
ordan came to the West Window to fetch her when the last light had faded from the sky. He took one look at her feverishly bright eyes and dazed face and led her quietly from the Minster to a nearby inn. She was scarcely aware of him thrusting a bundle of clothes at her.

Blues and reds.

Opaque and clear.

Light.

Above all. Light.

He lifted her into the carriage a short time later and settled himself onto the seat next to her. “I take it you had a successful day?”

“They’ll last forever, you know,” she said softly.

“They’ve lasted a long time already.”

“You can burn a great painting. You can topple a statue, but those windows were meant to last forever.”

“If fools like Nebrov don’t meddle with them.” He frowned. “Your cheeks are flushed. How do you feel?”

“The light …”

“I had George bring a basket of fruit. Can you eat?”

She felt as if she would never eat again. She was full, brimming with hues. “I feel like a pane of glass,
as if you can see through me, and yet I have textures.…” She shook her head. “I feel … most peculiar. Is there something wrong with me?”

He chuckled. “I believe you’re drunk.”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t be. I’ve had no wine.”

“There are more dangerous forms of drunkenness than those derived from the grape.” He pulled her against his shoulder. “Rest. I’ll be kinder to you in your infirmity than you were to me in mine.”

She stiffened against him. She vaguely remembered that there was a reason she must resist this intimacy, but it was hard to recall. She relaxed against him.

He had given her the Minster. He had given her that wonder.

“Try to go to sleep. I doubt if you did more than doze on the way here.”

“I was very angry with you.”

“I know.”

“Why did you do this?”

“There’s no accounting for the whims of fools or drunkards.”

“It was not a whim.”

“If you don’t wish to believe it, I certainly won’t insist. I need all available credit for good works to balance the other side of the scales.”

“It … was very kind of you.”

“You must tell that to Gregor. It might save me from severe physical punishment.”

He would not be serious. Had he done it because of the window she had crafted of his mother? She had known he had been moved by it.

Oh, she did not know why he had done such a
wonderful thing for her. It did not matter. He had given her the Minster.

“Did you see the blues?”

“Yes.” He stroked her hair. “Though I admit I saw the entire picture and failed to take each facet apart.”

“It’s hard to do in a work of that detail.”

“Was it better than your grandmother’s Window to Heaven?”

“No. Grandmother’s work is better, but she was never permitted to work on so grand a scale. Seventy-six feet …”

“I think you’d better stop thinking about the Minster, or you’ll never get to sleep. What happens after the cutline?”

“What?”

“You once told me how you prepared the final sketch for cutting. What comes next?”

She had not thought he had paid any heed to her words that night in the tower. All she could remember was shimmering sensuality and his soft voice in the darkness. There was darkness now also, and his voice was just as soft, but now there was comfort, not danger.

“I cut the pieces of glass with either a grozing iron or a wheel cutter. After that I grind the top colored layer from the glass with powdered stone.”

“And then?”

“You don’t wish to hear this,” she said impatiently. “It can be of no possible interest to you.”

“Since I’m to live indefinitely with a hole in my roof, I think I’m entitled to test your knowledge.”

He would not know whether she was correct or not. She indulged him anyway. He had given her the Minster. “I attach the pieces of glass to an easel with
melted beeswax and paint the lead lines. Then I check for light and flow through the glass.” She yawned and realized she was growing drowsy. The excitement of Coventry’s work was gradually being dampened by the details of the process itself. “I paint the glass and then apply silver stain to the white glass. I fire the glass in a kiln to set the color and then link the pieces and hold them in place with lead strips and cement.”

“And that’s what Coventry did?”

“It’s what we all do.”

“And much more besides.” She realized he had guessed she had simplified and left out the more complicated problems and processes. “Will you let me watch you someday?”

A ripple of unease went through her. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s mine.”

“That’s why I want to watch you.”

She shook her head and then burrowed against his shoulder. “I wish to go to sleep now.”

“You wish to run away now,” he corrected. He hesitated and then said ruefully, “Go to sleep. My halo’s shining so brightly, I choose not to tarnish it at the moment.”

G
regor was waiting with a closed carriage four miles from Cambaron.

He stepped into the road, stopped George with a wave of his huge arms, and opened the carriage door. His gaze raked Marianna’s face. “Are you well?”

She nodded, smiling luminously. “I’ve been to the Minster.”

His expression softened. “Dorothy told me. She
was most upset, but at least Jordan had the courtesy to inform someone.”

“Did you break down the door?” Jordan asked.

“Of course.” He grinned. “As quietly as possible.” He lifted Marianna down to the ground. “And that is how we must get Marianna back into the castle. I’ll take her ahead and slip her in through the scullery and up the backstairs to her room. You wait here for an hour and then show yourself.”

“You’ve concocted a story for me, no doubt?”

“Southwick. It was unbearably hot, you were drunk, and you decided you wanted to go for a sail on the
Seastorm.
When you woke up, you found yourself halfway up the coast.” He shrugged. “Considering your comparative tameness in latter years, it’s not entirely believable. But the people who remember you as the Duke of Diamonds will not doubt it.”

The Duke of Diamonds. Dorothy had told Marianna something regarding that title.… She had no time to think about it; Gregor was propelling her toward the closed carriage.

“You will make sure George keeps silent in the servant hall,” he called over his shoulder to Jordan.

“He’ll be silent.”

“Wait.” Marianna stopped and turned to face Jordan. “I thank you.”

He shrugged. “There’s nothing for which to thank me. I told you it was only a drunken whim.” He climbed back into the carriage. “Get her to her room, Gregor. It’s going to be very boring waiting here.”

She didn’t speak for a few minutes after Gregor’s carriage had whisked them away. “It wasn’t a whim, Gregor.”

“Probably not.”

“He was very kind to me.”

“Yes, he can be kind.”

She made a helpless motion with one hand. “I don’t understand him.”

He didn’t answer; he merely reached across and gently patted her hand.

He thought she needed comfort. Well, perhaps she did. She had come closer to Jordan during this journey than she had deemed possible. She had seen him drunk and angry, indulgent and protective.

And he had given her the Minster.

How could she fight him when he did things of that nature?

Yet she must fight him.

She must perfect her craft and make plans on how to accomplish the task her mother had given her. Every day that she gave to Cambaron, she must give an hour to the Jedalar.

It would be the only way that she could keep her feet planted firmly on the ground in this bewildering world ruled by Jordan Draken.

N
ebrov would be pleased.

Marcus Costain tossed the note he had received from Cambaron into the flames of the fireplace and watched as the paper curled and blackened. Of course, the information regarding the girl’s growing skill could be faulty. His spy at Cambaron was no judge of such things. Still, she might now be good enough to suit His Grace’s purpose, and that was all
that was important. Nebrov’s correspondence had grown increasingly caustic and impatient of late. Napoleon was looking eastward, and he wanted a bargaining tool.

What did the man expect of him? he thought sourly. These years of waiting had not been pleasant for him either. Nebrov had not wanted him to take any chance of Draken knowing Costain was watching the girl, and he had been forced to rely on reports from a paid informant while sitting in this boring hovel of a seaport. These English had no liking for foreigners and had made his stay as difficult as possible. He would make someone pay for all the indignities he had suffered here.

Thank God, this exile might finally be coming to a close.

He sat down at the table, picked up his pen, and began to write what might be his final report to Nebrov.

C
HAPTER
8

January 12, 1812
Cambaron

D
on’t put it there!” Marianna rushed across the hall and took the narrow panel away from Gregor, who was striding toward the dining room. “I want it for a wall decoration to complement the flower dome in the ballroom.”

“You did not tell me,” Gregor said mildly. “You have these panels all over Cambaron.” He looked at the panel. “It is very pretty, but I thought you were tired of doing flowers.”

She shrugged. “Flowers are fine for a ballroom. They don’t mean anything but beauty, and people like to look at them.”

“Not like the tiger you did for the window in the hall.” Gregor grinned. “I caught a glimpse of it with the sunset behind it the other evening, and I would swear it was going to pounce on me.”