“That sounds like sulking to me,” Arden said.
“Leave her alone and she will recover soon enough.”
“How can you be so uncaring?” Margaret cried.
“You loved your sister once, and made no secret of it. From the way
you greeted her the other day, I think you still do love her.”
“My feelings for Catherine are not your
concern,” he said.
“They most certainly are!” Margaret
exclaimed. “Catherine is my dearest friend, and I fear for her
health. If she continues as she has been doing for the last few
days she will suffer a relapse and, good as my nursing skills are,
I will not be able to cure her affliction, for it is caused in part
by your indifference. Arden, surely you do not want your sister's
death on your conscience?”
He looked at her in silence for so long that
Margaret began to tremble under the impact of his pale gaze.
Arden's eyes were no longer icy. They seared Margaret's very soul
with heat, and with a bottomless pain she could not begin to
comprehend. She had seen the same startling pain once before, when
he had faced her in the great hall after sending Catherine away in
tears.
It occurred to her that the anger Arden had
displayed since discovering his sister and cousin and Margaret all
at Bowen was not really meant for them, nor were they in any way
the cause of his wrath. There was something else, some canker of
the soul, eating at him. The words with which he finally broke the
drawn-out stillness between them proved as much to Margaret.
“I have enough on my conscience,” Arden said,
“without adding Catherine's death to the terrible weight.” Pulling
the door wide open he asked, “Do you wish to come in, or shall we
talk in the solar?”
“I think the solar would be better,” she
answered, not wanting to risk the enclosed intimacy of his
bedchamber, or the distraction of the memories that sight of the
huge, curtained bed would certainly invoke.
“You are right, of course. The solar would be
a better place to talk.” Arden strode to the solar fireplace and
tossed a new log onto the flames that Margaret insisted must be
kept burning, in case Catherine should decide to leave her room and
come there. Dusting off his hands, he glanced out the window, to
where the wind blew granules of snow through the darkening air.
Night came early in January, and though there were a few breaks to
be seen in the clouds, Sir Wace was predicting that more snow would
fall by morning.
With a sigh of frustration for the weather,
and for human frailties, Arden gave his full attention to the
slender woman who stood so quietly before him. Save for her hands
and face she was completely covered by her white linen wimple and
her dark blue gown. Even so, the image of Margaret unclothed
persisted in his mind, tantalizing him with the memory of the sweet
curves of her breasts and of her long, graceful legs. He was
astonished to discover within himself a faint resurgence of
physical longing for her. He counteracted the unwanted weakness of
his flesh with a cold stare and an equally cold question.
“Well, Lady Margaret, what is it you wish to
say to me?”
“The other day you expressed surprise at
learning that Catherine is unmarried,” Margaret began. “Though she
is only a year younger than I and well past the age for marriage,
she has never wed because she has been waiting for Tristan to
return to her. Something he said or did all those years ago at
Cliffmore Castle led her to believe Tristan wanted her. In her
letters to me over the years, Catherine repeatedly mentioned
opportunities she has had to marry. For Tristan's sake she has
rejected every man who asked for her. She has been allowed to do so
because, unlike my father, Royce of Wortham is not a man to force
his daughter unwilling into marriage,” Margaret ended her
explanation on a slightly bitter note.
“I suppose Tristan didn't know how she felt,”
Arden said. “Or, if he knew, he may have deemed her affection only
a young girl's fondness that would change when she grew older.
Tristan is an honorable man. He cannot have said anything definite
to her, for he would never forswear his pledged word. Furthermore,
I am certain he would not speak to Catherine on so important a
matter without obtaining our father's permission first, and I know
he never did. Lady Margaret, I can only conclude that Tristan had
no idea how Catherine felt about him in those days.”
“Is the man blind?” Margaret cried. “Couldn't
he see her heart in her eyes each time she looked at him? Couldn't
he see what Catherine is worth, how loyal and warmhearted and good
she is?”
“I am grateful to know my sister has a friend
so true and loving.” The heat of Margaret's speech warmed Arden's
heart a little, so he was able to regard her with something
approaching friendliness. He even managed a faint, rare upward
curve of his mouth. The moment quickly passed and Arden felt
himself returning to his usual cold and remote demeanor. He said
exactly what he was thinking as he gazed at her pure, oval face.
“For the foolishness they teach to women, all troubadours should be
burned at the stake. The romantic love they sing about does not
exist. It is only an illusion.”
“You may be right,” Margaret said. “Never
having loved or been loved, I do not know. If love between men and
women does exist, I think it must be a most impractical emotion and
possibly quite dangerous, to judge from Catherine's condition.
Arden, I don't think you ought to blame the troubadours and their
songs for your sister's suffering. If you must blame someone, blame
Tristan.
“We must think of a way to cheer Catherine,
to rouse her out of her deep despair, for she cannot continue as
she is,” Margaret went on, apparently coming to the reason why she
had intercepted Arden in the first place.
“Catherine will have to learn to accept what
she cannot change,” Arden said. “It is a hard lesson, but one we
all must learn eventually.”
“We could help her. We could make acceptance
easier for her,” Margaret said. “I believe this is a task we ought
to approach together, though I know full well you do not like
me.”
“Not like you?” Arden said softly, startled
by the remark. “Is that what you think, Lady Margaret?”
He gazed into her beguiling silver-gray eyes,
so filled with worry for his sister, and he wished he could see
them hold half so much solicitude for him. He had no right to the
concern of any honest woman, yet Arden found himself wishing to see
Margaret looking upon him with kindness.
“You have made it clear, you do not want me
at Bowen Manor,” she said in answer to his questions. “I do
appreciate how inconvenient it is to have me here.”
“Do you?” he murmured, watching with
fascination the way her lips formed each word. When she was
thinking about something other than her distaste for him and her
desire to enter a convent, Margaret's mouth was not nearly as
severe as it appeared at first glance. Her lower lip had a tender
curve to it, and her teeth were white and even.
To his dismay, Arden discovered that he
wanted to run his tongue along the curve of Margaret's lip, to ease
slowly past her teeth, into the honeyed depths of her mouth. He
wanted to hear her gasp of surprise, followed by her soft,
acquiescing moan as she opened to him. From her innocent reaction
when he had caressed her naked body, he did not think any man had
ever put his tongue into Margaret's mouth. Arden wished he had
taken advantage of the opportunity when it was available to him. He
had not kissed Margaret on the mouth during the brief episode in
his bed. Looking at her sweet lips, he regretted that he had
not.
God's Holy Teeth! The woman was on her way to
a convent! Were it not for the terrible weather, she would already
be safely cloistered and out of his reach.
Moreover, in the days when Arden had taken
women as freely as any other young knight did, before he had
resolutely put sexual passion aside as part of the penance he laid
upon himself in punishment for the sins he had committed, he had
always preferred short, buxom wenches with big breasts that
overflowed his hands during the preliminaries, and that provided
soft pillows in the aftermath of lust. And he liked females with
well-rounded hips and thighs that opened readily to receive
him.
Margaret was too thin and so tall that her
eyes were almost level with his. She was much too proud and
independent for his taste. How could any man want a woman who dared
to defy parental authority as she was doing? Bedding Margaret would
be like riding a bony, plodding nag, who refused to obey her
master's commands.
So Arden told himself, trusting in the crude
image to cool the sudden heat flaring in the lower depths of his
body. How odd, then, that the picture he saw in his mind was not of
a skinny, awkward nun, but the alluring shape of a slender, gently
curved nymph with skin like cream and hair like smooth silk...and
small, upthrusting breasts that fit perfectly into his hands. He
could almost feel the imprint of her hardened nipples against his
palms.
He was forced to turn his back to Margaret
and stare out the window for a time, until his uncontrollable male
reaction to the mental image of her naked in his bed had eased.
His bed sheets still held a faint remnant of
her perfume. He could have asked for them to be changed, but he had
not done so, preferring to treat the arousal the fragrance brought
him each night as a form of penance. He had been successful in
fighting his desire for this over-aged, would-be nun. Until
now.
Arden was shocked and shamed by the strength
of a longing that could find no acceptable outlet. He told himself
what he was feeling was a memory from his youth, a fragment of what
once had been, from a life that no longer existed. A woman's body
was not for him. Never again.
“Arden, please.” Margaret laid a hand on his
arm, seeming not to notice the shudder of desire that went through
him at her touch. “I beg you, set aside your dislike of me so we
can devise some way to hearten Catherine and bring her out of her
despair. If she is cheerful, she will more easily throw off the
chest congestion that has kept her coughing for days.”
“Catherine is foolish to care so deeply for a
member of the opposite sex. Noble folk ought to have more control
over their emotions,” Arden said, fully aware of the irony that he,
who was having the greatest difficulty in controlling his own
emotional impulses, should speak such words. “Still, I do not like
to see my sister ill and unhappy.”
“Do you mean you will work with me?” Margaret
asked, her eyes lighting and a hopeful smile beginning to appear on
her delicious lips.
“It depends on what you are about to
suggest,” Arden answered. He made himself look away from her in
hope of escaping the temptation to place his mouth on hers. It
would do no good if he did kiss her, and she would only be hurt by
his action. Nor could he allow himself the weakness of tender
emotion. Any hint of softness, any loosening of the tight bonds he
kept upon his feelings, would undo him. All that was left to him
were the illusions of pride and of honor, both of which would be
destroyed soon enough, once he met his father. All the same, he was
duty-bound to do what was right for his sister.
“While I believe Catherine's unhappiness is
in large part caused by the loss of Tristan,” Margaret said, “your
openly expressed anger at her was a blow to the heart.”
“Rightful anger,” Arden retorted, bristling a
little.
“I am sure you believe that is so.” Margaret
spoke quickly, before he could begin to scold her. “However, as
Catherine saw the situation, she was in the midst of a joyful
reunion with a beloved brother whom she had not seen in years. She
thought you would fall in with her plans, as you used to do when
you were children.”
“We are no longer children,” Arden noted with
a frown.
“I am to blame, too,” Margaret said. “Sorely
to blame, as I have already admitted to you.”
“Yes, you are,” Arden said, and did not add
that she was also to blame for the unwanted desires he was
enduring. “What do you expect me to make of these statements of
yours, Lady Margaret? True as they are, I hear nothing in them to
help Catherine.”
“Can't you see how problem piled upon problem
has overset her?” Margaret cried. “Catherine went to Sutton Castle
thinking she was to attend me at a joyful wedding. Instead, I
pleaded with her to help me escape, an action she found difficult
to accept. Then came the escape, and the cold and frightening ride
to Bowen. She knows how violent my father's reaction will be to
what we have done if he finds us, yet she took the risk for my
sake. Two days after we reached Bowen, you arrived, and on the
heels of Catherine's soaring joy at seeing you again came the news
about Tristan. So many emotional blows so quickly dealt are enough
to drive anyone to take refuge in her bed.”
“All of those blows did not overset you,”
Arden said.
“I have not lost a man I love, from whom I
had hope of marriage,” Margaret said. “Nor do I have a beloved
brother who refuses to acknowledge my unhappiness, nor a severe
chill that has settled in my lungs. Catherine suffers from all of
these afflictions.”
They were standing close together. Arden's
gaze bored into Margaret, but the mysterious veil at the back of
his eyes was firmly in place, so she could not begin to guess at
his thoughts. She only knew she wanted to touch him. Drawn to him
while at the same time frightened by the passionate emotions he
evoked in her, she stood quaking like the young girl she had once
been, waiting for him to make the first move.
“What do you suggest we do for her?” he
asked.
“I thought perhaps you and I could pretend to
be friends,” Margaret said, “and include Catherine in our
conversations.” She did not mention Aldis, fearing what his
reaction would be if she added his cousin to their group.