XIII

XIII

"I am a busy man," Richard began without rising, or without seeming to pay attention to anyone in the room. His eyes were focused on the parchments before him. Elise realized curiously that the parchments he studied were land deeds.

At last Richard looked up; his eyes slid over Elise, then focused beyond her on Bryan Stede. "I have come to England to claim my crown, but I have never been unaware that there are those who believe that I hounded my father to the grave. I have matters of great importance stretching before me. When the crown sits indisputably upon my head, I will have to turn my concentration to finances. When I solve my financial difficulties, I will have to plan for God's glorious battle and forge forward to recapture the Holy Land."

Richard went on to emphasize the trials and tribulations of a young monarch. Elise chanced a glance at Eleanor, but the queen merely nodded and continued to watch Richard.

" . . . therefore," Richard was continuing, "I find it expedient to settle the petty matters of quarrels, titles, lands, and marriages—now. Stede!"

"Yes, Your Grace."

Elise could not see Bryan Stede, but she knew that he did not flinch at Richard's tone.

"Rumors concerning you and the Lady Elise have reached my attention. What have you to say?"

Only seconds elapsed before Bryan answered, but those seconds seemed a lifetime to Elise. She could feel Bryan's eyes upon her back as if they emanated true heat and burned her with the force of his anger. She wanted to shrink before Richard because it was all so humiliating. She didn't want other people to know, especially Richard. Then there was the knowledge that she had brought this all about, that her carefully planned words to Eleanor had been absurd and foolish . . .

"Tell me the rumor, Your Grace, and I will tell you if it is true or false."

"Did you rape her?"

Elise held perfectly still, wishing that she could melt away and die rather than endure the heavy echo of Richard's words, which seemed to ricochet about the room. Again, Stede hesitated, a slight pause, but one that seemed to compel her. She did not want to turn around and face him, but she did turn, and his eyes were upon her.

"That, Your Grace, is something I believe the lady in question must answer." He gazed at her, coldly, politely. Expectantly. "Duchess?"

She wanted to leave—to leave the chamber, to leave the manor, to leave England. She wanted to go back in time, to pretend that she had never seen Bryan Stede's handsome features, had never known his name.

"Elise!" Richard thundered out.

She wanted to lower her head; she wanted to strike the Lion-Heart for humiliating her so. She could not allow her head to fall; she had to hold fast to her pride.

"Truly, Your Grace . . ." she began, stalling as she prayed for an answer to come to mind. She could say yes, and to her heart it would be the truth. But yes would demand explanations, and Richard, being a man, might well feel Stede's actions justified. "This matter is not one that should consume your precious time—"

"Then let's not allow it to consume more time than it needs!" Richard snapped.

"It can be of little importance—"

"Elise, it is surely of importance to you, else my mother would never have been involved. Now, I would like an answer."

So Eleanor had been the one. Dear God, she thought, Richard had just condemned her in Bryan's eyes, and she had never made the final decision to hang him. But she had set the wheels turning, and now the decision had been taken from her. Or had it? Was this a court of inquiry? Were she and Bryan both on trial? Or had the sentences already been passed down.

Elise felt Bryan step forward. Heat seemed to fill the air about him, and she was tempted to move away, as if her flesh feared the scorching of a fire.

For a terrible moment she wanted to scream. She wanted to cast herself down to Eleanor's knees and beg that she only be allowed to go home. She had wanted revenge. And, ruled by that savage obsession, what had she done?

"The Duchess of Montoui seems to have difficulty speaking this morning, which is most rare for her, Your Grace," Bryan said easily. "But, therefore, I shall do my best to answer the question. Did I rape her? It was never my intent. She said things that led me to believe she was other than innocent. Did I compromise her value as a titled and landed duchess? Yes, Your Grace. But not with evil intent. The night upon which we met was heavy with heartache and confusion, and the duchess, I believe, felt herself prevailed upon to play a role that led me to think her . . . not adverse to a liaison."

It was true. She had gone to him on her knees; she had told him that she had been Henry's mistress. Not a word that he had said had been a lie . . .

"God's blood, Bryan!" Richard said irritably, but Elise could tell that he was not angry with Bryan Stede, merely perplexed by the situation created. "The countryside is laden with eager peasant women, and you . . . never mind. Bryan, you deserved to have been rewarded royally for your never-failing loyalty to the Crown. You held fast to my father; you have proven yourself to me." Richard paused in his tirade for a moment and scratched his golden beard. "'Tis known that you and Gwyneth have long been lovers, but Gwyneth was no innocent lass when you met. Tell me, when you knew of this situation"—Richard indicated Elise in a way that made her long to crack the bull heads of the two men together—"did it not occur to you that you should have offered marriage to the duchess?"

Bryan laughed, and Elise thought angrily that they might have been enjoying idle banter about the "fair" sex while they awaited a call to the battlefield.

"Your Grace, the thought did enter my mind. But by her own word, the duchess was determined to marry where she would. I felt I had no right to stop her."

"Had you not thought of issue from the alliance?"

"Yes; she assured me there would be none."

They were talking about her as if she were a horse one might think of buying. Elise had to keep reminding herself that Richard was the supreme power in the land, and that if he so chose, he could take everything from her. One did not throw things at the Lion-Heart or fly with flashing nails at his face to attempt to gouge out his eyes. Not if one wanted to continue living with one's limbs, health, and property.

Richard's eyes fell upon her, and Elise faced him squarely. She tried to remind him with her aquamarine gaze that she was his sister, that she was his blood, that he had no right to treat her as property as he did now.

But Richard's eyes remained impassive. "Stede, you leave me in a quandary, for you have bedded both women. But I do not believe that, as of this date, the Lady Elise can guarantee either of us that no issue could result from your time together. Gwyneth . . . is a more worldly woman. And with her wealth, she will be eagerly accepted by any man. I am afraid that I can no longer give her to you, Bryan."

Richard gazed back to his parchments. Elise felt one wild, triumphant moment; she had taken something from Stede—something inestimably dear.

But at what price?

Richard looked up once again, at Elise and at Bryan. "Sir Bryan Stede, it is my decision that you and the Lady Elise will be married. I shall set the date as . . . the night before the coronation. I shall need you that night, and, of course, for the coronation, but then I shall give you time, as I did with Marshal, to acquaint yourselves with marriage."

Water, like the great rush of a flooding stream, seemed to gush coldly about Elise. The rushing pounded in her ears. Hadn't she thought of this? Almost planned it herself? It had never seemed so horrible until this moment. Until Stede stood behind her, and she felt his anger, boiling into that cascading stream of water that threatened to send her to her knees...

"Here, Stede, come about!" Richard demanded, tapping on the parchment upon his table. "I shall not allow you to lose by this marriage. Elise already had Montoui, but see here. These lands . . . they stretch out beside those that belong to Gwyneth. The territory is even larger, if I have been advised correctly. Once they belonged to old Sir Harold, but Harold died that last week of battle in Normandy. I had scholars check the records carefully so that none be offended, and the records proved that Harold and Sir William—Elise's father—were distant cousins, from the time of William the Conqueror. Possession of these lands, Bryan, will make you not only the Duke of Montoui, but the Earl of Saxonby, and Lord of the lower coastal counties." Richard glanced up at Stede, pride and boyish pleasure etched clearly into his features. "I believe, Sir Stede, that you shall be more greatly rewarded than it might have otherwise been."

Elise could barely remain standing. Tremors that could rattle the earth seemed to grow within her; it was all too ironic, too unjust! Stede was still to be rewarded—through her!

Bryan was bent over the parchment, but he raised his head then, and his eyes met Elise's.

There were so many things in that indigo gaze. Triumph. Anger. Mockery. Laughter . . .

Elise stepped forward, bowing before Richard. "Your Grace, this is not necessary. Sir Stede and I are hardly compatible, and since his relationship with the Lady Gwyneth has been one long established—"

Richard stood, towering to his full height. He glanced at Eleanor, smiled, then turned to Elise. "I find my resolution to this matter completely satisfactory."

"Montoui is mine!" Elise snapped out recklessly. "And I despise Sir Bryan Stede!"

Perhaps she had, at last, reminded Richard that she was his father's daughter. His features, though impatient, gentled. "I do not take Montoui from you, Elise. I merely give a husband with whom to share the responsibility. And women are blessed with fickle natures. Surely you will reconcile yourself quickly. This marriage, Duchess, is of your own making."

"No!" Elise protested, "Richard, I shall never reconcile myself!" she continued, not caring that she spoke to Richard, or that Bryan stood before her, hearing her every word. "What of Gwyneth?" she demanded. "She has a far greater claim upon this man than I!" An hour ago, she would have been pleased to see "poor Gwyneth" go hang—as long as it was without Stede.

"Gwyneth shall have Percy Montagu. He is young, deserving, and in need of land. I think they shall be quite compatible. The matter is settled. Now may I return to my damnable and eternal quest for coinage!"

Elise, not bothering to ask Richard's leave, spun about sharply on her heels and strode toward the door.

"Elise!" Richard thundered after her.

She turned slowly and dropped a grudging curtsy to him. "Your Grace?"

"You will remember that I am the king!"

"I have not forgotten."

Elise's gaze fell to Eleanor, who remained silently watching the scene, her sharp, dark eyes fathomless. What have you done to me! she wanted to shout.

But Eleanor's gaze was upon Richard, and Elise realized that she had pushed the fledgling king far enough. The Lion-Heart could not allow himself to be humiliated by a woman. If she didn't control her temper until she was no longer in his audience, he could strip her completely of lands. The slender thread of her relationship to him was good only so long as she obeyed him; kings had been known to kill when bloodlines interfered with their absolute dominion.

I did this myself, she reminded herself. Yes! So that Stede might lose . . .

"I beg your pardon, Your Grace," Elise said with a bow. And with a dignity she clung to tenaciously, she exited the chamber.

* * *

The country surrounding Sir Matthew's manor was beautiful. Summer blanketed the land with rich greenery and a profusion of colors as wildflowers bloomed over the sloping hills and within the thickets and forests.

Elise saddled her own horse despite the offers of assistance from Sir Matthew's anxious grooms. She knew there was consternation among them because she chose to ride out alone, but she could not be stopped. In part, because she did not care what happened to her. And in part because she simply could not bear to remain at the manor when she was so furious, her spirit torn, her last illusion at an end.

The morning sun touched down upon her and the wind ripped through her hair. Far beyond the pastureland where sheep bleated and grazed, a stream quivered beneath the golden rays of morning, and it was to this compelling ribbon of silver that Elise found herself riding.

Her mare was interested in nothing but the long, damp grasses that grew in thick swatches by the water's edge. Elise allowed her to wander where she would.

Careless of her fine linen tunic, Elise cast off her shoes and inched out into the water. A boulder made flat by centuries of the running water beckoned her, and she waded out to it, stretching herself out upon its length and allowing the sun to ripple over her, and warm her.

What a fool she had been. Her title . . . her relationship to Richard—all meant nothing. Castles were prizes; lands were prizes—women were prizes. She was no different from any other woman.

I did speak to Eleanor, I did play with this idea as a means of cutting Stede to the quick . . .

Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord, she reminded herself bitterly. How ironic, how very true. She had committed herself to a living hell because she had been fool enough to believe in herself.

Now it was done. Stede would not have Gwyneth. But he would have half of Cornwall because of some distant relative of her own adoptive father . . .

It was a travesty, a travesty of all that Henry had taught her.

Elise closed her eyes tightly against the sun. What did she do now? Appeal to the Pope—and risk Richard's wrath. Richard would soon be gone on his Crusade, and, surely, nothing else would matter to him. Richard didn't really care for anything but his Crusade. Once he was gone . . .

When he was gone, Stede would be gone. Perhaps to meet a Saracen blade and die. Did she really wish his death?

No. Chinon had taught her about death. About blood and broken bodies. For all the hate that she had harbored within her, she suddenly wanted peace. She had lost Percy. More than Percy, she had lost the dream of love. But it was done; nothing could be changed. By seeking to fight the world, she had done herself nothing but harm.

"I want to go home . . ." she heard herself whisper aloud. She had entered an arena believing she knew how to play the game; she now realized sadly that she had known nothing. Youth and pain had caused her to fight, and she had lost. Now she could only pray that the passing years brought her more wisdom, and a greater temperance.

Was there no way out of this? She could refuse to take her vows. To what end? Eleanor had defied Henry—and spent sixteen years of life imprisoned. Could Richard be so callous?

Elise became so lost in dismal thoughts that she didn't hear the destrier draw near, nor did she hear anything at all until some slight movement warned her of a presence. She opened her eyes and discovered Bryan Stede staring down at her.

The water of the stream came to his calf-high boots; as was so often his custom, he stood with his hands on his hips, as if he were ever ready to draw his sword.

But he appeared speculative rather than angry now, and she was far too wretched to fear him.

Elise gazed into his eyes, then closed her own wearily once again. "Why are you here?" she asked him tonelessly.

"Why?"

She could not see him, but she knew by instinct that one dark brow had arched. "Duchess, that should be obvious. It seems to me that we have a great deal to discuss."

"There is little I can think of to say to you," Elise murmured flatly. She started as the calloused tip of his thumb grazed over her cheek, and her eyes flew open once again.

"Elise, this is your doing."

"No—"

"Duchess, I am not hard of hearing. You went to Eleanor—and God alone knows what you told her."

"I did not intend this," Elise said uneasily. The temptation was strong to flinch from his touch; it was not a sense of bravado, but rather one of exhaustion, that kept her from doing so.

He smiled, but the curve of his lip was bitter. "For once, I believe you. You intended merely to darken my image before Eleanor—and deprive me of a future."

"You do not deserve a rich future."

"But, alas! It seems I am to have one."

Moments ago, she had wanted peace. But Sir Bryan Stede had a remarkable talent for irritating her.

"It is still in the future," she said coolly, smoothly sliding her legs beneath her so that she cast off his touch and sat an arm's distance from him. "So much in this world is uncertain! Lightning can strike at any time. We speak of a date three weeks away! I could well drop dead in that time, and I'm quite sure I've more distant cousins in Normandy willing to make a claim to my estates—"

She broke off with a startled gasp as he gripped her shoulders, not painfully, but forcefully firm. His eyes held hers with an indigo intensity that startled and frightened.

"You're not thinking of anything foolish?" he demanded harshly.

"Foolish?" Elise repeated, confused and unnerved. Then she laughed dryly. "Do you mean as in taking my own life, Sir Stede? You flatter yourself. You are not worth dying for—or because of!"

"Then," he said softly, "do as Richard told you—reconcile yourself to the future."

"Are you reconciled, Stede?" she demanded.

He smiled at her, but once more the look upon his face was chilling. "Reconciled, Duchess? How could I not be? You bring to me a greater wealth than I had ever imagined."

"Wealth!" Elise exclaimed angrily, wrenching her shoulders from his grasp. "Do you care for nothing else? What of Gwyneth? Just two nights ago you went to her! To be with her. You had planned your life with her, yet today Richard says jump, and you discard her! What of life, Stede? What of the years, the days and the nights, that go on and on as those years unfold? Tell me, Stede. What of Gwyneth?"

A tic had begun in the faint blue line of a vein within the strong column of his neck. She was sorely testing a temper that was as explosive as fire, but she didn't care.

"Gwyneth," he said, with his voice remarkably controlled, "is going to marry Sir Percy. And you tell me, Duchess—what happened to this great love affair between the two of you? Where did he fit in with your plans for revenge?"

Elise lowered her eyes, but she did not hide her eyes quickly enough, for he began to laugh. "This is wonderful! You decided to take me because the great and noble Percy turned his back on you! And you talk to me of love! What an affair yours must have been!"

"Once—before you—it was a wonderful affair. Full of dreams and belief in the years to follow! I never decided I wanted you, Stede! I don't want you. I don't want anything to do with you—"

"You have a remarkable way of showing such things. But despite all of the things you've done to me—"

"The things I've done to you!"

"Poison, to name one," he reminded her drolly.

"I did not—oh, never mind! This is a useless conversation."

"I do mind. I mind very much. This is not going to be a useless conversation because you're going to get a few things straight."

"I am?" Elise queried coldly.

"You do try my tolerance, Elise," he warned her softly, and despite the heat of the sun, she felt suddenly cold from the touch of the stream that washed about her toes. She gazed longingly at the shoreline, and thought of standing to wade quickly there—away from him. Would he dare accost her here, with the manor so close that it could be seen?

"Had you but come to me," she heard him tell her, "I would have wed you without a royal command—and this travesty of an appearance before Richard and Eleanor. I think that's what angers me the most. You railed to me about how you despised me, and I tried to let you be. Then, behind my back, you cozen the queen and cry out to her as if you had been nothing but a sweet, totally innocent victim."

"I was an innocent victim!"

He raised his brows politely. "Henry's mistress? Hardly innocent, my dear duchess. You neglected to tell Eleanor that you were running from Chinon, and that you had Henry's ring in your possession. I'm quite sure you refrained from telling her that you had aimed a dagger at my throat and, in your own castle, poisoned the wine given a guest."

"I'm telling you for the last time, Stede, that I did not poison your wine! But since you feel that you must constantly fear for your life in my presence, wouldn't it be wise to go to Richard? If we both refuse to marry—"

He started to laugh again, casting a foot upon the boulder beside her and leaning an elbow upon his knee. "Duchess, I was angry. Very angry. I don't like to be forced to do anything. But this is your marital bed, and you will lie in it!"

The shore beckoned her with an ever greater charisma. Elise gazed at Stede with a black rage filling her heart. They were discussing their lives, and he found it all amusing. His stance was relaxed and casual and the idea of marriage didn't bother him at all; he might despise her, but as long as she came with a title, wealth, and land, his opinion of her was of no importance.

Elise smiled suddenly, seeing that his position was a little too relaxed. "My marital bed, Sir Stede? I assure you, I shall never lie in it." With those positive words, she stood and planted her palms sweetly against the breadth of his chest. Before his eyes had fully narrowed with suspicion, she pushed him with all her strength, and received the satisfaction of seeing him flounder, almost catch his balance, but then topple backward into the stream.

And she was ready. She made a wild spurt for the shoreline, careless of her bare feet over the pebble-strewn bed of the stream. She knew that she could move like mercury when she chose.

But she had underestimated Stede—a mistake she had made once too often, she reminded herself woefully as she felt the strength of his fingers wind around her ankle. She had almost touched upon the mossy bank when a gasp tore itself from her throat and she found herself falling, wrenched cleanly into the air, and then crashing down hard into the shallow stream. She sputtered as the water filled her mouth and trickled into her lungs, and at first she could think only of the need to breathe.

His fingers tangled into the wings of her hair, bringing her face above the surface, but even as she coughed and wheezed for breath, he straddled over her in the water.

"Let's get back to the conversation, Duchess. I had other plans for my life; you changed them. We will be married the day before the coronation. You are young, and I can forgive what has happened in the past. I am willing to make an effort at this thing, even though it angers me how you have gone about it. I swear to you that I'll hold no malice for what has been, but I'll also warn you that if you use violence or trickery against me in any form again, I'll retaliate in kind. You will be my wife, and it is quite within the law for a husband to flay his wife within an inch of her life. Heed my warning, and we shall get along fine. Doubt it, and—"

"I have never doubted your capability for violence," Elise said, shivering miserably within his grasp.

He muttered an impatient oath, but something in her eyes held him from further speech. They were wide and unfaltering upon his, and as beautifully crystal clear as the aquamarine water of the rushing stream that sparkled all about them. He felt her shaking, and he saw the pain that strained her fragile features. What was she? he wondered suddenly. The sweet and sheltered beauty Marshal seemed to think her? Torn and twisted by loss and the events about her? Or was she truly a witch by nature, clever enough to use her face and form to her advantage when the need arose. She continued to deny that she had poisoned him. . . . But, by God! He had been poisoned . . . in her home.

He sighed, suddenly very weary himself. So often one little wrong led to another that a tree became a forest filled with the webs of deceit and misunderstanding. She had loved—and apparently still did love—Percy Montagu. And the bastard had hurt her royally with his admission of his priorities. Which was truly ironic now, since Percy would still be wedding a woman who had already been Bryan's. But when Percy had refused to wed Elise, she had been nowhere near as wealthy as she was now that Richard had taken a hand in things. Being a natural cynic, Bryan was certain that Percy would have little difficulty accepting Gwyneth. Next to Isabel de Clare, and now Elise, Gwyneth was the richest heiress in the land.

Briefly, Bryan closed his eyes. It was true. Just two nights ago he had been with Gwyneth. Felt her enveloping warmth, enjoyed her laughter and her love of life. And of him . . .

Pain . . . regret . . . remorse—all tugged upon his conscience and his heart. He had imagined a pleasurable life. As a knight he would ride to battle; but there would have been a home to return to. A welcoming hearth, and the sweeter heat of a loving wife. Eager and pleased to greet him each time he returned to his home . . .

But instead of Gwyneth, he was to have this virago. He would never know what she was up to behind his back; he would never be able to eat or drink in his own home without wondering . . .

She is bringing me not only Montoui, but half of Cornwall, he reminded himself. And despite himself, he could not forget the night that had brought about all the events since. The night during which she had bewitched him. Like a haunting perfume, that memory had lingered with him, beckoned to him, made him long for more, as a boy who had tasted a sweet nectar, and he craved that taste again . . .

It was a pity that nine out often, he'd also be longing to gag her before taking her to bed.

Bryan opened his eyes and sighed again as he saw that she was still staring at him with hostility and rebellion in her gaze.

"Elise, Richard has issued his decrees. It is for us to decide if life is to be a heaven or hell."

His voice had been so soft. Gentle. There was even a gentleness in the touch of his indigo eyes as they met hers. A cloud passed over the sun and a sudden dizziness swept through Elise. She found herself wondering what this man would be like when he chose to be tender. What he was like when he touched Gwyneth. Did he stroke her with tenderness? Smile with no mockery when she whispered to him?

The dizziness became a heat that swept along her spine, taking the chill from the water that rushed around her. Was he always stern and forbidding? Or did he laugh with pleasure and whisper sweet words of whimsy when he . . . touched Gwyneth? Was he always as hard as steel and as sharp as his blade, or was he sometimes vulnerable, trusting, tender . . . ?

Elise swallowed, dispelling her thoughts. She could never expect gentleness, tenderness—or even kind and respectable treatment—from this man. He would remain a distant enigma to her, as she was to him. But perhaps . . . perhaps having heard these words that carried no hostility, she could seek to right some of the disaster she had been instrumental in causing.

"Bryan . . . please. If we both went to Richard—"

"I will not go to him, Elise."

"But why?" she began, and then bitterness rose like bile to her throat. "The land. The land and the titles. That is all you care for!" she spat out.

His jaw seemed to tighten, but he replied with no hostility. "Don't be so quick to belittle a longing for land, and a place in the world. I have spent my life fighting for the land—always for another man. You were born with wealth, Duchess. Don't begrudge the fact that I have labored long and hard for mine."

"I do begrudge it! Montoui is mine."

He chuckled softly. "And now, Duchess, so is half of Cornwall. Because of me. Aren't you a little grateful?"

"Grateful! No! I have no desire for ‘half of Cornwall'!" She gazed searchingly into his eyes for a moment, wishing that she were not imprisoned in his grasp in the water that was becoming cool again in every spot where he did not touch her. Those spots felt as if they were afire.

"Bryan . . ." she began softly again, thinking that perhaps something might be salvaged. And her words would be reasonable. "Bryan, the titles and land in Cornwall—they are worth far more than Montoui. And you are welcome to them! We can obey Richard. We can marry, but then amicably part ways. I will return to Montoui, and you may go and inspect the estates in Cornwall! We are both well aware that we can never be anything but the most bitter of enemies, and there is no reason to spend our lives in eternal misery—"

"Forget it!"

Her excited words froze in her throat. There was no gentleness, no trace of tenderness remaining in his eyes. The blue had gone terribly dark; indigo to black. His bronze flesh was clenched tightly over his strong features, and his jaw had hardened to a determined square. The heat of his tense touch contrasted sharply with the coolness of the stream.

"Why?" Elise whispered.

"Duchess, just as I crave land, I crave legal heirs to whom I may leave all that I forge. A man may only beget legal heirs with his legal wife."

Elise closed her eyes, unable to contain the shudder that shook her form beneath his.

"That you find me so repulsive, I am sorry," he told her coldly. "I have no wish myself to spend my nights upon a battleground. But if that is what you choose to make it, Elise, that is what it shall be."

She kept her eyes tightly clenched together. No, it will not be, she decided. This time, her thoughts were not of malice or of vengeance, just of determination, and of a deep-rooted fear. She could not lead the life he intended. She could not be his property, kept locked away in the manor as a possession, there to greet him when he chose, silent and reconciled when he shouted out his orders and departed, for battle—or for a more willing woman.

She could not do it for any man . . .

And especially not Stede. She hated him for not believing a word that she said; she hated him for what he had done to her; and she hated him for what he thought of her.

He was willing to forgive. And she wanted peace, but not at his price.

"Aren't you afraid to marry me?" she queried coolly.

"Afraid?"

"You say that I poisoned you once—"

"Aye," he replied, equally polite and cool. "But I said that I would forgive you your youth, and your past mistakes. I believe I can make you understand that a similar attempt would truly cast you into misery."

The tone was polite; the threat was unmistakable.

Elise maintained what poise she could within the ignominy of her position beneath him in the stream. She made no effort to fight his hold, but kept her voice even.

"Doesn't it bother you to know that you will be marrying a woman deeply in love with another man? That I will be longing for him, for his arms about—"

"What you long for, Duchess, does not concern me. What you do, of course, will. So ‘long' to your heart's content, Elise, but as of this moment, consider me your keeper. And remember that you do not at all doubt my capabilities for violence."

"And what of you, Sir Stede?" Elise spat out, losing control of her temper. "What of you—and Gwyneth?"

A sardonic smile curved one corner of his lip, but an opaque cloud seemed suddenly to shield his eyes.

"Gwyneth has just been given to Percy."

"He'll refuse to marry her!" Elise exclaimed impetuously.

"Another theory for us to test. So far, you are the loser."

"You are not my superior yet, if that ‘theory' is what you refer to."

"Husbands are always their wives' superiors," Bryan said lightly.

"The bloody hell—"

"By law, Elise, that is true."

Why was she fighting him now, from this absurd position that proved she was under his dominance?

"Do you understand all that I say to you, Elise?"

"Please," she said flatly, giving no answer to his words. "The stream is cold, and you are hurting me."

He must have decided that she had capitulated to his will, for a touch of pity crossed his eyes, and he rolled quickly away to release her. Elise rose with natural grace and met his eyes once more. "You'll understand if I choose to avoid you until the wedding?" she asked distantly.

"As you wish." She felt strangely detached as she watched him rise before her. He was taller than Richard, she thought very distantly. And from her great distance, she could admit that he was the perfect knight. Hard-muscled, but honed to a trim agility. Ruthless, determined, powerful, and rugged.

Yes, he made the perfect knight. He would fit the part of landed noble as well as Richard fit the role of king.

But all that he was made her hate him more, because it made her fear him more. She knew that he intended to crush her fully to his will. Therefore, he would set her out of his way. His life would hardly be affected; he would go on as before, only he would be richer.

Elise managed to smile vaguely at him as she turned about and called to her mare. Because her mind was so very distant, and it was so distant because her plans were spinning within it.

She would marry him. She would be just as docile as he or Richard could wish.

And she would attend the coronation. She would duly see Richard crowned King of England. She would go to the great banquet upon Bryan Stede's arm . . .

But once the festivities began, she would be gone. She would start making discreet arrangements now, and as soon as possible she would slip away.

Montoui was hers. If she could reach it alone, it would take an army for anyone to dispute that fact.

And Richard would have no armies to spare. He would need all his forces to hold England, and to go forth with his own passion—the Crusade for the Holy Land. Bryan Stede would accompany Richard and they would be gone for two—perhaps three?—years.

And in three years, she could build an unbreachable fortress—and find the way out of marriage.