Forbidden Lord (3 page)

‘The occasion being?'

‘My daughter's wedding day,' Frederick flung at him smugly. A slight narrowing of his eyes was William's only reaction. What went on behind his cold visage Frederick could only guess at.

Understanding dawned on William. ‘Ah! So that is the reason for the celebration.' He shifted his gaze to Catherine, who was staring at him with an expression of stunned disbelief and was as white as a sheet. She was still holding the loving cup she had just shared with Henry. He smiled broadly and, removing his dripping hat, bowed his dark head politely.

‘I always knew you would make a beautiful bride, Catherine—I remember telling you so—but a marriage between us was not to be. I rejoice to see you well, and may I take this opportunity to congratulate you.' His gaze took in the man at her side. ‘Both of you. I wish you every happiness.'

From where Eleanor sat, her gaze encompassed her stepfather and the intruder. The strange atmosphere that threaded these two people together made her uneasy. It was as tangible as the air she breathed, and as mysterious as the strange gleam in Lord Marston's eye. As he moved closer to her stepfather, entirely assured, he emanated an angry vigour. There was arrogance and a certain insolence in the lift of his head and in the relaxed way in which he moved.

He was a man of impressive stature, tall and lean and as straight as an arrow with a whipcord strength that promised toughness, and, even in her predicament, she could not help but admire the fine figure he made. His curly dark brown hair sprang thickly, vibrantly, from his head and curled about his neck, a few threads of silver gracing his temples. He was
clean-shaven, his dark-complexioned face slashed with two black brows. His chin was juttingly arrogant and hard, his mouth firm, hinting at stubbornness that could, she thought, prove dangerous, making him a difficult opponent if pushed too far. Yet there were laughter lines at the corners that bespoke humour. But it was his eyes that held Eleanor. They were compelling, silver-grey and vibrant in the midst of so much uncompromising darkness, and they were settled on her stepfather, watchful and mocking.

‘Have a care what you accuse me of, Marston,' Frederick uttered, his face hardened into a mask of icy wrath. ‘You are a traitor and deserved to die along with the rest, and should you have returned from wherever it is you've been hiding these past three years before Queen Mary's demise, then your disobedience might have resulted in a long term of imprisonment in the Tower or the removal of your head.' His righteous display of anger fairly bounced off the walls.

The guests listened and stared in unbridled curiosity, leaning their heads together as they exchanged whispered comments. All eyes were on William, the gentlemen wondering how he had the audacity to come back so cocksure of himself after so long an absence, the ladies thanking God for the return of his handsome face. He didn't look worried; if anything, he looked supremely confident.

William's firm lips curved in a lopsided grin. ‘I doubt Queen Elizabeth will call for my blood.'

‘Aye, the Queen has a penchant for attractive young men,' Frederick uttered with scathing sarcasm. ‘Your sort will always find favour at the Court of Elizabeth—where, I suspect, you will idle your days dancing attendance on her, for it is only at Court where position is to be granted, offices to be won, and money to be made.'

‘The pursuit of wealth and position is a weakness in a man, which you should know all about, being prey to it yourself.'

Seeing the vivid alarm showing in Catherine's eyes and
startled by the flood of emotion on her face, bristling with resentment and pushed beyond the boundary of reason and caution by this man's sudden appearance and used to speaking her mind, Eleanor stood up, emboldened by the wine.

‘Can you not be satisfied that you escaped with your life, when others, good men, all of them, went to the block at Queen Mary's command?' Her voice rang out, clear and vibrant.

With considerable surprise, William turned. The piercing amber gaze from the girl's eyes almost knocked him back on his feet. A spark of desire was sent coursing through his body, and for a moment he was rendered speechless. What irresistible charms did Atwood have at Fryston Hall?

Attired in garnet silk with a stiffened belt of gold fastened round her tiny waist, she was quite tall and lithe, with rounded breasts—a body made to be touched by a man's hands. The skin of her face was creamy, glowing, a soft flush highlighting perfect cheekbones. Her lips were moist and the shade of coral that lay on the bottom of tropical seas, her eyes large and framed by sweeping dark lashes, her hair a warm shade of honey gold, thick and gently curling down her spine from beneath her bejewelled headdress.

His attention full on her, he moved slowly forward to stand before her, his eyes never leaving hers for an instant. They assessed her speculatively with that look that the male assumes when presented with an attractive woman. She was perfect, exquisite, and she reminded him of a young warrior queen, proud and unyielding. Who was she? Her lovely features, mirroring her thoughts, were clouded with undisguised resentment. For some unknown reason she was angry with him. What had he done to deserve her ire?

‘Is there something about me that you find distasteful?' he asked.

His voice came smooth and deep to Eleanor's ears, yet there was an amused mockery that seemed to scorn everything about the occasion and the people present. At the moment he
seemed relaxed and at ease, but she sensed that he was aware of everything that transpired around him.

‘Indeed, I have heard nothing to recommend you, sir.'

His wry smile indicated his surroundings. ‘You are not alone in that.'

Eleanor saw admiration in his perusal of her face and her breath caught in her throat, for he stood a head taller than any man present. She had the kind of beauty that drew men's eyes, and she knew it. Any visitor to Fryston Hall was quick to pay her compliments, especially the men.

William turned and arched a dark brow towards Atwood. ‘What lady is this,' he enquired, ‘who speaks so freely?' The silver-grey eyes settled on Eleanor's once more, capturing them with a calm coolness.

‘She is Mistress Collingwood,' Frederick provided with caustic venom, resenting the appraisal he had seen in Marston's eyes when he had looked at Eleanor. The mere thought that some other man might take what he coveted was enough to turn his mind, and if that man happened to be William Marston it could not be borne. ‘Her father was Edgar Collingwood—one of your fellow conspirators.'

Eleanor saw Lord Marston's brows lift and he could not hide his amazement, his bewilderment, but suddenly his expression cleared as though a candle had been lit in his mind, revealing the answer to the puzzle. Shock and dismay were mirrored in his look and his features softened. As he looked at Frederick Atwood there was cold hatred in his eyes.

‘So, you got what you wanted after all, Atwood, after all your scheming.' Turning to the irate young woman, he inclined his head with some modicum of respect. ‘My apologies, Mistress Eleanor. I didn't recognise you after all this time—all grown up and lovely to look at.'

Hearing him speak her name with a familiarity that bemused her caused Eleanor's composure to falter slightly. She might have seen him some time, possibly as a child, but
so many people had come to Hollymead she couldn't remember—although she could not imagine anyone forgetting meeting a man as striking as Lord Marston.

She checked herself, reminding herself that this man had been the cause of her father's downfall. He, too, had been arrested, and as a concession for betraying the names of his fellow conspirators he had been granted his freedom—although his properties were stripped from him. Afterwards, so word would have it, he had fled England to save his own skin. This injustice caused the softening of her features to yield beneath the onslaught of pure rage as her pride ached for revenge.

‘It is Mistress Collingwood to you, sir.'

William laughed softly, his teeth sparkling white in his tanned face. ‘I beg your pardon. Mistress Collingwood it is—until I know you better.' Now he knew who she was, he summed her antagonism up in a moment. Both he and her father had been involved in the same conspiracy, and she must resent the fact that he was alive, her father dead. He turned his attention back to Frederick. ‘I'm astonished to find Mistress Collingwood here beneath your roof. Your stepdaughter, is she?' He cast Frederick a look of frozen contempt. ‘You made Edgar Collingwood's widow your wife?'

‘That is my affair.'

‘So, you got what you planned all along. I congratulate you, Atwood. You are a connoisseur of manipulation and deceit. But, if Marian is now your wife, I find it strange not to see her seated beside you at your daughter's wedding.'

‘My mother is dead.' Eleanor's voice shook with the passion of remembrance, as if she wanted to dredge the bitterness and hurt from within her and cast it at this man's feet.

William met her gaze, understanding more than she realised. For a split second the intensity of his eyes seemed to explode and an expression Eleanor did not understand flashed through them, then it was gone. The mere thought of
Atwood touching Marian Collingwood sickened him. His brows knit together in a query.

‘I'm sorry to hear that. She was a fine lady. How long?'

‘October last year. Just four months.'

William digested this calmly. He knew Marian had been out of her mind when Edgar was executed. She had been a lovely woman, with a gentleness and unworldliness combined with a look of innocent sensuality. Being totally devoted to her husband and daughter, she had rarely come to London, much preferring to spend her days at Hollymead. She had been protected by her husband, and when she was at her most defenceless, when her mind was sorely wounded, she had fallen prey to Frederick Atwood, a man whose reputation was one of dissipation and debauchery—a man her husband had despised.

‘Tomorrow I travel to my home in the north—it was restored to my family when Queen Elizabeth came to the throne. I intend calling on Sir John Collingwood, your uncle, at Hollymead, since it was his petition that brought the matter to her Majesty's attention. I shall tell him I have seen you and found you in good health.'

‘Enough, Marston,' Frederick fumed. ‘Mistress Collingwood is none of your concern. Your presence in my house offends me, so get out. 'Tis a brave man who barges into my home uninvited.'

‘I am a cautious man, Atwood—as you can see,' William said with a slowly spreading sardonic smile, turning slightly to indicate his companion standing back in the doorway, a heavy crossbow held in massive fists directed at Frederick. ‘I come well prepared. May I present Godfrey, my loyal companion.'

Godfrey was a huge golden oak tree of a man, with a shaggy head the colour of a lion's pelt and his granite face half-covered by a curling beard. Every eye, as if drawn by a magnet, became riveted on this terrifying apparition with his feet braced wide apart. The wooden floorboards seemed to strain and creek as he moved forward, each stride twice that of an average man's.

William looked at Frederick, seeing how his face had tightened and paled, his brow dewed with sweat. He smiled. ‘Be wary of him, Atwood. Only a fool would court risk when he doesn't have to. Could I shoot the way my friend does, I'd never again pick up a sword.'

‘The devil he does,' Frederick hissed.

‘Godfrey obeys my orders to the letter. Providing he is given proper respect, left alone he is really quite placid—though I'm afraid he is not very refined. He is a master when it comes to his fists and with weapons—none finer—and, should any man feel inclined to test his skill and raise his sword against me, his arrow will pierce your heart before you can blink. So you see, Atwood, his foe might just as well commend his soul to the Almighty, for he is already dead.'

Frederick drew himself up in outraged disbelief. ‘You wouldn't dare threaten me.'

‘Try me,' William responded, his voice silky smooth, his eyes chips of ice. He moved closer. ‘I bid you farewell, Atwood, but heed me and heed me well.' Bracing his hands on the table and leaning forward so that his face was only inches from Atwood's, the words he next uttered were for him alone, but heard by those in close proximity, including Eleanor.

‘I shall pay you back in full measure for the harm you have done me and my family. I did not leave these shores by choice—as well you know. You made a serious error in crossing me—you made an even more serious one when you embarked on your crusade and chose me as the focus of your ill will. I am going to crush you. Not necessarily at once—there is no limit to my patience and determination. But I will do it. Before God I will. That I swear.'

Turning on his heel, he strode out, followed by Godfrey. Those who had witnessed the bitter altercation between the alderman and William Marston listened to the retreating footsteps until they could be heard no more, then there was a col
lective sigh of withheld breath and everyone began to talk at once, but there was no denying that his appearance had cast a mocking shadow over the festivities.

N
o one noticed when Eleanor, with a sense of abandoning herself to her fate, slipped out of the hall and ran in hot pursuit of Lord Marston.

She felt a twinge of doubt at what she was doing, as if she was about to make a decision that would have far-reaching consequences, but she refused to be deterred. With long, purposeful strides, Lord Marston and his companion were crossing to the outer door.

‘Lord Marston, wait—please wait,' she cried, glancing at the servants scurrying to and fro, too busy to dwell on Mistress Collingwood conversing with the intruder.

On hearing someone call his name, he spun round, his black cloak flaring from his broad shoulders like a bat's wings. He was unprepared for the impact of Mistress Collingwood's eyes as she steadily looked up into his face. They were an incredible shade of warm amber, framed in a thick spiked fan of dark lashes. They were quite glorious, but filled with a wary expression he'd once seen in a cornered feral cat.

Surprise registered on his stern features and then he smiled slightly and bowed his head. ‘At your service, Mistress Collingwood.'

‘Sir, I have need of your assistance.' Eleanor could sense
he was wary, that his guard was up. His face was expressionless, as were his eyes. This was a man who could hide his thoughts, whose thoughts could conspire to hide his emotions. The startling grey eyes rested on her ironically.

William turned to his companion. ‘Wait for me outside, Godfrey. Whatever it is Mistress Collingwood has to say won't take long.' Focusing his gaze on Eleanor, a muscle twitched in his cheek. ‘My curiosity is aroused. Of what help could I possibly be to you?'

‘Was it right what you said—that you are to go to York on the morrow?'

‘What of it?'

‘Will you take me with you?' she uttered quickly, quietly, lest she be overheard. She paused, watching him, waiting for his reaction. His brows lifted and his mocking silver eyes gazed right back.

Mistress Collingwood's earlier hostility and having found Catherine married to another made William brutal. ‘Well, I'll be damned! What makes you think I would want you or your company, Mistress Collingwood?'

Eleanor paled but she stood up to him and took a deliberate step closer. ‘Because you owe me.'

His eyes became wary. ‘I do? What I find odd,' he said with a tone of frosty disapproval, ‘is that I evoke such animosity in you—a man who is a stranger to you. It is clear you are embittered about something.'

‘Yes, and don't plead ignorance. You must know why.'

‘That is an interesting assertion.'

‘I am claiming a debt. Like I said, you owe me.'

William's eyes hardened and he moved closer to her so that they stood only inches apart. His jaw was rigid and a muscle was beginning to twitch dangerously in the side of his neck. ‘Be damned I do! I owe you nothing.'

Eleanor's face became flushed with ire and there was a thrust to her chin that told William she was ready for a fight.
‘It was you who deprived me of my father,' she accused bitingly, ‘or was it so long ago that you don't remember how you betrayed him and others before fleeing? You alone were responsible for sending him to the block, as bad a death as any, and I, of all people, having witnessed the wretchedness a beheading can cause, know how bad that was.'

William looked at her upturned face long and hard. ‘It would appear you have me hanged, drawn and quartered without granting me a fair trial, Mistress Collingwood,' he remarked drily.

‘And why should I grant you such a luxury? My father's trial was anything but fair.'

‘And you would know that?'

‘Yes. Yes, I do. He went to the scaffold bravely, repenting his sins, but he would not repent of his principles or his fidelity for the chance of forgiveness.'

William raised a sceptical brow. ‘If you believe I was the one responsible for betraying him and his fellow conspirators, if I am such a cold-hearted villain, then how do you know I won't balk at killing you also?'

Eleanor met his eyes without flinching, then dropped her gaze to the sword at his side. ‘I don't,' she said calmly, her anger beginning to diminish, ‘but I am so desperate to leave this place that I will take that risk. I would travel alone, which is what I intended anyway, but York is a long way and it is almost impossible for a woman to travel without an escort.'

‘So you claim I owe you some recompense and think to collect. And what do you think will happen when your stepfather discovers you have fled? He will hunt you down, that's certain. Besides, I am in a hurry. I cannot afford to have a woman hold me back.'

Eleanor eyed him with scorn. ‘You can afford anything you like if you wish to,' she said coldly.

‘The way I see it, what you need is a male escort to lend
you protection and a certain respectability. Whilst I can give you both, I grant you, you will be a hindrance to me.'

‘But you go to my uncle at Hollymead. You say you wish to thank him for petitioning the Queen on your behalf to have your property restored to you. That is your business—but would you be comfortable on your journey knowing I would be close on your heels?'

William wanted to tell her to forget it, but he was strongly attracted by the delicate pride in this young woman's bearing. There was also something about her stance, a vulnerable part of her behind the stubborn facade, that ignited a spark of sympathy. ‘It would seem you have the measure of me, Mistress Collingwood. And your stepfather?'

Eleanor moved to stand closer still to lend strength to her words. ‘My stepfather is the weight of my problem. He knows nothing of this. It concerns only me. If he should find out what I intend doing, he will draw and quarter me for sure. It's imperative that I leave. I beg your discretion.'

William peered at her. Her flesh gleamed rich and warm and his head was filled with the delicious scent of her. Something quickened that had lain dormant for a long time. It was a good feeling, but he did not intend nourishing it lest it weakened him.

Eleanor stood still, feeling suffocated by his nearness. He watched every line of her face as he considered her request, every fleeting expression. Nothing escaped those bright eyes. It pricked sorely that she had to wait, and had the cause been less dire she would have stormed off in disgust.

‘Earlier you spoke of my mother with kindness and I believed you to be sincere. Is this not the least you can do for her daughter? I promise you I will give you no trouble,' she hastened to assure him. ‘You won't even know I'm there.'

The silver eyes glinted and William's white teeth flashed as he laughed mockingly, thinking she would be hard to ignore at any time. ‘Not so haughty when you want something, are
you, Mistress Collingwood? Not so proud to seek my protection—and my company, I would like to think.'

She stiffened. ‘Your protection will do, sir. You can keep your company to yourself.'

‘What you ask is both reckless and foolhardy—and I would be a fool to agree to your request.'

‘Believe me, it is costing me a great deal to ask this of you. I am perfectly serious.'

‘I know you are. And if I refuse to take you?'

‘Then I shall go by myself—which I had planned to do anyway—tonight. I have everything prepared.'

His expression became serious. ‘So, you are that desperate.'

‘I am.' Her eyes hardened and her small chin tightened. ‘The years I have been at Fryston Hall have been like a lifetime. Everything that I had was lost to me, and while ever Mary Tudor remained on the throne my name was attainted by treason. Now Mary is dead, everything is different. I am a pauper here in my stepfather's house, so I may just as well be a pauper in my uncle's house. I will go back to Hollymead, even if I do have to depend on Uncle John's charity when I get there.'

‘And be humbled?'

‘Yes, that too. Yet I am still a Collingwood and very much my father's daughter. I would rather be dead than live here a moment longer. Now more than ever I have to escape this monstrous place—and the monster within it. You don't understand what it's like. I only ask that you believe me.'

‘I understand more than you realise. I know what it's like to be a prisoner and in fear of your life,' he said in a low voice, something dark and sinister belying his words that was not lost on Eleanor. ‘Are you not afraid of Atwood?'

‘I am afraid of no one.' Her clenched fists, flushed cheeks and the brilliance of her eyes told William so. ‘He keeps everyone under his control. He destroyed my mother's pride, her confidence and all belief in herself. I am willful; because
of this he treats me with a firmer discipline than he does his own daughter—and he will not be satisfied until he has replaced my mother with me. I hate him and I will leave here with or without your help.'

William drew a deep breath and by extreme effort of will replied casually, ‘There is much to consider.'

Eleanor felt a wave of desperation as she strove for control and to calm her mounting fears that he would refuse her request. ‘Normally I would not ask for your help for any reason whatsoever.' Damn him, she thought, her temper rolling over restlessly. He was enjoying every moment of her discomfort, of having her plead with him. ‘Well? Make up your mind,' she retorted sharply. ‘Will you take me?'

William had already made up his mind to let her travel with them. Despite his earlier resolution not to give a damn what her problems were, he was a little unnerved by Atwood's treatment of her and the threat he posed. He had no wish to be the cause of her stepfather ill treating her. Eleanor Collingwood looked harmless enough, but she'd be trouble, he just knew it. She needed protecting, he decided—and it was the least he could do for Edgar and Marian Collingwood, to see their daughter safe.

With surprise Eleanor was conscious that he was studying her with a different interest. His expression remained unreadable, and yet she felt the air between them reaching to her, drawing her towards him by some irresistible force. For all her aversion to him, there was an indefinable quality about him that communicated itself to her.

As he cocked an eye at her, his smile broadened, his face lighting up with such radiance that Eleanor was startled. Hope sprang into her heart. ‘Do you agree to let me travel with you?'

He laughed and there was a devilish glint in his eyes. ‘Common sense tells me you spell trouble, a heap of it, but knowing how furious Atwood will be when he finds you gone will be worth it. There will be no company of horse and standard bearer, but you can ride with us. We are staying at
the White Swan. We'll wait for you—but don't delay. I want to be on the road by sun up. We also travel light.'

Eleanor was so overwhelmed she suppressed the urge to twirl around with relief. Meeting his eyes, in the depth of her wretchedness she felt a small spasm of warmth and gratitude. She did not know this man or even why he was at war with her stepfather, but he had agreed to give her his protection.

‘So do I. I will be there—and I won't hinder you.'

She watched him leave before returning to the festivities. Lord William Marston had preyed on her mind for a long time; now she had seen him and spoken to him she was uncomfortable. For some inexplicable reason there was something about him that got under her skin and she was not looking forward to the journey to York with him and his fearsome companion, but anything was preferable to travelling alone—and worse, to remaining at Fryston Hall.

 

With her women laughing and fussing round her as they stripped off her wedding gown and prepared her for her marriage bed, Catherine turned and her eyes sought out Eleanor as a flimsy nightgown was pulled over her head. Irately she shooed her ladies away and, standing straight as a spear, her shoulders drawn back and her eyes gleaming in a rigid white face, she confronted her stepsister.

‘Well, Eleanor, what a turn out this is.'

Warned by something in her voice, Eleanor was instantly on her guard. There was a spark of malice in Catherine's eyes, and something else that Eleanor couldn't decipher.

‘You know what I'm talking about, so don't pretend you don't. William appeared to be very interested in you. I saw him look at you as if you were a kingdom he planned to conquer.'

‘Don't be dramatic, Catherine,' Eleanor reproached, trying to remain calm, going to the bed and beginning to turn the violet-scented sheets back. Catherine's voice reminded her of a sulky child.

‘Dramatic? He barely noticed me. I am well and truly heartlessly discarded in his eyes and now he hankers after my stepsister. But you will not have him, Eleanor. I will not let you.'

Catherine was in full spate and was clearly going to brook no argument. Eleanor stared at the demented, venomous woman and did not know her. Such malevolence sparked in her eyes that Eleanor involuntarily shivered. Why, she thought, she looks just like her father. Why had she not seen it before? Disturbed by her behaviour, Eleanor stared at her, unable to believe what Catherine was saying.

‘Please don't say such things,' she flared, angry and indignant. It was most unlike Catherine, but then tonight some perversity had her in its grip. ‘You know full well how much I detest William Marston and why.'

Stark emotion darkened Catherine's eyes. How could she tell anyone how she had felt when William appeared—on her wedding day of all days—that the mere sight of him had stirred all the old feelings of want and need and desire for this man, the man she would have married, and how angry she was to find herself married to another not of her choosing. Cheated! That was how she now felt, cheated. Vicious rage welled up within her when she remembered the way he had looked at Eleanor, the interest and admiration that had kindled in his eyes. It was not to be borne.

‘William is a man with a man's appetites, Eleanor—some of them base. I did not like the way you claimed his attention. You were brazen, speaking out as you did. You made him notice you.'