Rebellious Love (5 page)

No answer was forthcoming as Curran gravely escorted her to the foot of the stairs, bidding her a polite good night before going off to join his men.

"
Y
our father met with Stephen Langton again," Sir Lyle said, shifting himself more comfortably on the bench.

Curran raised an eyebrow. He was not surprised that the faithful old retainer would have this news before he himself received it. Sir Lyle had served the Earl Garrett d'Arcy so long and honorably, as both friend and vassal, that he was regarded almost as a brother. His loyalty was beyond doubt, as was his discretion.

"Where did they meet?" Curran inquired, refilling his wine cup.

"At London. In the same house where they met in August, although this time only the chief barons were present."

"And did the good Archbishop of Canterbury preach the same sermon?"

"Apparently," Sir Lyle said agreeably. "He wants a curtailing of the king's power and a return to the charter of Henry I guaranteeing the rights of Englishmen."

"Everyone knows that charter wasn't worth the paper it was written on," Curran complained. "In fact, there are damn few who will swear the thing is even genuine."

"That doesn't matter," Sir Lyle insisted, eyeing the greatly diminished level of the wine pitcher. "It's just a symbol, a goad if you will, to encourage us to stand up against the king."

"I have no argument with that," Curran grunted. "Was there ever a worse ruler?"

Sir Lyle laughed, knowing they were secure enough to speak frankly. "Not in my lifetime. Old Henry was a tyrant and reprobate, but he knew what was best for the country. Richard I never liked. Too fond of the boys, if you know what I mean. And he enjoyed killing just for the sake of it. Had no interest in the day-to-day running of the country. But compared to John he looks like a saint. God help us, the man grows worse each day."

"He can't fight, can't rule, can't give justice, can't even hold on to two pence at the same time," Curran argued, his speech just a bit slurred. "He wasn't content to bring the wrath of the Church down on us, putting England under interdict and getting himself excommunicated. Just when he's finally back in the Pope's good graces, he goes merrily on his way bedding the wives of his lords against their wills, taxing excessively, betraying every confidence and bond of faith ..."

"But," Sir Lyle interjected, "he provides us with a great opportunity. John will not live forever, but while we still have him, we would be fools not to make the best of it."

Squinting into his almost empty cup, Curran tried to make sense of this. "What're you talking about?"

"I'm saying," the old knight explained patiently, "that John has the barons so angry they will join together to force concessions from him. Concessions that will endure long after he is gone."

"That's true," Curran allowed magnanimously. "But I'd fight John just for his own sake. Even that idiot de Langford had the sense to oppose him. Although strictly for the wrong reasons."

Wondering what had suddenly brought the late baron into the conversation, Sir Lyle gazed at his young friend closely. What he saw did not please him, In the dim light of the shadowed hall, Curran looked rather the worse for wear. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. His hair was tousled, and he seemed to be having trouble sitting up straight.

Sir Lyle had chosen this time for their talk because the rest of the household was asleep. Supper had been over for hours, the servants were all retired, and the knights and men-at-arms were snoring on their pallets well out of earshot. Even the embers in the great fireplace were burning down as the last torches flared and guttered. Soon the first faint rim of light would show above the eastern horizon and a new day would begin. But before that happened, he wanted to bring Curran up to date on his father's latest news, including the warning from the earl about what might be expected to happen in the next few months. It seemed, though, that such weighty discussion would have to wait.

Sir Lyle was well accustomed to seeing men less than sober; he was no stranger to that unfortunate state himself. But never could he remember seeing Curran, if not actually drunk, then perilously close to it. Cautiously he asked: "Just how much wine have you had?"

"Who knows?" Curran shrugged broadly. "Wha' dif rence does it make?"

"None," Sir Lyle admitted. "You are a grown man, on your own lands drinking your own wine. You can make yourself as ill as you like. I merely wondered what lay behind this."

"Since when," Curran demanded belligerently, "does a man need a reason t'get drunk?"

"Many men don't. But you have always been moderate in your habits. I can't help but think something has disturbed you."

Curran shook his head vehemently, only to stop quickly as if it threatened to roll off. "No such thing. Jus' enjoying myself."

"If you say so," the old knight muttered skeptically. He kept his silence for several moments while working on the problem of what might be troubling his lord. The answer was not long in coming. Although many hours had passed since the Lady Verony was last in the hall, her perfume seemed to linger on the air. Sir Lyle had no difficulty conjuring up the image of her youthful loveliness, unparalleled for beauty and grace despite the desperate trial she had passed through.

A smile lit his eyes as he regarded his friend benevolently. "She's incredible, isn't she?" he asked innocently.

"Incredible doesn't come close to it!" Curran blurted before he could catch himself. Ruefully he added: "I don't understand how she survived, and I blame myself and the whole stupid system for subjecting her to such danger in the first place. I knew months ago John would give in and cede this land to me, to try to win my father's support. I could have done something. . . at least looked for her. . . . But I never even thought. . ."

"You thought she was dead, or sheltered somewhere with people of her own class," Sir Lyle said gently. "Exactly what any of us would think. You can't be blamed for not guessing the situation."

"Maybe not," Curran muttered doubtfully, "but it's my situation now. I've got to figure out what to do with her."

"That," Sir Lyle suggested, "should not be too difficult." He smiled encouragingly at the young man, who scowled in return.

" 'Course it is. She's a noble woman, in the best possible sense of the word. But she has no legal position, no wealth, no protection. She's completely vulnerable, and the worst thing is she knows it. I half suspect she thinks I may punish her for stabbing me, though the Lord knows it was deserved under the circumstances. Doesn't take much to figure out what she thought was going to happen to her. Greater courage and spirit I haven't seen from any man. D'you know, she actually asked me to let her go back to the forest."

"You didn't agree!"

" 'Course not! Think I'm crazy? I can't understand how she survived this long, but I'm not about to see how much she could take. No . . . I've got to come up with something else. . . ."

Long ago Sir Lyle had mastered the art of hiding his innermost feelings, a trait useful in all sorts of negotiations. But this present predicament almost undid him. Struggling against the almost overwhelming urge to laugh, he suggested: "A convent, perhaps? Surely that is the logical solution."

Curran choked on the wine he had just swallowed. "That's ridiculous! Verony, a nun? You'd condemn that beautiful, spirited girl to a life of prayer?"

"She might not look at it that way," Sir Lyle insisted placidly. "After all, what alternatives does she have?"

"Plenty!" Curran growled. He knew he was being deliberately provoked but was unable to prevent his response. "You know perfectly well she isn't meant for that sterile existence. She's warm and lovely and brave. Any man would be privileged to call her ..." He broke off abruptly, stunned by what he had almost said.

"Yes ..." Sir Lyle drawled encouragingly.

"Never mind! All I'm saying is that something has to be done with her. She needs a position . . . protection ..."

"She needs a man."

"Don't let her hear you say that!" Curran advised vehemently. "I've got the idea she likes to take care of herself. Oh, she accepted help from the peasants, but that was only because she had helped them in return. Let her know you think she can't manage without a man and I hate to imagine what she'd do."

"I knew a lady once," the old knight began pensively, "beautiful, intelligent, courageous . . . the loveliest thing anyone could look upon. But fiercely independent. Until the right man came along. Then she was glad enough to share her life."

Curran sighed, knowing the reference was to his mother, who had led the greatest nobles of the kingdom a merry chase before being swept off her feet by his handsome, determined father. But their marriage had brought about the union of two great families, to the advantage of both. Lady Emelie had a vast dowry, which she still administered with a firm hand, only occasionally deigning to ask her loving husband for advice. Verony had nothing, and that meant it would be hard to convince her that she was marriageable.

That she must be made to see the sense of his plan, he had already decided. Marriage was the best solution to both their problems. After all, if Verony had remained on the manor and they had met in the natural course of events, he would undoubtedly have wed her when he took over the lands. Aside from her intrinsic value as a strong, courageous woman who would breed fine sons and her proven ability to keep the estate running smoothly, their union would go a long way toward legitimizing the transition of power in the eyes of rival nobles and peasants alike.

Pride, Curran knew, was the sticking point. Without property or position, Verony would be loath to come to him. He had to devise some means of

making her want their union as much as he did. "It's not going to be easy," he muttered disconsolately.

Sir Lyle shrugged. "I'm sure you'll work it out."

Curran didn't reply. He was sunk in bleary thought as the old knight took his leave. An hour later, still thinking and still drinking, Curran sighed heavily. He was no nearer a solution than when he began. From time to time, he thought he had hit on something that might work, only to have been misled by the effects of raw wine dulling his reason.

He leaned back, remembering almost too late that he was perched on a bench, and just managed to catch his balance before toppling over. That struck him as funny, and he chuckled. Such good humor called for another drink, which he downed un-hesitantly. What small portion of his brain had continued to warn he was going to regret such behavior ceased to function. Verony occupied all his mind, although that was by no means the only part of his body concerned with her.

Damn but she was beautiful! He couldn't remember when a woman had so affected him. The memory of her softness clasped against him lingered sweetly. His hands had told him no lies, he realized as he considered how she had looked dressed in clothes appropriate to her station. For all the hardships of the last months, her body was ripely slender, combining the lithesome grace of a young girl with the lush promise of womanhood. It wasn't difficult to imagine how she would look ungarbed. Not even all the wine he had drunk could suppress his body's natural reaction to that thought. Knowing that she lay just upstairs, within easy reach, brought an ache to his loins that made Curran groan.

He had not been with a woman in weeks, being too busy with his new lands and not inclined to take advantage of the peasant girls who would have all too willingly obliged him. But even if he had just tumbled half a dozen wenches, he would still have desired Verony. She was under his skin, in his blood, everywhere but where she belonged: joined in the delights of love.

And she was his, Curran told himself fiercely. After all, she was part of the demesne, wasn't she? Everything and everyone on it belonged to him. Why should she be an exception? With her brutish father and her closeness to the serfs, she was certainly no innocent. Virgin, most likely, but not unaware of what passed between a man and woman. If the truth were known, he advised himself sagely, she was probably lying up there right now wondering why he hadn't tried to take her.

That was it! Curran exclaimed to himself, smacking himself on the forehead with what would normally have been sufficient force to floor him. Why had he needed so long to see it? With Verony thoroughly compromised, it should require little effort to convince her to become his wife. Should pride still force her to refuse, he would simply set himself to getting her with child, a pleasant task the mere thought of which made him grin. Once carrying, she would drag him to the altar. Doing some swift if foggy calculating, Curran decided he could have her safely wed by Christmas.

Highly pleased by this plan that would achieve his ultimate aims while giving immediate release to his ardor, he rose unsteadily.

It was very dark in the corridor. Curran had to find his way largely by touch, not particularly effective in his present condition. He walked into one pillar and stubbed his toes twice before at last locating Verony's room. Easing the door open, he peered fondly within.

The braziers had been allowed to go out, and the shutters were firmly closed, so there was little light. But he could make out the silhouette of a slender shape on the bed, nestled under piles of covers. Moving closer, he gazed on the silken strands of red-gold curls spread over the bolster, half hiding her face from his amorous appreciation.

The delicate rise and fall of her breasts beneath the blankets held his attention for several moments. Only with effort did he manage to refocus on the thick fringe of lashes fanning over her apricot-tinged cheeks, and the generous mouth parted slightly in sleep. Longing to touch those fender lips with his own, Curran leaned forward. Too far. He lost his balance, toppling across the bed, tangling in the covers, waking Verony, who sat up with a yelp.