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 has happened, has it not?” Before he could open his mouth, she placed a hand over his. “Save your protestations, Dirick. Though the Courts of Love over which I’ve ruled consist of worshipful love from afar and knights honorably laving attention upon ladies out of their realm, I believe there is a place for a more earthy, reachable love—such as I have with my lord.” A genuine smile warmed her face. “Aye, Dirick, even love can be found in such an alliance as that of the Angevin and the Aquitaine.”

“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 not love her. I do not love anyone,” he stammered, feeling unaccountably overwhelmed by Eleanor’s all knowing demeanor. “And I have not sought out a single one of your ladies—how can you think this?”

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.

Victor would have grabbed for her wrist again had the sound of voices not reached their ears. As it was, he pinned her with a look filled with hatred before swiveling on his heel and starting off in the direction from whence they’d come.

Miraculously, the approaching voices faded away, leaving Maris alone in the dank hallway. She ripped Victor’s mantle from her shoulders, flinging it into a corner. A tapestry fluttered against the wall above her head, but all else was still. She slumped against the cold stone, relieved, and struggled to stop the trembling that made her knees weak.

“Bis!” came a voice from the shadows. “Well done, my lady.”

Maris whirled to see Dirick materializing from a dark alcove. “You!” she gasped, fury lighting her face. “Again?”

He stood, leaning against the wall, arms folded nonchalantly across his middle. “’Twas a close one, that, Maris. I was near ready to step in to assist you.” The hardness in his grey-blue eyes belied his seeming ease, and his gaze covered her as if to assure himself she was unharmed.

“What do you here?” she demanded, stepping back and finding the rough wall behind her. She angled the blade of the dagger as if to ward him off.

Dirick stepped closer, blocking the light from the torch behind him. Maris’s heart bumped in her throat and her breath became shallow. “I suspected you might find yourself in danger when you left the hall in his presence.”

“I do not need your help,” she hissed. “I want nothing from you!”

“Ah. But that is where we differ. I most definitely want something from you, Lady Maris.”

Her heart leapt, and sweat sprang from her palms even as a rush of heat flooded her. His eyes were so very dark and hard, gleaming with something intent, indefinable, and the hard set of his mouth bespoke of little patience. His calm intensity unsettled her as Victor’s rough anger had not. She edged the dagger in warning. “What—what is it you want?”

“I want a great many things, Maris.” He stepped into the pool of torchlight, drawing close enough that the dagger’s blade wavered near his shoulder. “But my greatest desire is to hear an apology on your lovely lips.”

Suddenly, his hand shot out and closed around her wrist. Knowing the futility of struggle, she allowed the dagger to fall from nerveless fingers and it clattered to the floor.

She looked up at him, unable to speak…hardly able to keep her breath steady. He was close, so close and tall, broad and warm…familiar. She could even smell the clean, masculine scent of him above the scent of damp wool and clinging wood smoke.

“Come now, Maris, it cannot be that words have failed you.” His smile was arrogant, then faded into bitterness. “On the last we met, you accused me of treason in the presence of my lord…and, on the time before that, you left me to die in a pool of my own leavings.”

“I did not leave you to die,” she burst out, finding her voice. “I am a healer and I well knew what I did.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Oh, aye, of course that is what you say when faced with the other choice of admitting that you tried to kill me.” He leaned forward, so near that she could see the blue and black flecks in his furious eyes. “Did I not risk my life to help you at Breakston? First you repay me by attempting murder…and then, failing that, by trying to see me hanged for treason.” His fingers tightened around her wrist. “I should be praised for not choking the life out of you, woman.”