The Passionate One (14 page)

She wiped her damp
forehead, wondering if it really was as unseasonably warm as she thought or if
her own frets and stews only made it seem so. She glanced at Rhiannon who, with
Stella in attendance, was busily plaiting wild anemones into a maypole garland.

Two more days,
Edith thought, returning to her task. It would be all right, after all. Two
more days and the wench would be safely wed.

For a bitter moment
there at Lady Harquist’s ball Edith had thought for sure that the dark Londoner
was simply going to pick Rhiannon up and carry her off like some rogue medieval
knight come looting. The man certainly looked the part with his black good
looks and the tension vibrating in his lean figure.

But nothing like
that had happened. Not only hadn’t he carried Rhiannon off, he’d paid scant
attention to her for the rest of the night, and the days and nights that
followed.

Perhaps she was
simply getting fanciful in her old age. What with the strain of praying Squire
Watts didn’t change his mind and withdraw his consent to the marriage and
hoping Phillip remained resolved to wed, was it any wonder if she was a wee bit
overprotective?

But now she could
relax. Tonight all Fair Badden would turn out for the Beltaine Eve festivities
and Rhiannon would be under the watchful eye of not only herself but the entire
community. Then tomorrow was May Day with its innocent—and blessedly
sunlit—pleasures and the afternoon hunt Squire Watt had arranged as a special
wedding present to the bride, the last hunt of the season. Rhiannon would never
miss a hunt.

And then... Edith
clipped off a length of bright red ribbon and pleated it into a fat rosette to
affix to Rhiannon’s skirts. The next day Phillip and Rhiannon would wed.

She sighed gustily,
drawing a glance from Rhiannon. She smiled fondly at the girl. True to her
sweet nature Rhiannon returned the smile twofold. Edith bent her head over her
sewing, nodding happily.

Aye, she could
relax.

* * *

It was Beltaine
Eve, and Fair Badden’s marketplace overflowed with revelry. Stalls and carts,
piled with toys, confections, and trinkets lit by rush torches and lanterns,
cluttered the cobbled square. In the center of the square the traditional
Beltaine fire was being erected. Flowing around the unlit fire and hapless
staggering of goods, all manner of people milled and jostled, trading smiles
with egalitarian abandon.

True to its ancient
traditions, the May Day celebrations stripped each resident of Fair Badden of
office and status. Manor-bred mingled freely with baseborn. Peasant and
aristocrat alike had dressed in simple country garb sewn over with bright
ribbons. Bells tinkled, dogs yapped, and the pennants snapped from atop the
four corners of the open-sided pavilion set at the square’s far end.

Under this tent’s
billowing canopy stood a huge plank table, its surface sticky with spilled ale,
honey cake crumbs, and cheese rinds. Beneath the table a young gazehound bitch
scavenged tidbits.

Rhiannon Russell,
Queen of the May, drunk as a lord and teetering like an unfledged owlet, dug
her bare and dirty toes into Stella’s silky fur. Beside her was her
lady-in-waiting who—for reasons Rhiannon could no longer fathom but which she
distinctly remembered having been hysterical about some hours earlier—was a
brown cow named Molly. The lady-in-waiting stretched out her neck and tried to
snatch the royal tiara off the royal brow. With a frown, Rhiannon rapped the
cheeky wench across her broad brown nose, the movement upsetting the balance of
her clover blossom crown.

“King” Phillip,
slumped on the oak keg throne next to hers, roused himself enough to grab hold
of Rhiannon’s crown and jerk it from Molly’s mouth. Having successfully
attended to his consortly duties, he lapsed once again into his former vapid,
grinning state.

Rhiannon studied
him with soggy affection. Good ole King Phil. Steady, handsome, dependable,
undemanding, sweet King Phil. She smiled at him. He didn’t notice.

She slouched back,
feeling magnanimous and sentimental and overheated. Around her the “court”
buzzed and murmured, drank and sang. She knew them all. Every one. This was her
home. These people were her family. No matter what ghosts called to her spirit
from their graves—and what man called to her other far more earthy parts—here
she was loved and respected and safe.

An unsteady hand
reached over Rhiannon’s shoulder and slopped May wine into her goblet. Her
royal
goblet.

“To the good people
of Good Badden. Fair Badden. Not so Badden,” she declared. Gripping the cheap
pewter cup with both hands, she tossed the contents down her throat in one long,
noisy gulp.

“Long live Queen
Rhiannon!” the crowd yelled.

“And her king.
Don’t forget the king.” Phillip announced, a spark of consciousness brightening
his eyes.

Not that they
needed brightening. Phillip had truly bright blue eyes. Very beautiful. Really
nice. And she was lucky—no, Rhiannon thought earnestly, she was
privileged
to be the woman who got to marry them... him. She reached over to refill her
goblet.

Phillip smiled
vaguely at her, as if he couldn’t quite place her in his memory but knew she had
some status nonetheless. “Pretty Rhiannon. Pretty Queen,” he muttered fondly.
“Favorite of everyone. Fellows all envy me.”

Abruptly, he linked
a giant paw around the back of her neck. Toppled from her throne by Phillip’s
enthusiasm, she flung her arms around his neck to keep from landing on her bum.
The room exploded with hoots of approval as his mouth came down on hers in a
loud, wet smack.

He kept kissing
her. Demandingly, forcefully, and oddly passionlessly, and Rhiannon, woozy and
complacent, allowed it. Finally he released her.

“You’ll make a good
Queen won’t you, m’dear?” he asked.

He patted her cheek
awkwardly, his expression begging for reassurance. His sudden insecurity caused
acute and lethal guilt to eat its way through Rhiannon’s agreeable alcoholic
haze. Unable to meet his anxious gaze, she glanced away and so caught sight of
a dark, masculine figure disappearing abruptly into the darkness beyond the
pavilion’s lights.

It wasn’t him. It
wasn’t Ash.

“We’ll live here
and be hap—content. I’ll be a good husband,” Phillip was saying. “You couldn’t
do better.”

He was right. She
was marrying far above her station, better than anyone could ever have
expected. And she
would
be... content. Then why was she still staring
at the place where the dark figure had disappeared?

She glanced at
Phillip but he had already slouched back on his throne, his eyelids falling
over his gorgeous blue eyes. A second later he was snoring. She slipped from
his lap, regarding him ashamedly. Every time Ash Merrick was near, she forgot
her soon-to-be groom.

Drat Ash Merrick
and his flashing smile and his cautious eyes. Drat his hard body and his soft
mouth. Drat a man who made the very word “content” seem a laughable, pallid
notion. Drat him for taking that wagered kiss. Drat him for stopping at that.

Where the devil was
the man? Rhiannon glared at the crowd about her. He was a guest in her foster
mother’s home. He’d been invited to take part in the festivities. He should be
here.

“I’m Queen, aren’t
I?” she demanded of her heifer-in-waiting. In answer, Molly once more plucked
the crown from her head. Rhiannon let her have it. “What good’s a crown if the
wearer doesn’t rule?” she asked loudly.

The crowd looked up
at her outburst, primed for play. If their queen had a game in mind, they were
all for it.

“If I’m Queen, I
should be able to make laws, shouldn’t I?”

“Aye!” A chorus of
voices agreed. “Aye, you’re Queen! What law is it you’re wanting to make?”

“I want... I want
every one of my loyal subjects to bend his knee before me, er, us, and swear
his fealty.”

The crowd, amused
and rowdy, traded glances and shrugged. “We already done that.”

“No, you haven’t,”
Rhiannon corrected them. “Not
all
of you.”

“Who ain’t
performed the proper respects?”

“The Londoner. Ash Merrick,” she announced darkly.

“Why, that’s
right,” John Fortnum said in the amazed tones of discovery. “He hasn’t been
round most of the day. The maggoty knave didn’t even attend the coronation!”

“Well, we’ll set
that to rights,” announced a burly “knight,” “won’t we, lads?”

At this, those
still capable of action streamed from the pavilion, dispersing into the crowds
outside. Fired by alcohol, they swept through the market, calling and clamoring
for “the foreigner, Merrick.”

As the hunt
progressed, those who had no part in it began shouting for the King and Queen
of the May to come to the Beltaine fire and leap across it. It was a custom as
old as Beltaine itself, a pledge sealing a couple’s matrimonial fate. The call
gathered force until it could no longer be gainsaid. The revelers entered the
pavilion, snatched Rhiannon and Phillip from their thrones, and carried them
out into the night to the fire’s side.

At the same time,
the hunters finally met with success. They found Merrick at The Ploughman,
wiping the froth of ale from his upper lip.

“Merrick!”

Gleefully they
encircled him. He turned tiredly.

“St. John,” he
said. “I’m not in the mood, boy.”

St. John’s
eyes widened in mock despair. “He says he’s not in the mood,” he told
his fellows. He looked back into Merrick’s eyes. “Too bad, old fellow.”

“What’s this all
about?”

“You’re wanted at
court, Merrick. A royal decree.”

“Oh?” Merrick turned his back on them, motioning the ale seller to draw him another tankard.
“What for? Does His Majesty need instruction in seduction? I’m afraid I have no
advice to offer.”

He took a deep
draught of ale before placing the tankard with telling precision back on the
counter. “From what I saw, he looked like he was doing fine. The royal wench
was warming his lap and her royal mouth was encouraging his ardor. It all
looked most promising. But then, I’ve never enjoyed spectator sports. Mind you,
don’t let that stop you, lads.”

They jeered and
winked at his insolence. Then, before he could resist, they’d surrounded him
and tied his arms behind his back. With much laughter they shoved and cajoled
and half-carried him back to the May Queen.

They found her
standing before the bonfire, weaving slightly. At her feet sat Phillip, sunk in
drunken fascination with the recently ignited fire.

“Queen Rhiannon!”
they called out and, wresting Merrick from their midst, shoved him before her
and stood back, well-pleased with themselves.

She stared at him
in surprise, having forgotten she’d sent these men to return with him. His hair
tumbled over his brow; his expression was unreadable.

“Here he is,” St. John declared.

Ash tilted his head
to the side, regarding her intently. Dear Lord, why had she drunk so much of
that clover wine?

She steeled
herself. It was too late to fret over how much she’d imbibed. Besides, she felt
daring, and why shouldn’t she? He’d befriended her and then abandoned her. He
had dallied with her and then ignored her. Why, he had caused her to betray a
husband she did not yet have!

And the memory of
his kiss played havoc with her body.

“Well, Your Majesty?”
St. John said, his brows climbing. “You wanted him. Here he is. Now what?”

She swayed
slightly, the taste of wine thick on her tongue, the crackle and pop of the
green-wood fire masking the buzz in her ears.

“Your Majesty?”
John Fortnum’s voice. Reminding her of her role. She was Queen.

“Be you Merrick of
London?” she asked.

Ash eyed her
guardedly.

“Answer her and
it’ll go well with you,” John Fortnum promised kindly. “She’s a most munificent
ruler. Perhaps she’ll knight you.”

Merrick
smiled, his face turned away from her and toward the crowd. “Fortnum,
if your tender treatment of me is a sample of her munificence I’ll have to
refuse any further samples. I may not survive a knighthood.”

The men and women
laughed in appreciation. Rhiannon scowled.

She did not want
him charming them; he charmed too easily by half. She would not allow him to
turn this into a marketplace for his charisma.

“You’ll have no
offers from me gracious or otherwise,” she declared loudly. She held out her
hand and motioned for the wine bottle a lass near her held. With a grin the
girl handed it to her.

Eyes locked on Merrick, she moved toward him, her hips swaying slowly, provocatively, her lids heavy with
wine and the yearning he’d incited and would never satisfy.

She halted within
arm’s reach, close enough that he could not help but see her. Only his eyes
moved, rising slowly to meet hers from under dense, black lashes.