Improper Seduction

She gasped again and shook her head. “But there is nothing in those letters save the simple words of a girl.”

Her husband merely lifted his eyebrow in response. “Each one was more valuable to me than gold.”

He hadn’t pulled anything from the bed to cover himself, appearing perfectly at ease in nothing save his skin and the glow from the coals. He offered her a rare smile, but the look in his eyes was very serious.

“I cherished them. Every word, every sentence. Reading them took me to where you were and where I longed to be. You took me away from the war that was pinching out lives for nothing more than greed. It was my duty to be there, yet I needed your letters to keep me from deserting.”

She reached for the stack, running her finger over frayed edges and even a few places where the parchment had cracked because it had been opened and closed so many times. They looked a decade old instead of merely three years. Her eyes filled with tears, for no man faked such longing. It was the sort of thing that words alone might never convey. Right there in the ragged edges was proof that his heart longed for her.

“I learned to love you through those letters, Bridget.”

“But you rarely wrote me back … Love me? You cannot mean such a thing. We are still strangers … having spent little time in one another’s company …”

He took the stack, and his face transformed into an expression of pure enjoyment, his fingers cradling the letters in a loving manner. This tenderness touched her because there were no words to describe it; only the sight was powerful enough to impart just how much he truly did value her letters.

“I marched my army into Scotland after you. That is my way of showing devotion.” He sighed. “It is a truth that I feared you would find my attempts at wooing you lacking. I am a man of action, not rhyming couplets. Yet the thought of buying verse from some poet to send to you made me jealous. I wrote each letter with my own hand. That was the best I could do.”

Many a noble knight paid for some other man to write his love letters. She realized instantly that she would far rather read the few, short ones he had sent her than any polished one bought like a beet in the market. The very fact that he had penned his letters himself sent tenderness through her. If she were naught but a mare to breed his children upon, he would have paid the poet and never considered the matter again.

“Action is not your only way of showing devotion.” She reached out and stroked the top of the letter bundle. Her heart was suddenly filled with joy. It sent her lips up into a broad smile. Love … she had so feared it and yet she had discovered that it felt wonderful.

“You prove it in many other ways, Curan.”

Too many wonderful ways to deny. The chamber suddenly became a place of comfort and solace. A place she did not want to leave no matter what judgment was cast onto her name.

“I promise that I will never willingly leave you again, husband.”

His face became serious, his keen stare cutting into hers, but she stood steady, without flinching, for she had never been more sincere.

“I swear it, Curan.”

He sat the bundle down and swept her off her feet a moment later, cradling her against his chest, his arms threatening to crush her with the amount of strength he used.

“I still want to keep you nude and locked in my chamber. But as a reward.”

He settled her in the bed once more, and she pressed her lower lip out in a pout.

“You seem to not understand how to respond to the gift of my promise to you. Locking me up is not a reward, my lord.” He pressed her back, clamping his hands around her wrists and stretching her arms above her head while his body settled on top of hers.

“And you, sweet Bridget, seem to not understand that I intend to be locked in here with you. With nothing to do save show you how very devoted I can be.”

“Ah …” She purred softly and gained a soft growl from him. “Now that is an altogether different proposal.”

His eyebrow arched. “One that you are interested in entertaining, perhaps?”

“If you promise to be entertaining, I am definitely interested.”

Someone pounded on the chamber door at dawn.

“Begone!”

Bridget smothered a giggle because her husband sounded gruff, but there was a sparkle of mischief in his eyes. He shot a glare at the door and pulled the bedding up around them to cover their bare bodies. His cock was hard against her thigh, and she raised her knee so that her leg brushed along it.

“I could become used to awakening at first light if you are in this bed with me, wife.”

He nuzzled against her, his lips pressing a warm kiss against her throat. He captured one breast and gently thumbed the nipple until it hardened. The pounding began once more.

“I said, begone!” He roared loud enough to wake the stable grooms.

The door opened in spite of his order, and a male voice clearing his throat caused her husband’s grip to flex against her breast. He muttered something against her neck before turning over to face his man. He yanked the bedding up to his shoulders so that she was covered.

“My apologies, my lord, yet I must speak with you.”

“Nay, you do not.” Curan rolled over, giving his back to Synclair. He trapped her leg so that she could not toy with him any further, but his hand returned to cup her breast and toy with the nipple again. Little waves of enjoyment began to ripple down her body, and her face heated to know that Synclair knew what his lord was about.

“We are observing the French custom of a honeymoon. Tell someone to bring us some honey mead on your way out, and tell everyone to leave us behind a closed door for the rest of the month.”

Synclair did not appear put off by his lord’s gruffness. The knight boldly entered the chamber, his face a mask of fury.

“Forgive me, Lord Ryppon, but you are requested below.”

Curan stroked her belly instead, his fingers sending little ripples of delight across her bare skin. She pushed at his hand, humiliation making her squirm.

“I am occupied, Synclair. I have given you the authority to act however you see fit. Use it to deal with whatever is below.”

A soft sound came from the knight, and Bridget peeked over Curan’s shoulder at him. Something flickered in Synclair’s eyes that looked like triumph, but he canceled it quickly, his lips pressing back into a hard line. He drew in a deep breath.

“We have messengers from court arrived.”

The hand teasing her belly froze, and she felt her husband’s body tensing.

“You have been summoned to Whitehall along with Mistress Newbury.”

Her husband rolled over and tucked the sheeting across her body in one swift motion. Synclair extended a parchment that Curan sat up and snatched from his hand. The bottom was fixed with a wax seal bearing the rampant lion of the king. But what sent ice through her veins was the clear ink spelling out her maiden name. The parchment crushed inside her husband’s fist.

“Ready my men.”

Curan spoke in a deadly whisper. His eyes glittered with outrage. Synclair did not hesitate but turned almost before his lord finished giving him his instructions. Her husband cupped her chin.

“I am sorry if you love your father, Bridget, for I believe I may have to kill him.”

Curan meant his words. Bridget saw the rage burning in his eyes throughout the day. She did not get the chance to try to reason with him. His men were obedient, but it was clear that they did not care for the order to set out onto the road so soon again.

They did it nonetheless and with less argument than she might have expected. Reluctance tugged on her as well, the sight of her mare being led around to the front steps of Amber Hill making her frown. Several aches suddenly complained loudly, making her grit her teeth in order to gain the saddle. They took to the road without conversation, the expressions of the men around her grim.

Bridget felt the weight of judgment pressing down on her. She could not say that she had not been warned. Could not argue that she had not known fully what to expect if she celebrated her union with Curan.

Yet she would not have it undone.

That truth burned in her heart. She loved Curan and could not obey her father any longer. Childhood was past now, but that did not give her comfort. Along with her newfound maturity came the knowledge that she might have to protect the man she loved from ruining himself. Curan deserved that from her. Her thoughts remained dark as the road stretched out in front of them. Curan took no wagons this time, only his mounted men. They covered the distance much faster without the infantry and archers.

All that much faster to take her where she did not want to go. Curan’s face reflected a similar sentiment, but he remained firm in the saddle, intent on answering the summons from his king. Witnessing how true he was to his honor only deepened her need to protect him. Love demanded no less.

Chapter Thirteen

The road to London was easier to travel since each day was warmer now. Yet it felt twice as long because she had no desire to go there. Instead, Bridget discovered herself looking back behind them throughout the two-day journey.

The night was the worst.

Her lover was missing. Curan lay next to her, but he did not touch her as he had before. He looped a hard arm around her that was more a mark of possession than tender affection. She awoke in a surly mood from kicking about most of the night. A soft grumble from her husband confirmed that his little amount of rest in the night equaled hers.

Nonetheless it was his lack of conversation that bothered her the most. His face remained in its stern mask again. Firm purpose etched into his features.

This was one nightmare she would have liked to quickly awaken from.

Instead, the road became increasingly crowded. Carts and wagons slowed their progress. They shared their path with heavy-laden vehicles that were carrying casks and barrels and sacks of grain into London from the surrounding villages. Curan’s men rode in tight formation, their colors clearly displayed. Only border barons were allowed to approach the capital with so many mounted knights. Bridget felt the eyes of the curious on them as they headed toward Whitehall Palace.

The gate guards refused them entrance until a captain appeared. He slowly read the scroll that Curan offered him, before lifting his face to survey the mounted men. Around him, the royal guards were tense. The hair on the back of Bridget’s neck stood up, and time felt frozen.

“You may enter, Lord Ryppon.”

Curan nodded and led his men forward. Whitehall Palace was huge, covering more than two full city blocks. It was Henry Tudor’s seat of government. The yard they entered was full of nobles and plainly clothed clerks alike. Horses were led away through gates that would take the animals and the smells that accompanied them away from the main halls.

The Thames ran along the back of the palace, allowing for barges to carry ambassadors to and from the great receiving hall. A mass of people hurried about. Groups of lavishly dressed courtiers climbed the steps that led up into one of the larger buildings, while their servants followed behind them. Men wearing wool and scholars’ hats headed in another direction with their arms full of rolled parchments. Stable grooms threaded their way through the newly arrived, taking horses while attendants struggled to unstrap trunks from wagons.

Bridget had never seen so many people in one place. Dust rose from their travel-stained clothing, and she suddenly craved a bath just from smelling the mass of unwashed bodies.

Her husband did not hesitate once being admitted to the inner palace grounds. He dismounted and reached up to help her off her mare. His gaze was darting back and forth around them, never staying on any group too long. There was a tense look on his face that cautioned her to remain silent while surrounded by so many ears. He led her into one of the buildings and down what seemed like an endless series of corridors before one of his men fit a large iron key into a door and swung it open.

“Now let these men come and tell me to my face that they shall take the wife the church has blessed as mine.”

The room they entered had a long table set with wide chairs. Off to the side was a cupboard, and large windows allowed the sunlight in. Curan’s men opened the windows, allowing the early spring air into the room. A staircase in the back corner promised private sleeping chambers above them.

“You cannot say such things, my lord.”

Her husband pulled his riding gauntlets off and tossed them down onto a table before answering her. Servants were scurrying to open shutters on the floor above, and their steps echoed in the room.

“I can and have. You are my wife, Bridget.” He raised his hands. “Look about, madam, these are my private chambers, kept for my use by decree of the king. I will and shall protect our union.”

Private accommodations at court were indeed a coveted thing and a mark of how much the king thought of him, but that did not wash her fears aside. Henry Tudor had married six times; the man was known to change his mind when it came to those he favored. More than one person had lost their head for forgetting that.

“A fact that you know I treasure, but that does not change the way the country works.” She clasped her hands together tightly, forcing herself to face bitter reality. “We must prepare ourselves to be accommodating to the king’s will.”

A muscle along his jawline twitched. There was nothing else that gave away his true mood to those moving around them, but she felt it.

He blew out a hard sound. “Nor does it change the fact that I will never be content to have you shelter me. I will face down those who seek to wrong me, without hesitation. You are my wife and I shall shelter you, Bridget. No matter what it takes to impress that fact on those who seek to part us.”

The man was as imposing and immovable as the moment that he had swept her away from her mother. There was part of her that could not even lament it because she loved everything about him. He was the embodiment of a noble knight—that fabled creature that so many talked about but few ever became.

Nevertheless, this love opened the door to fear. Its icy touch roamed over her, setting off all manner of horrible possibilities inside her mind. She began to notice every single sound, cringing when she heard anything that might be a knock upon the door. The chancellor’s men might be on their way with an arrest warrant in hand to take Curan to the Tower. If the man was powerful enough to seek one for the queen, what hope did they have that there would be mercy?

Curan sighed. He closed the distance between them, cupping her chin in a gentle hand. In his eyes she witnessed the turmoil that his expression and words had masked.

“Be sure that I have not come to such confidence by being foolhardy, Bridget.”

He pressed his thumb over her lips when she would have spoken. His gaze cut toward the servant lighting the candle on the table near them and then back to her eyes.

Of course …

She was foolishly naive. The servants might be paid to tell what they had heard. It had been one of the queen’s friends who had been taken to the Tower to try to gain evidence against Catherine Parr. Here, within the palace, she must recall those words her mother had tried to instill in her. But it was Marie’s words that came to mind.

“Stroke the ego of the man who thinks he owns you …”

Not Curan, but the men threatening to take her from him had large egos indeed. The king himself demanded complete obedience from his wife, and two of his past wives had lost their heads for forgetting that Henry Tudor did not share his power. The men serving in his court all followed the lead of their king. They divorced their wives and sent others into exile in the country, and there was no one to check their behavior. It was the reason her own mother had paid a courtesan to tutor her in things that no virgin should have seen. Because a woman had to know how to pretend and lull those watching her into thinking she was exactly what they wanted her to be—naught but a possession who was content in her place.

Maybe fate was trying to teach Henry Tudor a lesson by giving him two daughters and only one son. Clearly the man needed to be shown that women had more value than the ease they might offer while on their backs. She felt the eyes of the staff on her, evaluating her response to her husband’s words. Never let it be said that she was a poor student or a fool. Only a child believed that throwing a tantrum was the only way to get what you desired.

She sank into a low curtsy, ducking her chin in a perfect show of obedience to her lord and master.

“As you instruct, my lord. Forgive me for doubting your ability. Clearly I am too newly wed but will pray for the wisdom to recall that you are my provider.”

When she rose and looked back into his eyes she saw how frustrated he was with her meekness. But the grooms who were bringing in their trunks found her behavior very fitting. Approval shone from their smirks.

She detested the dishonesty but took comfort in the sight of disgust in Curan’s eyes. He had no more liking for it than she even though the servants around them found it normal and expected. Seeing the way the servants watched them made Bridget tighten her hands together as tension drew every muscle taut. There was nowhere to hide here, no privacy. Every word she spoke might be used against them, even in these private rooms.

So she must not allow her mind to wander. She looked at her husband and found his face set into the expressionless mask she had come to know so well.

She understood now. Her heart ached for him, yet admired him as well. His strength went so much deeper than she ever imagined. It was not simply the strength of his body; his mind was strong, too. Bridget hoped this combination was enough to defeat the men who were circling around the dying king.

If not, she would lose him, and she doubted she had the strength to survive such a blow.

Two more grooms entered the room with yokes across their shoulders.

“Excellent. My back is itching for a good scrubbing.” Curan pointed at a slipper tub that was stored off to one side of the room.

“My wife will show you what I like my bath to be. She’s quite good at tending to me.”

The arrogant note in his voice irritated her, in spite of how much she understood its necessity. Such a deception should not be required, and yet it was.

The grooms looked to her, and she directed her attention at the tub. Moving it in front of the fire, she watched them begin filling it. Two more young grooms entered and added their buckets of water to the tub.

“Do not be too long with the hot water.”

They ducked their chins in response, never breaking their stride. A maid brought soap and toweling to her that Bridget laid out neatly on a stool near the tub. She made the perfect picture of a wife, dutiful and meek. The grooms returned with buckets that had steam rising from them. They carefully poured them into the tub before leaving.

“Perfection.”

Curan moved across the room and sat down in a chair to present one of his feet for her to help him remove his boot.

“I have pleasant memories of your skill at bathing me.”

His eyes twinkled with amusement that she shared. It warmed her heart a bit, because not a single one of the maids moving about the chamber had any notion as to the true meaning of his words.

“I am pleased to hear you say such, my lord.”

She rolled his title just a bit and watched his lips twitch at the corners. His boot pulled free, and she set it aside to grasp the other. He angled his toe up as she stood over his leg, the toes of his foot stroking across her inner thigh. Just a playful nudge and then he pointed his foot once more so that the boot slid free when she tugged on it.

Well, one good jest deserved an answering one.

She leaned farther over than necessary to remove the boot. Her breasts plumped upward, swelling above the edge of her dress. His dark gaze centered on her cleavage instantly, and his skin flushed.

He cleared his throat and rose from the chair. She watched him lift his hands to begin disrobing, but he stopped when she reached for his buttons herself. Her hands shook slightly, but not because she noticed the maids sneaking looks at them. No, her hands trembled in response to knowing just how much she liked what was hidden beneath the wool of his clothing.

Her hands were quick and efficient, too efficient for her poise. The creamy skin of his chest was too tempting. She wanted to run her fingers through the dark mat of hair that covered the hard ridges. Instead she unhooked the waistband of his pants and drew them down his legs.

His cock was hard …

She shivered and tried to avoid looking at it while disrobing him. There was nothing meek about her feelings, but the maids were still dressing the bed in the chamber next door; she could hear them moving around the huge bed even if she could not see them.

That didn’t seem to quell the heat rising inside her, however. Passion was igniting with every garment she removed from her husband. She wanted to place a soft kiss against his collarbone and another against his neck, just as he had done to her the last moment that they lay entangled.

Bridget shook herself and turned her back on the temptation her husband’s body presented. Taking a moment to shake out his pants, she folded them neatly and heard a splash behind her. She breathed a small sigh of relief and turned back around to begin bathing him.

It was going to be pure torture to have her hands upon him.

Picking up the soap, she walked over to the tub. Curan was struggling to maintain his expectant demeanor as well. She noticed his gaze returning to her in spite of him directing it away. The flush remained on his face, and when she leaned over to begin washing his feet, his dark gaze was full of heat. She felt her face turn scarlet, but it was not in shame, instead fueled by the growing need to have him to herself. She never looked at his feet, but washed them with her attention centered on his eyes.

“Remove your dress.”

“What?” Her voice was breathless and husky, betraying the passion licking along her insides.

One dark eyebrow lifted mockingly. “I told you to remove your dress, wife. It covers too much of you for my taste.”

Her gaze cut to the bedchamber and the maids taking far too long to dress the bed. Clearly the maids were intent on spying, but to order them to leave was to suggest that she and Curan had something to hide.

“Come now, wife. You should be used to my desire for your sweet flesh by now. I have demonstrated how much passion you evoke often enough.”

Curan raised his voice just enough to ensure that it carried into the next room, proving that he agreed with her thinking. Bridget bit into her lower lip to keep her thoughts unspoken. She moved up to his shoulders, rubbing the soap and cloth across the wide expanse of his back.

“That isn’t very kind.” She whispered her words near his ear, appearing as though she was intent on her task.

“Neither is the idea some members of this court have of trying to take you from me. If Wriothesley wants to hear what we are doing, I plan to make sure the tale is not a dull one.”

He turned his head so that their faces were a breath apart. His voice was low and edged with need. A shudder shook her, touching off a throbbing in her clitoris.

“I will also make sure those same villains hear how much you are truly my wife now.”

He reached up and grasped her, his hand cupping the back of her head and holding it still for a hard kiss. His kiss was demanding, but she met it because it was impossible to resist something she craved so much. Heat swirled through her belly, quickly and white-hot as his mouth demanded a deep taste from hers.

He chuckled a moment later, pulling his head away from hers just enough so that their eyes met.

“Out!”

His roar gained instant response; the maids scurried out of the bedchamber clearly having been listening. They inclined their heads on their way toward the door.

“Are you more pleased now, wife?”

Mischief sparkled in the dark orbs. He suddenly rose up and looped a wet arm around her body. She shrieked in surprise as he pulled her right into the tub. Water splashed up in a torrent. She sank down until her knees hit the bottom of the tub on either side of his hips. Her dress got caught on the surface of the water, slowly wicking it up before the wet fabric sank.

“Ah, exactly what I was craving, your thighs wrapped around me.”

He settled her on top of him, and she felt the unmistakable bulge of his cock between her open legs. Her stockings ended at her knees, leaving her bare thighs to connect with his. It was a true torment to feel him between her thighs. Need clawed at her, and he gripped her hips, increasing it because she recalled exactly how it felt to have his hands holding her hips while he rode her. The walls of her passage suddenly felt empty, too empty to worry about anyone who might be listening. The man was her husband, wasn’t he?

“Curan … they are no doubt standing outside the doors listening.”

She battled the urge to raise her voice.

“I do enjoy my name on your lips.”

His voice was deep now and sincere. But his hands lifted her up until his cock sprang up, no longer pressed against his belly by her.

“You cannot mean to—not while they are here.” It was a truth that most nobles did not care if servants were about. They did as they pleased, when they pleased. Most wedding consummations were witnessed as an added precaution against annulment. Gossip spread so quickly at court because nobles didn’t take the time to notice the staff.

“I assure you I do, and they can see nothing.” He lowered her down, the head of his cock easily slipping into the entrance of her body. Her own thoughts had prepared her for his entry; her passage was moist and welcomed the hard thrust of his flesh.

She shivered, caught between mortification and excitement. The maids couldn’t see anything, but they knew that she was seated on his cock. The act was darkly erotic, and the look of possession in his eyes doubled her excitement. She bit back a soft exclamation of delight as he filled her. Curan pressed a kiss against her lips, gently coaxing her lips to part.

“I want him to hear how you whimper while I’m inside you. I want to know that they will tell him that you enjoy being my wife.” He braced his feet on the bottom of the tub and gripped her hips tighter. His eyes glowed with need, and it was more than physical. Love shimmered in his eyes, a love that would not let modesty prevent him from doing what he thought best in order to keep her.

“Your dress covers you, Bridget, and the door is shut. That is the most privacy anyone has at court.”

He whispered against her neck, and she lost the will to deny him. She angled her head and bit him gently on the side of his throat.

“Ride me, wife.” Curan raised his voice so that it filled the chamber. “Hold on tight or I shall throw you!”

Her heart was already accelerating, sending her blood surging through her veins. Curan did not wait but lifted her off his length and thrust back up into her almost in the same motion. The water swished back and forth, getting closer to the rim of the tub, but that did not stop him. His next thrust was hard and faster. A whimper rose from her throat as delight filled her. His cock was sliding along her clitoris and producing too much pleasure to ignore. Her hips curled toward his next penetration, and there was nothing her thoughts might do to prevent it. She was responding out of instinct. Need fueling her actions while pleasure took command of her.

Curan pulled her close, so that she was pressed tightly against his chest. The position increased the amount of friction each thrust applied to her clitoris, drawing another cry from her lips. She shivered violently, taking control of raising herself up and pushing her body back down as well.

“That’s it, my sweet.”

The water was sloshing onto the floor, and she did not care. The wool of her dress was wet and scratchy against her skin, but his body was warm and smooth between her thighs. She clasped him tighter, rising and falling faster. His hands gripped her firmly, and she heard his breathing growing husky. His cock felt harder and larger with each downward plunge.

“Look at me, Bridget.”

His voice was raspy and low. She raised her eyes to stare into his, instantly hypnotized by the burning desire she witnessed there.

“You are mine.”

He surged up into her with his words, pushing harder while his hands tightened. His motions became frantic, but he clenched his jaw, holding back his own release while watching her face.

She couldn’t hold back the pleasure any longer; a harsh cry hit the ceiling as joy ripped through her. Curan continued to thrust in short, hard motions until she felt his seed erupting inside her. It was hot and touched off another little explosion of pleasure deep inside her belly. Her thighs clamped harder around his hips in an effort to keep his offering deep inside her. It was pure instinct, like the impulse to curl her hips toward him when he was thrusting into her. Little things that she had never known she craved until Curan touched her.

He clasped her tightly against him, his hands smoothing over her back while the water became placid once more. Bridget wasn’t interested in moving; she felt more content than ever with his scent filling her senses and his warm skin against her cheek.

In the next instant movement caught her attention, and her husband jerked as the two maids appeared and dropped a curtsy before departing.

“That should reach the chancellor’s ears before you finish stripping off your wet clothing.”

“Curan.”

She slapped at his chest but misjudged where the water level was and ended up hitting its surface. Water splashed up into his face, earning her a mocking grin.

“I admit that I enjoyed that part of making my case quite a bit.”

She gasped and tried to climb off him. Her wet dress made it nearly impossible to rise, the water-soaked fabric weighing quite a bit more than she was accustomed to. “You speak shamefully. It will serve you right if a bishop arrives to have you taken to the stocks for an hour of shame.”

He hooked her beneath her arms and lifted her out of the tub. Water rained down on the stone floor tiles, filling the chamber with the sound of rain when there was none.

“I speak the hard truth needed to end this dishonorable business.”

He reached for the toweling and began drying himself. “It is time I sought out your father. There are words we need to have with each other.”

“I agree.”

His hands froze, and he looked up to meet her eyes. Tenderness was shining in his eyes, by far the most beautiful sight she had ever beheld. He reached out and curled an arm around her waist. She wasn’t sure if he moved to her or if he pulled her against his body. Truly she did not care. All that mattered was the kiss he pressed against her lips. Soft and full of tender emotions, the caress was sweet, too sweet for words.

“You do not know how much I enjoy hearing such words from your lips, Bridget. I feel as though I have longed for them for two lifetimes.”

The approach of the chancellor was heard before a hand pounded on the door. Curan’s body tensed, and in a flash Bridget was behind him. The men escorting Wriothesley did not wait for permission to open the door. A quick pounding preceded both doors being yanked open so fast the iron hinges groaned.

“Unhand her at once, Lord Ryppon.”

Chancellor Wriothesley strode forward without hesitation. Another man strode close on his heels, who could be no other but Lord Oswald. The chancellor was richly dressed with a large coat sewn with a wide fur collar. His chain of office was tied carefully in place at each shoulder so that the medallion with St. George slaying the dragon hung directly over his heart. The man aimed a narrow-eyed look at Curan, raking over him and even stopping at his cock for a moment.

Curan didn’t flinch. He stood tall and straight, refusing to be intimidated.

“Good afternoon, my Lord Chancellor. You will have to pardon my lack of clothing. We are very newly arrived and newly wed. You must be Lord Oswald.”

“I shall not pardon it. The girl is not yours.”

It was Lord Oswald who fired the accusation at Curan, but the chancellor sent his hand cutting through the air to silence the man. He shut his mouth instantly, sickening her. What a dog. He was everything Curan was not. A sniveling coward who waited for scraps to be tossed to him by his master. The man sported a soft, round belly that further confirmed just how much he liked to pamper himself.

“Not mine? Bridget is very much mine, sir. We took the church’s blessing three years ago. Henry was there.”

Curan sounded mocking and arrogant. More than one of the guards’ lips twitched in response. The guards held their position, yet it was clear that they did not respect the men they were escorting. Curan reached behind him and patted Bridget’s bottom. She gasped at the boldness of the action.

“Had you arrived a few moments earlier, you would have witnessed exactly how much she is mine.” Curan stepped over to where his pants were and pulled them on, still without any outward sign that he was embarrassed to be seen nude. “But your informants had yet to leave, hadn’t they? I believe they remained until we finished, so I will trust that they told you that Bridget is, in fact, very much my wife.” Curan aimed a look at the two maids who were now lingering behind Lord Oswald.

Lord Oswald turned red. He pressed his lips together and sputtered. “You had no right to touch her.”

Curan shrugged into his shirt. “I could not disagree more, gentlemen. I had the blessing of the church and the seal from her father’s ring to confirm that I had every right to plant my seed in her belly.”

Bridget gasped again, the blunt comments shocking her. Curan turned and offered her only a softened look before he pointed to the bedchamber.

“Perhaps you should see if those maids know how to do anything save carry information.” He shrugged, clearly uncaring. “At least change your dress, wife. It is wet.”

Bridget lowered herself before quitting the room. She discovered that her legs were shaking by the time she made it to the bedchamber. There was a snap from her husband’s fingers, and she heard the maids following her. For all of Curan’s valor, the chancellor was a powerful man.

“Make way for the king!”

More footfalls echoed around the outer chamber. Bridget peeked out of the open door and felt her eyes go wide. Henry Tudor arrived wearing a coat that was far richer than the chancellor’s. He was a large man who limped a little. Everyone lowered themselves, and his escort placed a chair behind him when he stopped.

“My leg pains me these days.” He sounded gruff and frustrated by the toll age was extracting on his body, but sank down into the chair, stretching his leg out with a soft intake of breath to betray how painful it was.

“Hurry, miss, they will be calling for you shortly.”

The two maids pulled her away from the door, reaching for her wet dress with quick hands.

Calling for me …

That was exactly what she dreaded. Tension twisted through her, but she was not afraid. Suddenly, she felt determination rising up inside her so strongly she understood why her husband was willing to behave so lowly and fondle her bottom in front of others. The reason was, when dealing with men of low quality, you had to make your argument in a fashion they would understand. Chancellor Wriothesley was a man driven by his own greed for power. He would never hear any argument that pitted honor against gaining what he desired.

Which was her. The chancellor would give her to his dog like a scrap of meat, happily doing so because he had taken the scrap from someone else and need not give his hound anything of his own.

It sickened her.

Lord Oswald began sputtering in the outer room, and the maids increased their speed.

“You’d best hurry, mistress. Lord Oswald does not like to be kept waiting, and he is sure to be cross with you for having known another man before him.”

“He’ll likely strike you, but better keep your chin steady if you want to earn his forgiveness.”

“He won’t want me now.”

The maids both froze, but it was the look of pity in their eyes that convinced her that they knew of what they spoke.

“He will, and he will punish you for not coming to him a virgin.”

The maids kept their voices low, to be heard only in the bedchamber. Their familiarity with Lord Oswald’s expectations set Bridget’s spine straight.

There would be no simpering to that hound, and maybe she needed to follow her husband’s example and fight the man in the manner that he would understand. She cast a glance behind her at the door that was still slightly open. Just a finger width, yet ‘twas enough for her needs.

“Ah! You clumsy fool! You pinched me. Awhhh …”

Bridget raised her voice just enough so that it would filter past the door.

“Look at my skin! It is pink! And it hurts! You must be the worst maids in all of Whitehall Palace!”

She added a few more wails that gained her wide-eyed looks from the maids. But she felt no pity for them.

“Pardon, mistress.”

“Mistress? You dare to call me mistress? I am a lady! Are you so simple that you do not know who your betters are?” Bridget made sure that her voice was whiny and irritating. She reached for a silver pitcher that was sitting on the side table and threw it against the wall with every bit of strength she might muster. It hit with an explosive sound, the water in it splattering across the wall before it fell to the floor with another loud clang.

“I am a lady. A lady! Do you hear me? You had better make sure every stupid maid that you call friend here knows not to forget who I am. I am set to be Lord Oswald’s wife. His wife. He is the very best friend of Chancellor Wriothesley who is a member of the king’s privy council. By tonight I will have a much better set of chambers, with a grand bed and the finest sheets. By tomorrow I will be a lady of the queen’s privy chamber, I tell you! And I deserve it …”

She stomped her feet and blew out large huffing sounds beneath her breath.

“Now get me dressed this moment. If you even know how to serve someone of my station, that is. Did you get promoted from the fields this very morning?”

“No, my lady.”

“I do wonder. You are so slow and clumsy … Completely lacking in any skill worthy of nobility … Your mothers must have cleaned privies to earn their bread …”

Curan lost his focus.

He gritted his teeth with frustration, for only Bridget could steal his attention so easily and completely. Her words drifted through the closed door with just enough volume to be understandable. He wanted to chuckle at how contrary she was behaving to her true nature.

Yet part of him was furious that she was not allowing him to fight for her. He turned his attention back to the men in front of him and watched Lord Oswald turning pale.

“You said she was country raised and meek.”

Something hit the wall, filling the room with noise. Chancellor Wriothesley looked disgusted.

“I read most of her letters when they passed through on their way to France. The girl seemed sweet enough. There was no hint of greed in her words.”

“You read my letters?” Curan growled through his teeth, his temper nearly proving too much to control. His hands itched to wrap around the chancellor’s throat and choke the life out of him.

“I find that a most interesting bit of information myself.” Henry Tudor eyed his chancellor with growing unhappiness.

Chancellor Wriothesley laid a hand over his chest and stared at his monarch. “I read every dispatch that went on to Your Majesty. It was a precaution against spies passing false information to your Grace.”

Bridget was still having her fit, berating the maids and wailing behind the door. Lord Oswald was turning redder, and the man looked as though he had forgotten how to draw breath. When she began to use his name to berate the servants, his eyes bugged from his head.

“I’ll not have that brat for my wife. Absolutely not. I will select someone else.” He offered a wide reverence to the king before turning a swirl of his richly decorated coat, and departed, a few of the guards following behind him.

The chancellor lifted one hand that was sporting several large gold rings and began stroking his beard while he stared at Curan. “Interesting. I never perceived the girl to be anything but sweet tempered from her writings.”

For all his pompous dressing, Chancellor Wriothesley was no fool. His mind was sharp, and he did not like losing.

The king suddenly cleared his throat. “The nature of a woman is not easy for a man to judge. I have learned that lesson.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Henry shared a glance with Wriothesley that was very serious. “Perhaps you should take Lord Oswald over to York Place. I hear there are some newly arrived faces there. Ones I have not even seen myself.”

The chancellor reverenced his king, lowering his head in submission, but when he resumed standing there was a look of satisfaction on his face.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. Your concern for your humble servant is most treasured indeed.”

“As I treasured your sure hand directing my affairs while I was away in France.”

Chancellor Wriothesley’s lips rose into the smallest of smiles before he departed, taking more of the guards away. The ones who remained were the personal escort of the king.

“He has a keen wit and runs the country better than anyone else I have given the authority to.” The king slid a glance over to Curan. “Removing him would not be my first choice. Edward is too young to rule.”

This utterance was the closest the king had ever come to admitting his time was growing short. But the signs were there. The pallor of his skin was more yellow than Curan recalled, and his eyes bore dark circles beneath them.

“It is not my choice, either, sire. Since it appears that my bride has managed to send them both looking for another, I suppose I shall have to be content with the outcome, if not the means.”

Henry smiled. “You don’t care for that, do you, Curan?”

“No, I do not. She is mine to shelter.”

The King tilted his head to one side. “I would normally agree with you, but there is something about that fit she just threw that makes me believe you may have discovered your match in female form. That girl has fire in her belly and a sharp wit. It would have been messy sorting out your claim against Wriothesley. The man will remain once I am gone. Your bride is wiser than you to realize that it is better he thinks her a spoilt brat and nothing he can make use of.”

“I still don’t like it, sire.”

“Neither would I, except for the outcome, of course.”

Curan growled, low and deep, and gained a chuckle from the king he had ridden with for years.

Henry Tudor cast a look at the bedchamber door. “I believe I would have a closer look at your bride, Lord Ryppon.”

Lord Oswald’s words came clearly through the door. Bridget froze in mid-wail when she heard the man rejecting her.

Rejection had never, ever been so sweet. She would cherish it for the rest of her life.

She blew out a long sigh but froze when she noticed the maids staring at her. Their eyes narrowed, but the elder of the two pointed a finger at the younger and lifted another finger to her lips. She moved closer to Bridget and plucked at her sleeve, mimicking the actions of dressing.

“We’ll keep your secret, miss. I’ll see to Agnes there. No one is hated more than Lord Oswald, but we all do his bidding else suffer for it.”

“Thank you.”

“Your husband is a fine man and right easy on the eyes. If I had one half as good to take care of me, I’d leave this palace in the flutter of my eyelashes. But the good ones want a girl with a dowry because they’ve a mind for setting up a good future and all.”

Bridget heard the lament in the girl’s voice. She met the maid’s eyes and recognized that they were very much the same, only fate had been kinder to Bridget in giving her a man that she loved to fight for.

“Spying for the chancellor is the only way to keep our positions, and without them, we shall never earn enough silver to marry. We’re both on our own.”

Bridget suddenly recalled the money her mother had given her to bribe Curan’s men. Moving over to her trunk, she lifted the lid and dug it out of the shoe that she had stuffed it into.

“If you will keep your word to me, I shall give you what you desire so that you may leave this place.”

Bridget held out two gold angels. The women’s eyes widened because each one of the coins represented over a year’s wages.

“Do you mean it, lady? A gold angel for naught but our word on the matter?”

“I do. No one should suffer this life without the chance to love.” Bridget pressed the money into each of their hands. “Go and make sure you choose a man for his values, not his handsome face.”

“You truly do not belong here, Lady Ryppon. You’re a fine, decent soul. A true lady, not like the others who demand respect they do not earn.”

Bridget could not agree more. For all the finery that surrounded her, all she could see was the plotting and scheming. Amber Hill beckoned to her like a clean-flowing river that was not fouled by too many people living near its shores. The door pushed inward, and Curan looked at the two maids.

“Leave us.”

His gaze was hard and leveled straight at her. Bridget returned it while the maids offered them curtsies and fled the room.

Curan closed the distance between them, his footfalls silent. He reached out to tap her chin with a single finger of reprimand. She saw his thoughts turning in his eyes, but he shook his head.

“The king awaits you.”

Her eyes widened. “The king is still here?”

“Henry Tudor heard every word, my sweet Bridget.”

Bridget felt herself go pale. Her mother would be shamed, her father humiliated. Her brothers would never be able to show their faces at court again.

She was still not sorry. Not if it meant she might go back to Amber Hill with her husband.

“I will not keep him waiting.”

She walked into the outer chamber that still had the tub and water lying in puddles on the floor. The length of toweling was lying trampled among it all, and there sat the king of England. His royal guards stood at attention around him, while his head turned to her the moment she appeared. He lifted one hand that was crowded with large rings.

“Come here, Lady Ryppon.”

Curan squeezed one side of her bottom from behind the door where the king could not see his actions. She jumped forward, certain her cheeks would blister from the blush heating them.

“Your Majesty.” She sunk into a low reverence before completing the journey to stand in front of him.

“Straighten up, I would have a good look at you.” Henry Tudor might be sitting down, but the man sounded as though he was mounted on a horse in command of an army. There was no weakness in his tone, no hint of him thinking that his will might be refused.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Bridget stood up and stared back at him with the same courage that had prompted her to behave so shamefully. The king’s stare was brilliant, almost cutting into her, but she refused to duck her chin. For some reason, she needed to hold her chin steady, to prove that she was worthy of being called Lady Ryppon.

“Strength is always best matched with strength, Curan.” Henry Tudor nodded. “I believe she has enough to give you the family you long for and not bore you to death throughout the seasons.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

There was the sound of hurried steps on the hallway, and the guards watching over the king tightened their hands on their long pikes. A hand knocked on the door, pounding on it without stopping.

“Open up! I must speak with you immediately, Lord Ryppon!” Even muffled through the heavy planks of the door, Bridget knew her father’s voice.

“Father? My father knows I am here already?”

“Gossip moves far too quickly through these corridors, Lady Ryppon. Personally, I find it disgusting.”

The king flicked his hand at the door, and one of his men opened it instantly. Bridget gasped when her father was revealed, but Curan made a low sound under his breath and grasped her wrist possessively. The strength he used startled her because he had always handled her with control. This was an iron hold, one that betrayed just how unhappy her husband was to see her father.

“Bridget? I could not believe it when I heard you were here.” Her father began speaking without looking at who else was in the room, his attention focused on her. He pegged Curan with a hard glare that she recalled very well from her childhood. It was the look that declared her father’s extreme displeasure.

“Lord Ryppon, I thought you were taking my daughter to the border land. I disagree with her being anywhere near court and its games. I believed that we had an agreement, else I would never have given my blessing to the match with you.”

“I believe Curan did indeed take your daughter to the border, Lord Connolly.”

Her father jumped, his coat jerking around as his gaze took in the king. But he didn’t perform any lavish reverence. Instead of sinking into some exaggeration of a respectful lowering of his head before his monarch, her father offered his king a dignified dipping of his head before straightening.

His hair was more silver than she recalled, and his face bore more lines from worry. Unlike Oswald and Wriothesley, her father wore good English wool. His half coat was cut in the same fashion and set with a rolled-back collar that served to keep the wind from chilling him instead of displaying costly and rare fur. There was nothing presumptuous about her sire, only neatness and order. Hanging over his shoulders was his knight’s chain, every link shiny and free of tarnish. On his left hand was a single ring, his signet ring, the mark of his nobility.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but your court is not the place I wanted my daughter.”

It was a bold thing to say to the king, many would say foolish, for Henry was rumored to enjoy his entertainments. Her father didn’t make excuses for his words; he simply finished speaking and remained silent while his king considered him.

“My court is full of schemes and vultures waiting for me to die.” Henry sighed and looked at her for a long moment. “I value your father’s straightforwardness a great deal, and for that I apologize because it has kept him from his family.”

Her father merely lifted his own gray eyebrows in the face of his king’s bluntness. “Or it is possible they are waiting for me to die, sire. All the more reason for me to be alarmed to know my daughter is here. Forgive me, but she is my only daughter and I would have her live a wholesome life. Far away from this nest of gossip and insinuation. Your Majesty’s own daughters bear that burden, and it makes my heart ache to see their faces marked with worry so young in life.”

“They do wear the yoke of gossip, yet Catherine is determined to see me learn who my daughters are.” Henry Tudor rose, gritting his teeth as he did so. But his expression remained unchanged, the pain held behind a stern exterior. “I believe my wife is correct. The Princesses Mary and Elizabeth should know more of their father, and there is little enough time for that.”

The king looked at her father. “Which is why I need you to remain and offer me clear counsel when the schemes begin to swirl around them both.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

The king turned to look at her and Curan. His gaze lowered to the grip Curan maintained on her wrist, pausing there for a long moment while something flickered in his eyes, like a ghost of a love long past. He looked younger for a moment, more alive, but it was fleeting and vanished before Henry Tudor raised his attention back to their faces.

“You have my leave yet again, Curan, and my thanks for your service at my side. I treasure the memory of you riding beside me. Tell your sons about it someday. I have told mine. Edward enjoys my tales full well.”

“The honor was mine, Your Grace.”

The king paused in front of her, a hint of a sparkle in his eye. “And you have tickled my envy. If I were a younger man, I might have to challenge Curan for you.”

Henry Tudor actually winked at her before making his way down the hallway. His guards followed him, and the grooms that had brought the chair in took it up and fell into step behind the king. She heard him limping and winced for the glimmer that she had witnessed in his eyes.

Her father only waited until the king was halfway down the corridor before turning around to peg Curan with a hard glare once more.

“Why did you bring my daughter here?”

With the king gone, her father’s tone returned to being sharp. Outrage edged his words, and despite the clear advantage Curan had in size over him, her father boldly faced him without flinching.

Her husband was clearly fighting for control because he spoke through his clenched teeth. “Why did you send for her to attend you at court and wed another if you did not want her here?”

Curan pushed her behind him and stood nose to nose with her father.

“I did nothing of the sort. This is the last place that I wanted Bridget. The men here have become villains when it comes to virgins.”

Bridget pushed her way between them, which was no easy task considering how intent each man was on making the other see his way. It was her father who stepped back to allow her to separate them.

“A letter arrived from you, Father, instructing Mother to send me to you here at court because …”

Her words failed her because having so recently escaped his hold, the very name Oswald felt dirty on her tongue.

Curan suffered no such difficulty; his voice cracked like a whip.

“To send her to court to wed Lord Oswald.” Rage edged each word, but her father looked angrier after hearing them, if such a thing were possible. Rage drew him up straighter, and he shook with it.

“What manner of trickery is this?” He pointed at Curan. “I keep my word, sir. Never once have I been a man of deception, even if I serve at this court. The match was sealed and blessed. I do not break such promises, and I am stunned to discover you think that I might do so without the application of the rack to force me into false words.”

Curan shook his head. “I arrived to discover her trunks packed and your wife telling me that I would have to seek you in London because you had arranged another match for your daughter.”

“I never wrote such a letter, would not have written such a letter.” Her father remained steadfast in his position. The difficulty was that Curan was just as determined. Tension was twisting tighter and tighter, promising to snap at any moment. They were the two men she loved the most in her life; she had to discover a solution. There had to be an explanation.

“The letter had your seal upon it, Father.” Bridget wanted both of them to be right, but that was not possible. “I watched Mother break it with my own eyes.”

Her father reached up and clamped his hands around the turned-back front of his half coat. His fingers dug into the wool while he appeared to contemplate the situation. His face suddenly became sad, as though he had just heard that a friend had died unexpectedly.

“There is only one man who might have written that letter and convinced my captain to have it delivered unto my wife.” He drew in a deep breath and let it go. “Even so, it is my fault. I shall not deny the blame, Lord Ryppon, for my family is my first duty. There is no excuse for such a lapse. Thank the Lord God for his intercession in this matter.”

Curan lost his condemning expression. He hooked his hands into his belt and studied Lord Connolly. The muscle that had been twitching along the side of his jaw eased.

“You suspect your secretary?”

“There can be no other culprit. He is the only man who might ever dispatch my captain onto the road. He is also the only man I have ever given my signet ring to while I bathed.” Her father shook his head, more sadness entering his eyes. But he drew himself up stiffly. “I owe you a great deal, Lord Ryppon, and am glad to see you are every inch of the man I thought you to be when I selected your offer for my daughter.”

Her father reached out and stroked her cheek, a smile brightening his features. Bridget felt herself returning it because no one made her heart warm as her sire did.

Except Curan.

“I know that there is a great fascination with sons, yet I will tell you that I cherish my daughter. God only blessed me with one, but he has graciously allowed me to watch her grow into womanhood. It is a gift that I thank him for each day.”

Her father looked back at Curan.

“I would never allow her here at court, even when she asked me to bring her when she was too young to know what she was saying. This place steals the sparkle from the eyes of the innocent and true of heart. Wriothesley knows that and hoped that I might not suspect that any rumors of her arrival were true.” He faltered, his voice becoming hard and angry once more. “That I would not have investigated those rumors until it was too late. I am happy to say that the chancellor does not know me as well as he believes.”

“Your daughter sent him off with a fit that will likely be legend before supper is served.”

“She did?”

Her father looked at her with new respect.

“Why, Bridget, that is perfect. Wriothesley can save face and you may depart without worry that he will bother you ever again. How brilliant you are, my girl, and how unselfish to sacrifice your own reputation.”

“I threw a fit, Father. Your daughter will be known as a brat. I shamed you and Mother.”

“But you will be away from here with no one’s ego offended. That is no easy task, my girl. I battle such every day. It was brilliant, I say—brilliant.”

She couldn’t help but smile; her father’s praise meant too much to her. It always had.

Lord Connolly drew himself up. “Now do as you promised me, Lord Ryppon, and take my daughter north.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was by far the most docile tone of voice Bridget had ever heard pass her husband’s lips. Curan offered her father a reverence that he truly meant. She witnessed the respect shining in his dark eyes.

“Good-bye, Father. You must come to Amber Hill and see me.”

“I shall come soon, Daughter.” Her father shared a look with Curan.

“Too soon and yet not soon enough. Now please excuse me, I must attend to a difficult matter.”

Lord Connolly turned and left, his posture stiff, but he rubbed his signet ring and took to the distance in front of him with a determined speed.

“I am relieved.” Her husband reached out and curled his hand around her, pulling her close with a sigh. “Greatly so. For I like your father.”

“I love him.”

One dark eyebrow rose. It was subtle and yet so very telling, coming from such a strong man. Bridget placed her hands on his chest and smoothed them up and over the hard ridges that delighted her so.

“As I love you, my lord.”

He frowned at her.

“Do not be cross with me, Curan. I would gladly suffer more humiliation to remain your wife.”

“I will shelter you, Bridget.”

“I am looking forward to it. Yet why is it that you believe a woman should not have to stand up for her husband? It was but one fit that maintained the ego of the man who was set to give me to his hound. One temper tantrum to keep you from having to risk everything you have earned.”

“I would have risked it and more to keep you by my side.” Her husband suddenly lost his stern expression and grinned. “It was quite a fit, sweet Bridget.”

“I love you and care not what others say about me. Let them gossip.”

“You may not love me so greatly when I confess that I cannot stomach the idea of passing the night beneath this roof. I would rather sleep on the road, in stinking mud.”

Relief washed through her, sweeping away the tension and fear that seemed to have been her constant companions. A smile lifted the side of her lips, and she lowered her hands until she might grasp one of his.

“I’ll race you down the hallway …”

He laughed. Full volume that drew curious looks from those they passed. Bridget led the way, but only until they reached the yard. Curan surged past her then, showing her the way to the portion of the stable where their horses were kept. If anyone thought their departure in the late afternoon was odd, they both gave them no time to voice such thoughts. Curan’s men were eager for the road, too, saddling their mounts in quick motions before swinging up into the saddle.

Bridget watched her husband, proud of the way he sat so confidently in command. The crowd lingering in the yard parted when they headed for the gate. Bridget dug her heels into her mare, sending the animal up beside her husband so that they passed out of the curtain wall together.

May they remain so forever.

“Stop it, Curan. I told you, not tonight. I am freezing.”

Her husband grumbled but nuzzled against her neck again. “And I am trying to warm you, wife.”

They lay on the ground, beneath the limbs of an old oak tree. A tarp was tossed across the limbs to provide them shelter, but it did little to cut the chill of the night. Curan suddenly pulled her tighter against his body, inhaling deeply next to her skin.

“I fear to sleep, fear that I will open my eyes to discover that you have never told me you love me.”

His voice was husky and low, as though the darkness gave him the opportunity to say such words, words that no commander might say while his men watched.

“I will tell you again at sunrise and every hour after, if you will look at me with love in your eyes while I declare myself and my love unto you, Curan.”

His warm hand slipped along the side of her cheek as he rose up above her. In spite of the darkness, she saw the faint glitter in his eyes that she had come to cherish so dearly.

“You have my solemn promise, Bridget, along with the promise that I will march an army after you every time I must for I will not live without you. You hold my heart, and I must have it near.” He lowered his head until she felt his breath against her lips. “Have you near, my love.”

He pressed a soft kiss against her mouth, but it traveled straight to her heart, sealing them together. The night was suddenly much warmer, the heat coming from within.

From her heart.

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“Man up, for God’s sake, and drop the damn thing.”

“We’re not sending in nude shots,” Roan replied with an even smile, as the chants and taunts escalated. “So I don’t understand the need to take things to such an extreme—”

“The contest rules state, very clearly, that they’re looking for provocative,” Tessa responded, sounding every bit like a person who’d also been forced into a task she’d rather not have taken on—which she had been.

Sadly, that fact had not brought them closer.

She shifted to another camera she’d mounted on another tripod, he supposed so the angle of the sun was more to her liking. “Okay, lean back against the stone wall, prop one leg, rest that … sword thing of yours—”

“‘Tis a claymore. Belonged to the McAuleys for four centuries. Victorious in battle, ‘tis an icon of our clan.” And heavy as all hell to hoist about.

“Lovely. Prop your icon in front of you, then. I’m fairly certain it will hide what needs hiding.”

His eyebrows lifted at that, but rather than take offense, he merely grinned. “I wouldnae be so certain of it, lassie. We’re a clan known for the size of our … swords.”

“Yippee,” she shot back, clearly unimpressed. “So, drop the plaid, position your … sword, and let’s get on with it. It’s the illusion of baring it all we’re going for here. I’ll make sure to preserve your fragile modesty.”

She was no fun. No fun ‘tall.

“The other guys did it,” she added, resting folded hands on top of the camera. “In fact,” she went on, without even the merest hint of a smile or dry amusement, “they seemed quite happy to accommodate me.”

He couldn’t imagine any man wanting to bare his privates for Miss Vandergriff’s pleasure. Not if he wanted to keep them intact, at any rate.

He was a bit thrown off by his complete inability to charm her. He charmed everyone. It was what he did. He admittedly enjoyed, quite unabashedly, being one of the clan favorites because of his affable, jovial nature. As far as he was concerned, the world would be a much better place if folks could get in touch with their happy parts, and stay there.

He didn’t know much about her, but from what little time they’d spent together that afternoon, he didn’t think Tessa Vandergriff had any happy parts. However, the reason behind her being rather happiness-challenged wasn’t his mystery to solve. She’d been on the island for less than a week. Her stay on Kinloch was as a guest, and therefore temporary. Thank the Lord.

The island faced its fair share of ongoing trials and tribulations, and had the constant challenge of sustaining a fragile economic resource. Despite that, he’d always considered both the McAuley and MacLeod clans as being cheerful, welcoming hosts. But they had enough to deal with without adopting a surly recalcitrant into their midst.

“Well,” he said, smiling broadly the more her scowl deepened. “‘Tis true, the single men of this island have little enough to choose from.” The crowd took a collective breath at that, but his attention was fully on her. Gripping the claymore in one fist, he leaned against the stacked stone wall, well aware of the tableau created by the twin peaks that framed the MacLeod fortress, each of them towering behind him. He braced his legs, folded his arms across his bare chest, sword blade aloft … and looked her straight in the eye as he let a slow, knowing grin slide across his face. “Me, I’m no’ so desperate as all that.”

That got a collective gasp from the crowd. But rather than elicit so much as a snarl from Miss Vandergriff, or perhaps goading her so far as to pack up and walk away—which he’d have admittedly deserved—his words had a rather shocking effect. She smiled. Fully. He hadn’t thought her face capable of arranging itself in such a manner. And so broadly, with such stunning gleam. He was further damned to discover it did things to his own happy parts that she had no business affecting.

“No worries,” she stated, further captivating him with the transformative brilliance of her knowing smile. She gave him a sizzling once-over before easily meeting his eyes again. “You’re not my type.”

That was not how those things usually went for him. He felt … frisked. “Then I’m certain you can be objective enough to find an angle that shows off all my best parts without requiring a blatant, uninspired pose. I understand from Kira that you’re considered to be quite good with that equipment.”

The chanting of the crowd shifted to a few whistles as the tension between photographer and subject grew to encompass even them.

“Given your reluctance to play show-and-tell, I’d hazard to guess I’m better with mine than you are with yours,” she replied easily, but the spark remained in her eyes.

Goading him.

“Why don’t you be the judge?” Holding her gaze in exclusive focus, the crowd long since forgotten, he pushed away from the wall and, with sword in one hand, slowly unwrapped his kilt with the other.

He took far more pleasure than was absolutely necessary from watching her throat work as he unashamedly revealed thighs and ass. He wasn’t particularly vain or egotistical, but he was well aware that a lifetime spent climbing all over the island had done its duty where his physical shape was concerned, as it had for most of the islanders. They were a hardy lot.

The crowd gasped as he held the fistful of unwrapped plaid in front of him, dangling precariously from one hand, just on the verge of—

“That’s it!” Tessa all but leapt behind the camera, and an instant later, the shutter started whirring. Less than thirty seconds later, she straightened and pushed her wayward curls out of her face, her no-nonsense business face back. “Got it. Good! We’re all done here.” She started dismantling her equipment. “You can go ahead and get dressed,” she said dismissively, not even looking at him.

He held on to the plaid—and his pride—and tried not to look as annoyed as he felt. The shoot was blessedly over. That was all that mattered. No point in being irritated that he’d just been played by a pro.

She glanced up, the smile gone as she dismantled her second tripod with the casual grace of someone so used to the routine and rhythm of it, she didn’t have to think about it. “I’ll let you know when I get the shots developed.”

He supposed he should be thankful she hadn’t publicly gloated over her smooth manipulation of him. Except he wasn’t feeling particularly gracious at the moment.

Here’s a sneak peek at Maggie Robinson’s

MISTRESS BY MIDNIGHT,

in stores now …

London, 1820

Laurette knew precisely what she must do. Again. Had known even before her baby brother had fallen so firmly into the Marquess of Conover’s clutches.

To be fair, perhaps Charlie had not so much fallen as thrown himself headfirst into Con’s way. Charlie had been as heedless as she herself had been more than a decade ago. She was not immune even now to Con’s inconvenient presence. She had shown him her back on more than one occasion, but could feel the heat of his piercing black gaze straight through to her tattered stays.

But tonight she would allow him to look his fill. She had gone so far as having visited Madame Demarche this afternoon to purchase some of her naughtiest underpinnings. Laurette would have one less thing for which to feel shame.

Bought with credit, of course. One more bill to join the mountain of debt. Insurmountable as a Himalayan peak and just as chilling. Nearly as cold as Conover’s heart.

She raised the lion’s-head knocker and let it fall, once, composing herself to face Con’s servant.

Desmond Ryland, Marquess of Conover, opened the door himself.

“You!”

“Did you think I would allow you to be seen here at such an hour?” he asked, his face betraying no emotion. “You must indeed think me a veritable devil. I’ve sent Aram to bed. Come into my study.”

He was a devil, suggesting this absurd time. Midnight, as though they were two foreign spies about to exchange vital information in utmost secrecy. Laurette followed him down the shadowy hall, the black-and-white tile a chessboard beneath her feet. She felt much like a pawn, but would soon need to become the White Queen. Con must not know just how desperate she was.

Though surely he must suspect.

He opened a door and stepped aside as she crossed the threshold. The room, she knew, was his sanctuary, filled with objects he’d collected in the years he’d been absent from Town and her life. Absent from his own life, as well. The marquessate had been shockingly abandoned for too long.

She had been summoned here once before, in daylight, a year ago. She was better prepared tonight. She let her filmy shawl slip from one shoulder but refused Con’s offer of a chair.

“Suit yourself,” he shrugged, sitting behind his desk. He placed a hand on a decanter of brandy. “Will you join me? We can toast to old times.”

Laurette shook her head. She’d need every shred of her wits to get through what was ahead. “No thank you, my lord.”

She could feel the thread of attraction between them, frayed yet stubborn. She should be too old and wise now to view anything that was to come as more than a business arrangement. As soon as she had seen the bold strokes of his note, she had accepted its implication. She was nearly thirty, almost half her life away from when Conover first beguiled her. Or perhaps when she had beguiled him. He had left her long ago, if not quite soon enough.

A pop from the fire startled her, and she turned to watch sparks fly onto the marble tiles. The room was uncomfortably warm for this time of year, but it was said that the Marquess of Conover had learned to love the heat of the exotic East on his travels.

“I appeal to your goodness,” Laurette said, nearly choking on the improbable phrase.

“I find good men dead boring, my dear. Good women, too.” Con abandoned his desk and strode across the floor, where she was rooted by feet that suddenly felt too heavy to lift. He smiled, looking almost boyish, and fingered the single loose golden curl teasing the ivory slope of her shoulder. She recalled that her hair had always dazzled him and had imagined just this touch when she tugged the strand down.

She had hoped to appear winsome despite the passage of time, but her plan was working far too well for current comfort. She pushed him away with more force than she felt. “What would you know about good men, my lord?” She scraped the offending hair back with trembling fingers and secured it under the prison of its hairpin. It wouldn’t do to tempt him further. Or herself. What had she been thinking to come here?

“I’ve known my share. But I am uncertain if your brother fits the category. A good, earnest young fellow, on occasion. A divinity student, is he not? But then—I fear his present vices make him ill-suited for his chosen profession. Among other things, he is so dishonorable he sends his sister in his stead. Your letter was quite affecting. You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble on his account, but I hardly see why I should forgive his debt.” He folded his arms and leaned forward. “Convince me.”

Damn him. He intended her to beg. They both knew how it would end.

“He does not know I’m here. He knows nothing,” Laurette said quickly, and stepped back.

He was upon her again, his warm brandied breath sending shivers down her spine. She fell backward onto a leather chair. A small mercy. At least she wouldn’t fall foolishly at his feet. She closed her eyes, remembering herself in such a pose, Con’s head thrown back, his fingers entwined in the tangle of her hair. A lifetime ago.

She looked up. His cheek was creased in amusement at her clumsiness. “He will not thank you for your interference.”

“I’m not interfering! My brother is much too young to fall prey to your evil machinations.”

Con raised a black winged brow. “Such melodramatic vocabulary. He’s not that young, you know. Much older than you were when you were so very sure of yourself. And by calling me evil you defeat your purpose, Laurette. Why, I might take offense and not cooperate. Perhaps I am a very good man to discourage him from gambling he can ill afford. But I will be repaid.” He leaned over, placing his hands on the arms of Laurette’s chair. His eyes were dark, obsidian, but his intentions clear.

Laurette felt her blush rise and leaned back against her seat. She willed herself to stay calm. He would not crowd her and make her cower beneath him. She raised her chin a fraction. “He cannot—that is to say, our funds are tied up at present. Our guardian …” She trailed off, never much able to lie well. But she was expert at keeping secrets.

Con left her abruptly to return to his desk. She watched as he poured himself another brandy into the crystal tumbler, but let it sit untouched. “What do you propose, Laurette?” he asked, his voice a velvet burr. “That I tear up your brother’s vowels and give him the cut direct next time we meet?”

“Yes,” Laurette said boldly. “The sum he owes must be a mere trifle to you. And his company a bore. If you hurt his feelings now, it will only be to his ultimate benefit. One day he will see that.” She glanced around the room, which was appointed with elegance and treasure. Brass fittings gleamed in the candlelight. A thick Persian carpet lay under her scuffed kid slippers. Lord Conover’s study was the lair of a man of exquisite taste and a far cry from Charlie’s disreputable lodging. She twisted her fingers, awaiting his next words.

There was the faintest trace of a smile. “You give me far too much credit. I am neither a good man, nor, despite what you see here, so rich man a man I can ignore a debt this size. We all need blunt to keep up appearances. And settle obligations.”

Laurette knew exactly what his obligation to her cost him and held her tongue.

Con leaned back in his chair, the picture of confidence. “If I cannot have coin, some substitution must be made. I think you know what will please me.”

Laurette nodded. It would please her too, God forgive her. Her voice didn’t waver. “When, Con?”

He picked up his glass and drained it. “Tonight. I confess I cannot wait to have you in my bed again.”

Laurette searched her memory. There had been very few beds involved in their brief affair. Making love to Con in one would be a luxurious novelty. She was not prepared, however; the vial of sponges was still secreted away in her small trunk at her brother’s rooms. She had not allowed herself to think the evening would end in quite this way. But she had just finished her courses. Surely she was safe.

“Very well.” She rose from the haven of her chair.

His face showed the surprise he surely felt. Good. It was time she unsettled him.

“You seem to be taking your fate rather calmly, Laurette.”

“Did you arrange it? That it would come to this?” she asked softly.

“Did I engage your brother in a high-stakes game he had no hope of winning? I declare, that avenue had not occurred to me,” Con said smoothly. “How you must despise me to even ask.” He motioned her to him. After a few awkward moments, Laurette walked toward him and allowed him to pull her down into his lap. He was undeniably hard, fully aroused. She let herself feel a brief surge of triumph.

Con placed a broad hand across her abdomen and settled her even closer. “How is the child?”

Was this an unconscious gesture? Con had never felt her daughter where his hand now lay, had never seen her, held her. She fought the urge to slap his hand away and willed herself to melt into the contours of his hard body. It would go quicker if she just gave in and let him think he’d won. “Very well, my lord. How is yours?”

“Fast asleep in his dormitory, I hope, surrounded by other scruffy little villains. I should like you to meet him one day.”

She did not tell him that his son was already known to her, as his wife had once been, improbably, her friend. “I don’t believe that would be wise, my lord.”

“Why not? If you recall, I offered you the position as his step-mama a year ago. It is past time you become acquainted with my son, and I with your daughter.” His busy fingers had begun removing hairpins.

Laurette said nothing, lulling in his arms as his lips skimmed her throat, his hands stroking every exposed inch. In dressing tonight, she’d bared as much of her flesh as she dared in order to tempt him. She wondered how she could so deceive herself. Nothing had changed. Nothing would ever change. And that was the problem.

Laurette pressed a gloved finger to his lips. “We do not need to discuss the past, my lord. We have tonight.”

“If you think,” he growled, “that I will be satisfied with only one night with you, you’re as deluded as ever.”

An insult. Lucky that, for she suddenly retrieved her primness and relative virtue. She straightened up. “That is all I am willing to offer.”

He stood in anger, dumping her unceremoniously into his chair. “My dear Miss Vincent, if you wish me to forgive your brother’s debts—all of them—I require a bit more effort on your part.”

“A-all? What do you mean?”

“I see the young fool didn’t tell you.” Con pulled open a drawer, fisting a raft of crumpled paper. “Here. Read them and then tell me one paltry night with you is worth ten thousand pounds. Even you cannot have such a high opinion of yourself.”

Laurette felt her tongue thicken and her lips go numb. “It cannot be,” she whispered.

“I’ve spent the past month buying up his notes all over town.” Con’s smile, feral and harsh, withered her even further. He now followed in his father-in-law’s footsteps.

“You did this.”

“You may think what you wish. I hold the mortgage to Vincent Lodge as well. You’ve denied me long enough, Laurie.”

Her home, ramshackle as it was. Beatrix’s home, if only on brief holidays away from her foster family. Laurette had forgotten just how stubborn and high-handed Conover could be. She looked at him, hoping to appear as haughty as the queen she most certainly was not.

“What kind of man are you?”

Keep an eye out for Sylvia Day’s

PRIDE AND PLEASURE,

coming next month from Brava!

“And what is it you hope to produce by procuring a suitor?”

“I am not in want of stud service, sir. Only a depraved mind would leap to that conclusion.”

“Stud service …”

“Is that not what you are thinking?”

A wicked smile came to his lips. Eliza was certain her heart skipped a beat at the sight of it. “It wasn’t, no.”

Wanting to conclude this meeting as swiftly as possible, she rushed forward. “Do you have someone who can assist me or not?”

Bond snorted softly, but the derisive sound seemed to be directed inward and not at her. “From the top, if you would please, Miss Martin. Why do you need protection?”

“I have recently found myself to be a repeated victim of various unfortunate—and suspicious—events.”

Eliza expected him to laugh or perhaps give her a doubtful look. He did neither. Instead, she watched a transformation sweep over him. As fiercely focused as he’d been since his arrival, he became more so when presented with the problem. She found herself appreciating him for more than his good looks.

He leaned slightly forward. “What manner of events?”

“I was pushed into the Serpentine. My saddle was tampered with. A snake was loosed in my bedroom—.”

“I understand it was a Runner who referred you to Mr. Lynd, who in turn referred you to me.”

“Yes. I hired a Runner for a month, but Mr. Bell discovered nothing. No attacks occurred while he was engaged.”

“Who would want to injure you, and why?”

She offered him a slight smile, a small show of gratitude for the gravity he was displaying. Anthony Bell had come highly recommended, but he’d never taken her seriously. In fact, he had been amused by her tales, and she’d never felt he was dedicated to the task of discovery. “Truthfully, I am not certain whether they truly intend bodily harm, or if they simply want to goad me into marriage as a way to establish some permanent security. I see no reason to any of it.”

“Are you wealthy, Miss Martin? Or certain to be?”

“Yes. Which is why I doubt they sincerely aim to cause me grievous injury—I am worth more alive. But there are some who believe it isn’t safe for me in my uncle’s household. They claim he is an insufficient guardian, that he is touched, and ready for Bedlam. As if any individual capable of compassion would put a stray dog in such a place, let alone a beloved relative.”

“Poppycock,” the earl scoffed. “I am fit as a fiddle, in mind and body.”

“You are, my lord,” Eliza agreed, smiling fondly at him. “I have made it clear to all and sundry that Lord Melville will likely live to be one hundred years of age.”

“And you hope that adding me to your stable of suitors will accomplish what, precisely?” Bond asked. “Deter the culprit?”

“I hope that by adding one of your associates,” she corrected, “I can avoid further incidents over the next six weeks of the Season. In addition, if my new suitor is perceived to be a threat, perhaps the scoundrel will turn his malicious attentions toward him. Then, perhaps, we can catch the fiend. Truly, I should like to know by what methods of deduction he formulated this plan and what he hoped to gain by it.”

Bond settled back into his seat and appeared deep in thought.

“I would never suggest such a hazardous role for someone untrained,” she said quickly. “But a thief-taker, a man accustomed to associating with criminals and other unfortunates … I should think those who engage in your profession would be more than a match for a nefarious fortune hunter.”

“I see.”

Beside her, her uncle murmured to himself, working out puzzles and equations in his mind. Like herself, he was most comfortable with events and reactions that could be quantified or predicted with some surety. Dealing with issues defying reason was too taxing.

“What type of individual would you consider ideal to play this role of suitor, protector, and investigator?” Bond asked finally.

“He should be quiet, even-tempered, and a proficient dancer.”

Scowling, he queried, “How do dullness and the ability to dance signify in catching a possible murderer?”

“I did not say ‘dull,’ Mr. Bond. Kindly do not attribute words to me that I have not spoken. In order to be acknowledged as a true rival for my attentions, he should be someone whom everyone will believe I would be attracted to.”

“You are not attracted to handsome men?”

“Mr. Bond, I dislike being rude. However, you leave me no recourse. The fact is, you clearly are not the sort of man whose temperament is compatible with matrimony.”

“I am quite relieved to hear a female recognize that,” he drawled.

“How could anyone doubt it?” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “I can more easily picture you in a sword-fight or fisticuffs than I can see you enjoying an afternoon of croquet, after-dinner chess, or a quiet evening at home with family and friends. I am an intellectual, sir. And while I don’t mean to imply a lack of mental acuity, you are obviously built for more physically strenuous pursuits.”

“I see.”

“Why, one had only to look at you to ascertain you aren’t like the others at all! It would be evident straightaway that I would never consider a man such as you with even remote seriousness. It is quite obvious you and I do not suit in the most fundamental of ways, and everyone knows I am too observant to fail to see that. Quite frankly, sir, your are not my type of male.”

The look he gave her was wry but without the smugness that would have made it irritating. He conveyed solid self-confidence free of conceit. She was dismayed to find herself strongly attracted to the quality.

He would be troublesome. Eliza did not like trouble overmuch.

He glanced at the earl. “Please forgive me, my lord, but I must speak bluntly in regard to this subject. Most especially because this is a matter concerning Miss Martin’s physical well-being.”

“Quite right,” Melville agreed. “Straight to the point, I always say. Time is too precious to waste on inanities.”

“Agreed.” Bond’s gaze returned to Eliza and he smiled. “Miss Martin, forgive me, but I must point out that your inexperience is limiting your understanding of the situation.”

“Inexperience with what?”

“Men. More precisely, fortune-hunting men.”

“I would have you know,” she retorted, “that over the course of six Seasons I have had more than enough experience with gentlemen in want of funds.”

“Then why,” he drawled, “are you unaware that they are successful for reasons far removed from social suitability?”

Eliza blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Women do not marry fortune hunters because they can dance and sit quietly. They marry them for their appearance and physical prowess—two attributes you have already established I have.”

“I do not see—”

“Evidently, you do not, so I shall explain.” His smile continued to grow. “Fortune hunters who flourish do not strive to satisfy a woman’s intellectual needs. Those can be met through friends and acquaintances. They do not seek to provide the type of companionship one enjoys in social settings or with a game table between them. Again, there are others who can do so.”

“Mr. Bond—”

“No, they strive to satisfy in the only position that is theirs alone, a position some men make no effort to excel in. So rare is this particular skill, that many a woman will disregard other considerations in favor of it.”

“Please, say no—”

“Fornication,” his lordship muttered, before returning to his conversation with himself.

Eliza shot to her feet. “My lord!”

As courtesy dictated, both her uncle and Mr. Bond rose along with her.

“I prefer to call it ‘seduction,’” Bond said, his eyes laughing.

“I call it ridiculous,” she rejoined, hands on her hips. “In the grand scheme of life, do you collect how little time a person spends abed when compared to other activities?”

His gaze dropped to her hips. The smile became a fullblown grin. “That truly depends on who else is occupying said bed.”

“Dear heavens.” Eliza shivered at the look Jasper Bond was giving her. It was … expectant. By some unknown, godforsaken means she had managed to prod the man’s damnable masculine pride into action.

“Give me a sennight,” he suggested. “One week to prove both my point and my competency. If, at the end, you are not swayed by one or the other, I will accept no payment for services rendered.”

“Excellent proposition,” his lordship said. “No possibility of loss.”

“Not true,” Eliza contended. “How will I explain Mr. Bond’s speedy departure?”

“Let us make it a fortnight, then,” Bond amended.

“You fail to understand the problem. I am not an actor, sir. It will be evident to one and all that I am far from ‘seduced.’”

The tone of his grin changed, aided by a hot flicker in his dark eyes. “Leave that aspect of the plan to me. After all, that’s what I am being paid for.”

“And if you fail? Once you resign, not only will I be forced to make excuses for you, I will have to bring in another thief-taker to act in your stead. The whole affair will be entirely too suspicious.”

“Have you had the same pool of suitors for six years, Miss Martin?”

“That isn’t—”

“Did you not just state that many reasons why you feel I am not an appropriate suitor for you? Can you not simply reiterate those points in response to any inquiries regarding my departure?”

“You are overly persistent, Mr. Bond.”

“Quite,” he nodded, “which is why I will discover who is responsible for the unfortunate events besetting you and what they’d hoped to gain.”

She crossed her arms. “I am not convinced.”

“Trust me. It is fortuitous, indeed, that Mr. Lynd brought us together. If I do not apprehend the culprit, I daresay he cannot be caught.” His hand fisted around the top of his cane. “Client satisfaction is a point of pride, Miss Martin. By the time I am done, I guarantee you will be eminently gratified by my performance.”

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen