His Lady's Ransom. Merline Lovelace
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barons would play you brothers against each other, and you both against your father, all for their own gain.”
He hesitated, as if debating whether to speak further. For a moment, the only sound that disturbed the chapel’s stillness was the unsynchronized rhythm of their breathing, hers quick and shallow, his heavy and slow.
Madeline saw the doubt in his eyes. With a perception honed by years of closeness, she sensed that John hovered on the brink of some momentous decision. Fear for him clutched at her heart. He courted disaster. She felt it in her very bones.
“Of all his sons, the king loves you best,” she told him quietly. “Were you to turn against him, his rage would be ungovernable.”
Despite her anger with the king at this moment, Madeline knew that John had not the strength to defy him, not without losing his soul to the greedy barons who would use him.
He stared down at her, his dark eyes unfathomable, then shifted his shoulders, as if pulling at a garment that was too tight for him. “Come, do you think because I could not turn the king’s decision to give you into de Burgh’s keeping that I plot some mischief?”
“My lord…”
He waved aside her concern. “You were ever one to let your imagination run away with you, Maddy.”
She bit her lip, knowing it was useless to press him when his eyes took on that hard, black glitter.
“Look you, ‘tis not so bad,” he said, with an attempt at reason. “You’re not being forced to marry the man. He but holds you in keeping.”
“Aye,” she acknowledged with a sigh. “Would that it were any man other than this one.”
“I don’t know him well, but he has a reputation for being fair and evenhanded with those in his care.”
“Oh, so? He threatened to beat me but a few moments ago.”
John’s black brows flew up in astonishment. “Lord Ian?”
“Aye, Lord Ian.”
“What start is this? You can twist any male old enough to wear braies around your finger with your lightsome laugh and slanting, sloe-eyed looks. I’ve seen you do it often enough.”
“’Twould appear the earl cares not for my laugh, nor for my looks!”
John appeared thoroughly taken aback for a moment. Then he curled one knuckle under Madeline’s chin to lift her face to his.
“If he does not, I do.”
Madeline felt her breath catch at the dark, lambent flame that flared in his eyes. Not for the first time, she wondered why she didn’t give in to the invitation John issued each time he touched her of late. She was no stranger to desire, for all that she’d tasted it briefly enough in her short marriages. She’d seen it more and more in the looks the prince gave her since she’d returned to the king’s ward this time. From the way his finger now moved softly on the skin of her underjaw, Madeline knew she had just to smile, to give the barest nod, and he’d take her to his bed. As the court believed he already had.
The thought flitted into her mind that if she lay with John, mayhap he would try again to convince the king to give de Burgh gold or some other rich widow as ransom. As quickly as the thought came, she dismissed it. She had little enough control over her life, but she had her own sense of honor. Were she to whore with John—whatever the troubadours chose to call it—she would lose that small part of herself she held dearest.
In that tiny corner of her soul, the one she kept private, Madeline knew she wanted more than what John offered. Much as she loved this friend of her heart, she felt no passion for him. No shivers raced down her spine at his glance. Her blood didn’t leap in her veins when he pressed his lips to hers in greeting. She experienced none of the wild tumult at John’s touch that she had in de Burgh’s rough embrace. Feeling as though she were about to take the first step down some unknown path, Madeline slipped her chin free of John’s caressing hold.
“What,” she teased, “such sweet words from the one who put a beetle down my back that time your lady mother came to inspect the maidens’ progress with the bow?”
Accepting the gentle rebuff, John let his hand fall and stepped back. “You know you have but to call me, Madeline, and I will come to you.”
“Aye, my lord,” she said softly. “I know.”
He gave her a twisted grin. “Just smile that way at de Burgh, and you’ll soon have him dancing to your tune.”
“But for now,” she admitted, resignation threading her voice, “I must dance to his.”
“If I know you, ‘twill be a merry dance.”
“Well, a lively one, at any rate.”
Madeline hesitated, reluctant to say farewell, yet knowing she must. A wrenching sense of loss filled her. Somehow this leaving seemed more final than when she had left the king’s ward—and John—before.
“I must go, my lord,” she said finally, forcing a smile. “The accursed man gave me but an hour to ready myself. I leave this very afternoon.”
“Get you gone, then. And God be with you, Maddy.”
“And with you, my lord.”
Madeline swept him a deep curtsy, elegant despite the wet hair that tumbled over her shoulders and the bare ankles that showed over her boot top.
John bowed, then opened the chapel door for her. He stood unmoving for long moments, watching her slight figure disappear around a bend in the high-ceiling corridor. The hand resting on his jeweled belt tightened until the stones cut into his palm.
The journey did not begin auspiciously.
By dint of frenzied effort, Madeline was almost ready when a page knocked on the door and announced that the earl awaited her in the bailey. With a last, resigned glance at the garments still spilling haphazardly out of the wardrobe, Madeline directed her second serving woman to bring them later and slammed the lid of a small trunk.
De Burgh had said to take with her only what she needed for the journey. It would’ve helped considerably in her packing if she’d known just how long a journey she faced, and to where. As it was, she’d stuffed clean linens, two extra robes, her jewel casket and a small case with her pots of cosmetics, her combs and the silvered mirror her first husband had given her into the leather trunk.
Signaling to the page to shoulder the trunk, Madeline sat down to pull on an extra pair of stockings, then laced up her boots. She stood and smoothed the skirts of her warmest robe, a fine merino wool dyed a rich crimson and adorned with tabard sleeves that draped nearly to the floor. With her now neatly braided hair caught in cauls of woven silver yarn and covered by a silken veil held in place with a guirlande of beaten silver, she felt ready to face the earl. Gerda handed her a hooded cloak, silvery gray in color and lined with marten fur. Wherever their destination, Madeline decided, she would be warm enough for these cold days.
With the maid clumping behind her in thick-soled boots, her own bundle of possessions clutched to her breast, Madeline led the small procession through Kenilworth’s halls and out into the bailey. She stopped abruptly on the steps that led down from its main entrance.
“What is that?”
The squire who’d stepped forward to guide her down the worn, treacherous steps, glanced around uncertainly.
“What, my lady?”
“That!”
Madeline jerked her chin toward the wheeled vehicle with two horses harnessed in tandem that waited below. Its rounded roof was ornately carved and hung with thick curtains.
The squire looked completely baffled by her question. “’Tis…’tis a litter, my lady. My lord arranged it for your comfort on the journey.”
Madeline shuddered at the thought of being