By His Majesty's Grace

“Comfortable,” he said, and felt heat burn the back of his neck.

“No doubt. But was she, is she, of an accommodating disposition?”

Rand gave McConnell a hard stare. “I have no idea. She deserves better than to be molested while half the men within two counties hang on every moan.”

“A sad waste of a fine opportunity, then, especially when you have the perfect excuse.”

“Nor does she need to be bedded by a man who may live only as long as it takes to reach the king’s Star Chamber. She will have a much better chance at another husband if there’s no chance she’s breeding.”

That was, to the best of his understanding, the reason he had left Isabel alone in the litter. The decision was sudden and in stark contrast to his previous intentions, so he had not been thinking too clearly.

There were, of course, those who would willingly take a pregnant woman to wife since her condition proved her ability to bear children. Most preferred a virgin, however, or at least a lengthy betrothal that would prove she was not with child. Anyway, the likelihood that Henry VII would now hand over the stepsister of the Earl of Graydon to a man charged with murder was so remote as to be laughable.

“Very noble, but will offer little satisfaction while you lie in a prison cell. Besides, if she was with your get, she could well inherit Braesford should you hang.”

“Keeping it from your possession? A strong incentive, I must say,” Rand answered in dry tones, looking away toward where the wooded copse they had traveled through followed the curve of the burn.

“Or I could offer my aid and support so she might persuade Henry that she requires a new husband to replace my bastard brother. Who knows? He could agree in honor of your memory.”

“So he might, but I wouldn’t depend on it. Besides, I don’t intend to be a mere memory.”

Rand kicked the stallion into a fast canter and left McConnell in the dust. If only his doubts and fears could be left behind so easily.

Isabel lay where Braesford had left her. She watched the spots of brightness caused by sunlight striking through the trees onto the hemp top of the litter. She should have been incensed. Instead, she was thoughtful.

Why had he stopped?

It seemed unlikely that a mere dash of water in the face could have had such effect. Had it brought him to his senses, as it seemed, or merely served to remind him of a deeper purpose? Had he really intended an object lesson in the proper use of her tongue or something more? Had he wanted to show her what was to come when they were joined in wedlock, or merely to prove she could be brought to succumb to desire for a nobody?

So this was passion, this languor in the blood and compelling urge toward surrender regardless of the cost. How strange it was, when she resented and half feared the man who caused it. She had heard women sigh after handsome gallants, going into ecstasies over their shoulders, their thighs beneath clinging hose or what lay beneath their extravagant codpieces. She had thought they exaggerated or else were being deliberately silly. All men possessed the same basic equipment, did they not?

Clearly, she had erred. Some men walked in an aura of masculinity far surpassing others. Their bodies were better formed, with muscles that moved like oiled silk under the skin. Their touch could inflame. They were a threat to female peace of mind. Dangerous, too, were their smiles. She would not have believed a man’s face could alter so easily from chill sternness to compelling warmth with the mere shift of facial muscles. It began in his eyes, she thought, the sudden rich amusement that she watched for with too much anticipation.

She must be on her guard every minute until they reached London. The Graydon curse had delivered her from immediate marriage to Braesford, and it would be foolish to succumb to his caresses in spite of it. The last thing she needed was to consummate a union she hoped to see dissolved. More, she could hardly claim to fear a husband who was charged with murder if witnesses could swear she had been intimate with him.

That was, of course, if it came to such a pass. It was possible the hangman would deliver her from the necessity.

It crossed her mind briefly that such could be the aim, that the king might have handed her over to a betrothed of lower rank knowing he would snatch her away again. Still, what could be the purpose of such a cruel game of cat and mouse? She could see none that made any sense.

She knew almost nothing about Randall Braesford, of course. There might be all manner of things in his past to cause hidden enmity. The court was a hotbed of jealous intrigue and petty vendettas. Anyone could have decided to play a vicious joke on this baseborn knight of high pride and stalwart courage.

The jest could also be on her. She had rejected a half-dozen offers for her hand while claiming the protection of the curse, turning a near spinster at three-and-twenty. Perhaps someone wanted to show her she was not immune to the fate of most women, of being married without her consent and for what she could bring to her husband. If Braesford knew of the curse and dared to defy it, then it made him the perfect choice. She was sure to be aghast at being handed over to a commoner whose lands were practically falling into the far North Sea. And if they had to see him hanged so she could be snatched back for the greater enjoyment of the joke, then what of it? He was nothing, a nobody.

Those who thought so had, just possibly, failed to take proper measure of Sir Randall of Braesford. This was a fact which could not be ignored, as much as it pained Isabel to admit it. Noble blood ran in his veins, regardless of his birth. He had not achieved his current position by being either stupid or unwary.

Easing to a sitting position, she retrieved the bag of marzipan and tied it closed before tucking it under a pillow. She shook the excess water from the litter’s curtain, used the hem of her skirt to wipe her arm where she had been splattered and tidied her veil that had somehow parted company with her hair. She was still tucking in stray tendrils when she heard hoofbeats coming closer.

“Lady Isabel? Are you all right in there?”

The voice belonged to Viscount Henley. It would be like him to make a commotion if she failed to answer. She shoved the curtain aside to gaze up at him with bland inquiry. “As you see, sir. Why should I not be?”

“No reason. I just thought…” He stopped, his broad, scarred face turning an unbecoming shade of purple. “I mean, you were so quiet in there.”

“I was attempting a nap, if you must know.” She crossed her fingers as she voiced that small lie. It was better than explaining her preoccupation.

“Your pardon, milady. Is there aught I can get you, aught you need?”

The man was a champion on the jousting field and arrogant with it at times. Eldest son of an earl, he had lost everything some three years before when his father was attainted for treason by Richard III, after rising in support of Edward IV’s heir, the very young Edward V, who had disappeared into the Tower. His title was complimentary now. What income he had came from sojourns on the continent where he participated in the tournaments held by kings and nobles, gaining ransom from hostages taken after victory on the field. Though lacking the estates which would have made him an acceptable husband, he was persistent in his addresses, with a habit of lying in wait for her in dim corners. Graydon, though standing as Henley’s friend, had always discouraged his suit, being unwilling to give up her fortune to a husband. For once, she had been grateful, as it saved her from having to put him off herself. It also meant she could afford to be gracious.

That had been before Henry had decided she should be wed.

“Not at the moment,” she answered as pleasantly as she was able. “Mayhap later.”

“Aye, milady. I’ll listen for your call.”

No doubt he would, she thought with a sigh as she dropped the curtain. She would not be making a request of him, however, not if she could help it. She would ask nothing of any man.

So they traveled southward toward London and beyond, down the old north road of the Romans through towns and villages large and small, until they clattered onto King’s Street. This thoroughfare, thronged with horses and carts, hawkers and beggars and strolling gentry, brought them finally to the ancient gates of Westminster. Winding through its narrow, fetid streets, they reached the myriad buildings and courtyards of soot-streaked stone known as Westminster Palace.

4

I sabel barely had time to remove her cap and veil before the door of her chamber, one of many allotted to less important personages housed at court, was flung open. A flurry of skirts and flying veils signaled the arrivals of her two sisters with whom she had shared the tiny space before leaving for her wedding journey, and would again for the time being. First inside was Catherine, three years younger at twenty and known to all as Cate, with Marguerite, the youngest at sixteen, following closely on her heels. Laughing, exclaiming, they welcomed her back with fierce hugs and a spate of anxious questions.

“Why have you returned so soon, dearest of sisters? Not that we are not glad of it, you may be sure, but we thought you gone for months, even years.”

“What occurred? Did Henry’s most loyal henchman reject you? Did you prevail upon Graydon to turn back?”

“Did our curse, perchance, overcome Henry’s decree? Tell us at once, before we run mad with curiosity!”

“No, no and yes,” Isabel answered, swallowing on tears as she returned her sisters’ welcoming embraces. How dear they were, and how she had missed them, their chatter, their smiles and unquestioning acceptance.

“Provoking jade! Is that all you have to say?” Cate rallied her. “Come, tell all. You know you must, for you shall have no peace otherwise.”

Isabel obliged as best she could while her sisters settled themselves on two of the three narrow beds that took up most of the room in the nunlike cell. While she talked, Isabel threw off her travel-soiled clothing and bathed quickly in cold water from a basin.

“I knew it!” Cate exclaimed when she was done. “You consider the curse mere foolishness, I know, but you are wrong. How else to explain the arrival of the king’s men at the very last instant? Admit it. You believe we walk in its shadow.”

Isabel gave her sister a wry smile. Cate was ever ready to see the best of any situation. Yes, and of people, as well. “Even though I concocted it from thin air?”

“Even so!”

“It’s difficult to disagree, I will admit.”

“Miracles are possible,” Marguerite said, “so the priests tell us. We have only to believe. You are protected, dear Isabel, until a husband is chosen who can love you with all his heart.”

“Yes, of course,” Isabel said, swooping upon her younger sister to give her a swift hug in passing. Marguerite had wanted to be a nun as a girl, had almost become a novice during their time spent being schooled at the convent near Graydon Hall. She had walked the long stone corridors with her hair tucked into a wimple and a breviary in her hand, rather like the king’s mother, Lady Margaret.

The urge did not survive her first infatuation, which happened to be with a French man-at-arms who served their stepbrother. It had been a virulent attachment, but was cut short when she discovered he had bad breath caused by a rotted tooth. She was still quiet, pious and pessimistic, unless the subject under discussion had to do with men. She could be irreverent enough then, though inclined to credit any male in knight’s clanking armor with sterling and noble qualities.