Destiny Lies Waiting (29 page)

She hated asked for help from anyone, but she had lost just about everything else at this point. Perhaps it was time to sacrifice false pride, too.

Of all the spiteful things Elizabeth had done to her over the years, the humiliations, the public beratings and private beatings, nothing could come close to marrying her off to the treacherous Valentine Starbury.

Still in a stunned haze, she managed to find a coherent string of words despite the fact that her aunt was looking at her as though she wished her in the deepest pit of hell.

"I am here to tell you that I do not intend to obey you with respect to marrying any man, least of all Starbury, when you yourself pointed out what an unsuitable choice he would be for any woman who wished to have a respectable and uneventful marriage."

Elizabeth smirked. "But I also told you that you had been seen at diverse times with him, in compromising situations, and I will not have you casting a shadow on this family any longer."

"At times when? 'Tis false!"

"You were seen having a lover's quarrel with him only the other day, so don't trouble to deny it or lie to me any longer. I would tolerate this behavior no more. As of now your chambers will be guarded around the clock. Either you marry him, or enter the convent. It is your choice."

"Then I choose the convent!"

"You have not enough property for them to take you."

Denys stiffened. "In that case, I certainly don't have enough for an ambitious man like Starbury either."

"There are all different kinds of currency with which to make a bargain, young miss. So mind your manners and do as you're told. And don't even think about defying me again! You are to behave like a proper court lady until your marriage, or I shall have you clapped into the Tower!"

Elizabeth snapped her fingers and two men-at-arms now stepped from the shadows before Denys could utter another word.

They took Denys by the elbows, and escorted her from the Queen's apartments so fast, her feet never even touched the floor.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Denys had not minded when she had been alone resting and recuperating after her ordeal in Leicestershire. But now that she was confined to her room by the Queen's guards twenty-four hours a day, the solitude rankled.

They flanked her chamber doors, held vigil at the foot of her bed, observed her every bite at mealtimes, monitored her at the privy, at her embroidery, at her music, and followed her back to bed.

Without a moment of privacy, she was beginning to think marriage to Valentine Starbury could not be much worse.

Escape wasn't possible now. If she had managed to get word to Richard, she might have had a hope of assistance. But she had not made her way north as she had hoped, and had not dared confide her suspicions in a letter which could have been intercepted by the Queen or anyone at the court spying on her.

The stark truth was staring her in the face: she had no ally assisting her. She wasn't even allowed to write letters. Even if she had had pen and parchment, she knew whatever she wrote would be seen by the Queen. She was under virtual house arrest, with no one to turn to, and sat miserably contrasting her present fate with what she had hoped might be when Valentine had first given her the clue regarding the Duchess of Somerset.

Ah, Valentine, that traitor. She had been so close to falling in love with him, thinking they might have a future together after all despite their silly misunderstandings. Now he had betrayed her to her worst enemy, her own erstwhile aunt.

Yet if the Somerset lead had not been a valid one, then why had poor Ian died? For the more she thought about it, the more she felt it was too odd a coincidence that he had happened to be in her chamber just as it was going up in flames, and had perished. She wished now she had asked to see his body…

But she had nearly lost her own life. And now her aunt was forfeiting hers in earnest by marrying her to Valentine Starbury, who had all of the chivalry of a tom cat and had been bought off with her dowry and goodness only knew what other offers of royal preferment the wily Elizabeth might have enticed him with. Though knowing her, she certainly had no intention of keeping her end of the bargain…

Thus Denys' grim thoughts turned, and turned again.

She spent many hours sitting in her chambers quietly strumming random chords on her lute, deep in misery, feeling like a mouse being toyed with by a tabby. Yet despite herself she began to hope…

She recalled the revulsion that shuddered through her when she had read her aunt's command that she wed Richard.

She tried to conjure up that same reaction now, at the thought of marrying Valentine. But it was like trying to convince herself that she hated flowers and romance. The attraction between them was undeniable.

She couldn't force herself to feel repulsed at him. She couldn't prevent her heart from fluttering as his visage appeared in her mind's eye. She couldn't stop the flush spreading over her cheeks when she beckoned the memory of that first kiss, which was many times each day—and night.

She even began to believe he'd been telling the truth when he'd pleaded his innocence. Could he have committed such an unspeakable act as to plot her death with Bess?

No, even though all appearances were against him, she didn't want to believe he was capable of something so heartless. He was Richard's friend. Surely they could not be so different, the one so honest and upright he had steel for a backbone, the other so treacherous he would have killed an inn full of innocent people to keep whatever secret the Queen wanted to hide?

She shook her head. No, not her Valentine.

Stiffening her back at how tender her thoughts of him had become, she reached to take the white rose from her bed stand drawer. She scooped up the fallen petals and made a move to toss them all into the fire.

But she couldn't. She held one to her cheek, inhaled its lingering scent, and returned them all to the drawer once more with a sigh.

Finally she sat down and asked herself quite honestly: Do you really want to escape marriage to Valentine, even suspecting what you do?

Her honest answer came faster than she expected.

No, she didn't….

The question was, how could she wed him without ever being sure of the truth? About her family, or about the man she was about to marry?

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

As Denys slept she felt a gentle brush upon her cheek. She smiled dreamily, knowing it was real. That familiar touch, the strong fingers roughly calloused, yet so tender.

With a kittenish yawn, she opened her eyes and saw the kind face smiling down at her, the eyes as blue as the morning sky that framed them.

"Uncle Ned!"

"'Aye, 'tis only I, dear one. Good morn. Before departing for France, I wanted to bid you Godspeed—my little Dove is going to be a married lady soon."

She sat up and wound her fingers through his tightly. She never wanted to let go of him, she wanted him protecting her always. Did she dare confide in him all that had happened to her, what she suspected?

But he was already slipping away from her, sitting up against the post at the foot of the bed. "I wish I could be there to give you away, my dear."

"Uncle Ned, I'm going to miss you so much. I knew this had to happen someday, but now that 'tis upon me, I—" She faltered, shrugged.

She didn't have to explain; he knew what she meant.

"I know, dear; don't think many a man doesn't feel just that way when facing the prospect of marriage. I would have lived my days in carefree bachelorhood, but there are forces stronger than we that dictate certain rites of passage we must obey."

"Well, Uncle Ned, I knew I had to become a woman some time," she said, and they shared a laugh, for they both knew since she'd been back at court, the prattle had usually centered on the Queen's spinster niece and what to do with her.

"Valentine will make a fit husband, I promise," Uncle Ned assured her with a wink.

"Oh, Uncle Ned, 'tis not like he proposed to me personally. He's as happy with his bachelorhood as—" her voice lowered, "—well, as you were, sire."

"Somehow I have a feeling he would have proposed had he a chance. Richard summoned him up to Yorkshire so hastily, he barely had time to pack a pair of trews. But from what I've seen, though he never confided in me personally, I could tell he wished to win your heart. Many a marriage takes place without a heart, sadly, too many." He sighed, yet never lost that dimpled smile.

She knew it was his own marriage he was referring to. "Well, I've always wanted someone to love me, Uncle Ned. Oh, I know you love me. But I meant—that way." She turned away, knowing she was blushing scarlet.

"In a romantic way." He always knew what she was feeling, could put it into words ever better than she. "Roses and moonlight. Kisses and caresses. Two souls joined as one."

Oh, how he knew!
But what else did he know about his own wife, and how Valentine might even at this very moment be planning not only her wedding, but her funeral?

"You shall have your wish. And I shall see you again as soon as I can arrange a progress north."

"Oh, please, Uncle, do you really want me to marry him?" she found herself blurting out. "And if all is so well and as innocent as it seems, why am I being kept to my chamber with an armed guard?"

He blinked at that, and glanced around. "Why, to make sure you are not talked about. Nor that Valentine shall pluck the rose before it is in full bloom. You're forgetting, I've seen the way the two of you look at one another. The Queen is merely trying to make sure that no seven-month infant makes an appearance and causes any of us scandal."

"Uncle Ned!" she gasped in protest. "I never—"

"Nay, and you won't get the chance now," he said with mock severity. "Not until you are decently wed."

"But Uncle, I hardly even know—"

"Take my word for it, my dear, sometimes you are better not knowing." He shook his head.

"Is that not letting the person get away with their er, crimes, scot free?" Denys said, sitting up more fully in the bed to look at him intently.

He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand as if to ease a stubborn ache. "Aye, mayhap. But Valentine is a forthright man. I have got to know him as my brother's staunch friend, and now an able councilor and ally. He may not be perfect, my dear, but then what man is. He has most definite personal regard for you, and you seem to like him. He is an upcoming man with all of his titles and responsibilities, and in all honesty, the only thing I've ever heard said about him is how fond women are of him. He is merely taking the fruits which are offered, not raiding the orchards, my dear."

She smiled despite herself. "Is that all you know of him, then?"

"Aye, except that 'tis a rare thing to not get talked badly about at court. There was some nonsense about him not acquitting himself well at the last battle, but all it was in the end was ignorant female tittle tattle from George's silly wife. So all I can say is, you can do worse."

Her brows knit, but he rose to his feet, clearly of the opinion that the discussion was at an end. She would have asked more, but he leaned over to kiss her farewell. She wound her arms round those strong, sturdy shoulders, which looked massive even under the plain linen shirt he was wearing.

He planted a kiss atop her head, then cupped her face in his warm hands, wiping her tears away with his thumbs.

"Don't cry, Dove," he whispered. "I'll always be here for you if you ever need me. And you'll soon have a new husband to discover earthly delights with. And while I know you have an honest maiden's fears, trust me, it will be all right. There are many to look forward to."

She knew Uncle Ned was all too acquainted with life's earthly delights. The trouble was, it was life's miseries she feared, married to a man who did not love her.

He kissed his finger and pressed it to her lips. He rose and slipped on a heavy robe in royal purple.

Then Uncle Ned was King Edward once more. With a last formal bow, he departed without another word, duty taking him away from her once more, and leaving her alone again in her luxurious but cold, desperate prison.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

The Queen's dressmaker arrived on the eve of her nuptials with a magnificent satin wedding gown. Its neck was dramatically low, its sleeves slashed and flowing, lined with ermine, the bodice trimmed with rubies.