any import. ’Tis only that I hoped to be closer to finding the man who has murdered my father—and the other men as well. And though I have spoken over and over to those who witnessed the scenes, and even examined the most recent one myself, I cannot seem to find a path to follow.” And so he had passed his time these last months after returning from Langumont and Breakston by setting to other tasks as ordered by the king.
The queen’s smile faded. Although at the first, she might seem a woman of mere frivolity and sensuality, Eleanor was as shrewd and serious as her husband when it came to her lands and the people thereon. “Aye, ’tis worrisome to my husband as well, for when and where shall this madman strike next? But he has great faith in you, sir, and you’ve never failed him before. I know that you and Gavin Mal Verne were attending to another matter in Wales only a moon past, and the king was well-pleased on the results.”
“Aye,” Dirick replied, referring to the Welsh problem that had kept him busy for more than a few fortnights. “Nary a life lost, and a rogue castellan imprisoned for his impudence.”
“And a fief, undamaged by besiegement, returned to my husband’s control,” Eleanor reminded him. “I know you were ill-pleased at being distracted from your other task, but mayhap a bit of space from it might allow your mind to clear a bit?”
“Aye, mayhap you are correct,” he replied. “But the death of Sir Harris only three days ago has made it clear that this murderer is still about, and must be nearby as well.”
Eleanor nodded. “Aye, and the weariness and frustration shows in your face and disposition. You have traveled far in the last days, and seen a horrific sight. Oh, aye, my husband has told me all,” she added when he looked at her in surprise. “He spares me naught, for which I am both grateful and, at times, dispirited. But for this night, Sir Dirick, why do you not take your mind from such evil thoughts and join my women? They always enjoy a knight with your penchant for poetry, and I have seen you cast your eyes that way more than once this evening.”
Unease curled in his stomach at the thought of facing Maris with the trite, empty phrases praising the lips and hair and forms of other women. He’d become quite popular with the ladies of the queen’s famous Court of Love years earlier, when Henry traveled to Aquitaine to woo Eleanor. Somehow, he could not picture Maris receiving such superficial praises without making him feel a fool.
“Pray, your grace, excuse me from fulfilling your request tonight. I am rather weary, and fear that my skills may desert me under such duress.”
Eleanor looked at him shrewdly. “Dirick of Derkland,” a smirk curved her well shaped mouth, “do you not feed me such a lie. The day that your skill with women deserts you is the day I cannot hold a man to me, should I wish to do so.” Despite her confident words, they both knew that her loyalty to the king was unequivocal. Now that the seriousness of their conversation had passed, her eyes twinkled as she made a little moue with her lips. Gently pressing a long nailed finger onto his forearm, she teased, “I vow, your disinterest can only mean one thing.”
As he was well and truly a man, Dirick could not help but respond to the femininity of the queen, for she smelled lush and erotic, and her skin and figure were feminine and beautiful. “Aye, your grace,” he replied in the flirtatious manner he knew she expected. “My disinterest could mean only this: that as you, my lady, are well beyond my reach, I have no stomach to play meaningless games with women who can be naught to me.” That latter part, at the least was true.
And though his charming smile may have fooled a less artful woman, Eleanor was not taken in. “Such pretty words trip from your beautiful mouth. I do envy the woman who finally steals your heart. And I relish the day of seeing you thus befuddled.” She took a sip of wine from her native lands, her thick lashed eyes watching him closely over the rim of the cup.
When she replaced the goblet, the expression on her face had changed from that of a coquette to one of certain knowledge. “An’, by the rood, it
“Your majesty—”
“You’ve long been loyal to my husband, and, through him, to me. Though Henry oft does not see what is before his eyes, and may not hasten to reward those who are true to him, I do not.” Her glance flickered to the table of her ladies, casting over them as if to measure the possibility of whom he loved. “You’ll have her, Dirick. I will see to it.”
“But I did not say that I love her. I do
She laughed her husky laugh again. “If ’tis true love, you shall not be able to hide it from me—or anyone who cares enough to watch. You’ll have her, Dirick, unless she is promised to another.” And with that, she turned from him to rejoin her husband’s conversation.
Chapter Seventeen
Wall sconces were the only light, and they cast flickering shadows upon the rough stone walls.
Despite the lack of natural illumination, the hallway was well enough lit for Maris to see the glint in Victor’s eyes. Her hand rested reluctantly on his forearm, as it had since he’d led her from the Great Hall, and she walked sedately beside him.
Maris couldn’t help but remember the last time she’d been alone with Victor—the time she’d raced her horse across the fields of Langumont in a rash challenge to his manhood. A little shiver raced up her spine as she relived the humiliating moments when his mouth invaded hers, and his hands groped her breasts.
“Have you taken a chill, my lady?” His voice was smooth and mellow with concern. “Take my mantle.” They paused beneath one of the sconces as he slid the cloak from his shoulders.
His hands, cold and rough, brushed her chin as he pulled the fur lined wool about her, taking much too long with the fastening at her throat. A finger brushed the line of her jaw, then slid underneath her chin, lifting it to raise her face. “You’ve yet to cast your eyes upon me this night, my wife.” With a slight movement, he shifted his finger and the nail pressed into the soft underside of her chin. “If I did not know better, I should say you are disappointed at my presence.”
Maris swallowed and attempted to keep her voice steady in her reply. “Aye, I confess, ’twas a surprise to see you here. As you’ve made no chance to contact me since Papa’s…demise,” she said, “I had no choice but to presume you’d decided against our betrothal.”
A smile that was by no means meant to be soothing settled over his slender lips. “Ah, you’d like that, would you not, Lady Maris? You’d like nothing more than to see me walk away from the riches and power that Langumont would bring me.” His hand opened and slid down to cup her throat. She swallowed again and felt the constricting band of his fingers. “And the beautiful heiress that was promised me as well.”
“Nay,” she whispered, then gave a little gasp as the hand tightened—not enough to cut off her breath, but enough to threaten her. When she reached up to pull those fingers away, he was quick enough to snatch her wrists and force them down between their bodies.
“If you were not to be my wife,” he murmured, bending closer to her face, “I’d not have this at my pleasure.” His lips were cool and dry, but his tongue thrust hot and wet into her mouth.
Maris struggled to turn her face aside. His hand tightened, holding her head immobile as his mouth continued to delve into hers. She allowed her body to slacken in his grip, then rammed a knee into his belly, narrowly missing a more tender spot. Taking advantage of his shock and breathlessness, she jerked away and groped beneath her overtunic for her dagger.
As he straightened from his doubled over position, she met him with a glinting blade that rose with the level of his eyes. “Bitch!” he hissed, clumsily swiping at her wrist.
Maris easily avoided his lunge, but did not turn her attention from him as she began to back away. “If I am so unfortunate as to be forced to wed with you, you will never touch me in that manner again. Else,” she slowed her gasping breaths, “you’ll find a third party joining us in the bridal bed.” She brandished the dagger.
