Shana Abe (13 page)

“I do beg your forgiveness, Majesty. In the midst of the haste and excitement over our arrival, it seems I have forgotten to mention that Lady Kyla has done me the honor of becoming my wife.”

The shock of his words reverberated throughout the chamber, igniting a buzz of comment that even Henry could not suppress. He slouched in the chair, unblinking, lips slightly pursed. Eventually he raised his hand again and the noises stopped.

“I do humbly beseech you,” said Roland, keeping his own stare pinned to the monarch’s, steely hard despite his careful words, “not to separate me from my new bride.”

A slight smile took Henry.

“I see,” he said.

The tension in Kyla had turned to something else, something less defined, full of surprise. Roland brought her hand up to his lips and kissed the back of it, slanting a warning look to her.

She was stoic, only the storms in her eyes giving her away. He lowered their joined hands, looking back at Henry.

Roland was intensely aware that his spur-of-the-moment plan could explode in his face. All Henry had to do was order him to stay in the Tower with Kyla, instead of releasing her to him. Then they would both be stuck.

“I have promised, kind liege, to show her the sights of Lorlreau as soon as may be. She has had a hard winter and is in sore need of rest.” He hurried on, realizing that perhaps nothing could be more restful than months confined to one
room. “I have promised her the good air of Lorlreau will be all that she will need as a balm to her spirit, as she is a balm to mine.”

Henry’s smile vanished as soon as Roland mentioned Lorlreau, replaced now with suspicious consideration. He wasn’t happy with this unexpected announcement. Roland knew the king was wrestling with the idea of letting Kyla go, and thus letting go of any hope of resolution in the deaths of Gloushire and the baroness. He decided to push his luck just a bit farther.

“My men are weary,” he said indifferently, as if it meant nothing. “They are eager to return home to Lorlreau, and their families.”

There, he had said it, the subtle implication, the gentle words really meaning nothing gentle at all. Henry understood him clearly, he knew. They had known each other too long not to pick up on the delicate messages in seemingly innocent words. Henry knew exactly what Roland was saying, but would never openly say.

Roland’s men were many and fierce. They were also famous for their unwavering loyalty to him, just as Roland was known for his loyalty to Henry. The stories of the Hound of Hell had never been all that embellished. They had never had to be; the truth was staggering enough.

The loss of Roland’s trust in his king could be a very damaging thing, indeed. Very damaging.

He was gambling with everything he had ever wanted in this moment, and for an instant wondered if he had gone mad to do so. If Henry didn’t back down, Roland’s life would be as good as forfeited, his lands lost, his people cut loose and defenseless. It was insanity to risk such a thing.

But in his hand was Kyla’s delicate one, and she grasped him as if he were her only lifeline. He knew he was, and the urge to help her was overwhelming. Never had he known such an awareness of another person before she leapt into his life. He had never felt the desire she produced in him, nor the wonder at her hidden strengths, her sheer physical beauty.

She was staring up at him now, eyes shuttered, considering
him, calculating his risks. The edges of her hair hung down to tickle his hand where it held hers, a burning singe of awareness of the melting red of it. And that was just her
hair
, for God’s sake.

“Married,” said Henry at last, shaking his head, breaking off the challenge in the look he had held with Roland.

Roland knew in that instant he had won. He had seen that small shake before, though it had been seldom. It meant the king was stymied.

At least for the moment.

“Aye.” Relief flooded through Roland. He tried to keep it out of his voice.

“We suppose, Strathmore, that We cannot make a liar out of you to your fair young bride by denying your promise to her.”

Kyla’s fingers trembled for a moment in his, just a twitch, then were still again.

“Very well. We will release her to your custody and allow you both to travel back to Lorlreau. Mind you, We may call you back at any time, no matter about the nonsense of the good air of Lorlreau.”

Roland grinned. “You yourself called it thus, Sire, when you last visited.”

“Aye, well, so I did,” Henry grumbled, dropping his kingly manner for a moment. “Just make sure you are there when I need you, Strathmore.”

“I always am.”

“All right. Go on with you, then, both of you. Good journey and all that.” Henry stood up and crossed to his bed. The clusters of men parted immediately for him to pass.

Roland bowed to the king’s back, pulling Kyla’s hand down to curtsy when she didn’t move to follow him. She dipped down carelessly, and almost before she was finished he was pulling her to the door.

“Strathmore,” called out Henry, as if he had forgotten something. Roland turned and Kyla edged closer to him. He put an arm around her shoulders.

“Buy your lady some proper clothing. The next time I see her, I don’t want her wearing rags.”

Roland bowed again, smiling, and this time he didn’t have to prompt Kyla to follow. Together they backed out of the main doors and into the antechamber beyond.

Chapter Seven

S
he couldn’t believe it. How easy it had been for him, how smoothly the lie had slid past his lips, how totally convincing the words were, combined with the steady purpose of his gaze and that polished smile.

Henry had believed it! He had let her go!

Kyla had to fight not to pull her hand from Roland’s and go leaping with joy out to the king’s hall. They were not out of danger yet; there were still people everywhere, even here in the antechamber—guards and servants and nobles, all of them staring, whispering, beginning to come toward them. But she wanted to run and shout and laugh and keep running until she was home safe again, home to Rosemead.

Empty Rosemead.

Roland tucked her arm firmly under his, pulling her close, keeping his eyes ahead of them.

“We haven’t much time,” he said to her quietly.

“Time?” She had all the time in the world now, thanks to him, and so didn’t understand his remark, the urgent undertone to his voice, but turned her head and smiled up at him.

“If Henry uncovers the deception, he will punish us both.”

Kyla felt the slender pulse of joy drain out of her at his words; a new trap lay suddenly yawning at her feet. Some of the people were openly walking toward them now, full of false cheer, ablaze with curiosity.

Roland captured her gaze with his own, sober and bright. “Do you plight me your troth, Lady Kyla?”

She gaped up at him, the room began to spin, her feet faltered. Roland yanked her back up. He began to walk faster, away from the line of people edging closer who were now calling out their names in cultured tones. It would not do to shout in the king’s antechamber, no, but they were close to it, these men and women.

“Say it now, Kyla, or we will both be lost. Neither of us will see home again.”

“I …” Was he joking? Could he be serious, the lie suddenly transformed to truth, or else … what?

The Tower, the Tower for both of them, not just her, but this man as well, her enemy. Yet he had risked himself to save her. Good God, of course, it was so clear now, he couldn’t let her go, not after that scene with Henry. She wasn’t free at all. And now, neither was he.

With a few simple words from him to the king he had placed himself at risk to help her, and she had thought it so foolhardy, so obviously untrue, that her whole body had broken out in a cold sweat even next to the fireplace. She had been waiting for Henry to laugh at the jest, or to order them furiously back to the Tower, or to pick apart the lie and throw it back at their feet, defying them to prove it.

But no, Roland had judged well. Henry had swallowed his protests in that harrowing, endless moment and accepted the false fact of their union.

Now she knew the fact could not remain false, or the consequences could be unimaginable.

She faltered again, and again Roland pulled her up, his body warm next to hers, the doors still so far away.

They were well and truly snared in the net he had spun. If she didn’t marry him, if Henry found out about the deception—

“Strathmore!” came a man’s hearty tones, commanding, close.

“My lord!” came another voice from the other side of the room.

They were friends and acquaintances of her parents’, some just a blur of faces, vague recollections from times past, and they were all converging on the two of them now, right now. They were never going to make it to the door leading out to the hallway.

“Say it,” urged Roland under his breath, squeezing her arm.

A woman stepped in front of them, glittering in a crimson gown with gold edging, a billowing scarf surrounding her headpiece. She wore a puzzled smile, she was looking at Kyla, saying her name. She was almost upon them.

“I plight thee my troth, Lord Strathmore,” Kyla whispered quickly.

Roland glanced down at her, the lines around his mouth loosening, something like relief in his eyes. “And I to thee,” he said quietly, just so she could hear him, and then the others were there around them.

“My dear girl,” said the woman, reaching out a hand to her.

“Strathmore,” said a man to her left, a chorus of voices surrounding them, bodies crowding close, some clapping Roland on the shoulder, jarring them, taking careful note of her appearance—the plain gown, the rents, the stains, her loosened hair, what would they think?—then Roland’s possessive hold on her arm grew gentler. He pulled her slightly in front of him, blocking her from the mass of people as best he could.

Kyla lifted her head higher. The lady in the crimson gown came closer, a swell of women behind her.

“Do you remember me, Kyla?” asked the woman, and the strangeness of her features blended into something more familiar. Her mother’s friend, a lady-in-waiting, as Helaine had been, a kind face among the many.

“Lady Elisabeth.” Kyla was surprised at how normal her voice sounded. “Of course I remember.”

“Successful journey, then, eh, Strathmore?” said a man loudly, drowning out the other voices.

The crowd became quieter, the avid gazes landing first on her, then on Roland, who replied, “A great success, I should think, Jared.”

There was something peculiar in the air, Kyla noticed, a subtle, grasping hunger she had not encountered here at court before. No one was pretending not to stare at her. There were no discreet whispers behind fans or hands now, but rather a more flagrant rudeness that went beyond even what she had experienced with the soldiers. These people knew better than to stare at her. She was to be protected. She was the daughter of a noble family. She was one of them.

But of course, she realized, she wasn’t one of them any longer. It hadn’t taken the ruined bliaut and wild hair to make them realize that. From the moment her mother’s body had been discovered in Gloushire’s bed, her family was disgraced, set apart from all the others, if for no other reason than that the transgressions of the Rosemeads had taken on such a public hue. Private sins, yes, were certainly allowable, but public ones were quite different. Kyla was open game to them now.

“Indeed!” said another man, leering. “You’ve caught the plum of the Rosemeads, by heavens.”

“But now what to do with her, eh?” said the hearty-voiced man, standing by her elbow, reeking of perfume. There were several suggestions from the crowd.

“I’ll take the plum, by God. I’ve got a pie for her!”

“Nay, she’ll stay sweeter with me!”

Some of the women began to make fretful noises, feigning shock, but before anyone could say anything else Roland interrupted, his voice mild and carrying.

“I would take care with what you say of my wife.”

In the ensuing silence he flattened his palm on her shoulder, then moved it openly across her collarbone in a disturbingly sensual motion, pulling her back to rest against the front of him.

Kyla fought the blush that rose in her cheeks.

Lady Elisabeth, directly in front of them, recovered first. She gave a strange smile, then deliberately separated herself from the crowd, leaning over and kissing Kyla lightly on the cheek.

“Congratulations. I am sure your mother would be most pleased.”

Kyla thanked her, or at least tried to thank her, but by then the others were commenting, their rising disbelief and forced jocularity combining, the noise level drowning out her words. She could hear her heartbeat thudding in her ears, and she could feel Roland’s pounding against her back. The heat of his body felt good, a solid calm amid the storm surrounding them, a focal point for her. She closed her eyes momentarily, blocking the turmoil, and then everything else faded away and all she could feel was his heartbeat, regular, strong, and the palm of his hand resting at the curve of her neck, his fingers light against her skin.