Chapter 20

"Mi sei mancato molto!"

Avalene dutifully repeated Rami's words, albeit not as effortlessly.

"Abbastanza bene," Rami said, with a small shrug. "Hai bisogno di più pratica."

"Aye, I need much more practice," she agreed. She watched him push a lock of dark hair from his eyes and realized it needed the attention of a good pair of shears. The words for such a request in Italian weren't within her grasp but she would ask Dante about it later. "Ho bisogno di fare pratica con il mio italiano."

"Sì." Rami was growing bored with the Italian lessons. He made a show of turning his attention toward the end of the table and gave their empty trenchers a wistful look, punctuated by a pitiful sigh. "Ho fame."

"Impossible. There is no way you can be hungry again," she admonished. "We just ate."

He turned a sad gaze upon her and his big, brown eyes seemed to swallow up his face. "Ho fame."

"You are shameless." She watched his lower lip tremble. "Oh, very well! When the servants come to clear this away, I will ask them to bring a few nuncheons. Cicchetti, sì? "

His smile was beatific. He turned over the whetstone he held in one hand and continued to hone the blade of his dagger. The metal made a soft whisp, whisp, whisp sound against the stone. He began to sing a jaunty little tune in rhythm to the strokes. It was a song about pastries and pies.

She rolled her eyes and then turned her attention back to the hem she was sewing on one of her new gowns. She murmured again the phrase he had just taught her, this time under her breath. "Mi sei mancato molto." I missed you so much .

Dante had departed a few hours ago, as reluctant to leave as she was reluctant to see him go, but he had received a message that Mordecai wished to meet with him immediately. And just like that, the most magical night of her life was over…even though the sun had already been high in the sky when it ended. Her lips curved into a secretive smile. There was always tonight.

She pretended to stretch again as if she were yawning, just to take inventory of her new body once more. Last night had changed her in many ways, but physically, that was the most surprising change of all. He made her shockingly aware of every part of her that could be touched and kissed and caressed, awakened responses that she wasn't even aware she possessed.

"Possessed" was actually a good word for what he made her feel. Naked, pressed against the length of him, his hands on her and hers on him, she felt as if she were an entirely different creature, lean, sensual, lithe, all smooth flow and warm movement. He all but made her purr. Today there was still some lingering stiffness and soreness to remind her of the transformation.

She used some of the fabric spread across her lap to fan her face. It was suddenly very warm in the solar.

A sharp knock on the door to the hallway cut off Rami's song in mid-verse. Armand entered the solar without waiting for her to bid him enter.

"Forgive the interruption, my lady." He gave a low, quick bow of apology, even as Oliver and three servants crowded into the room behind him. They were followed by four more soldiers. "Isabel was displeased when Lord Dante did not present himself at the midday meal to greet her. She has determined to come here to await his return."

Even as he spoke, the servants placed large trays on the table that held pitchers and goblets, and then cleared away the remnants of Avalene's and Rami's meal. Oliver and the soldiers took up a position along the wall behind her. Armand remained by the door. She felt Oliver's hand touch her shoulder.

"I am sorry, my lady. We cannot deny her entrance."

"Of course not," she said, finally finding her voice. The servants departed but they left the door open. She saw that two more soldiers still stood guard outside the door. She looked behind her, then again toward the doorway. Eight soldiers, counting Oliver and Armand. Were they expecting a siege?

Already she could hear several women's voices in the hallway, but they were still too far away for her to understand any of the words. She stood up and the forgotten gown slid to the floor. Just as she bent down to retrieve the garment, she heard a woman's voice quite clearly.

"What a cozy solar! Gerhardt, do you think it larger than my own?"

Her words were marked with a trace of the same accent that Avalene had heard in Gerhardt's voice the day before. How odd. She had not expected an English princess to sound foreign. She straightened in time to hear Gerhardt's answer.

"I do not think so, my lady. One assumes the rooms in each wing are the same dimensions."

The lady in question gave a delicate sniff. "How unimaginative."

Avalene felt her jaw unhinge at the sight before her. Isabel was more than a head taller than she, the same height as most of the men in the room. She wore a pink bliaut made of a shimmering fabric she had never seen before. The fabric was covered with hundreds of delicate flowers and vines and birds stitched in gold thread. Gold braid trimmed the waist, neckline, and sleeves, and a snow-white surcoat lined with the same pink fabric covered her bliaut. The profile of a fierce-looking bird with widespread wings was stitched onto each shoulder of the surcoat, fashioned of gold beads with their beaks and talons made of hundreds of tiny pink beads.

Gold, pink, and white ribbons encased her long, dark plait that ended in a gold tassel that nearly touched the floor. On her head was an enormously tall, flared barbette covered with more of the shiny pink fabric. The crenellated crown was encrusted with seed pearls and the whole of it topped with a profusion of long white feathers that looked like weightless strings that bowed and swayed with the slightest movement of her head. More pearls decorated her earrings and necklace, much larger than those on her barbette, yet still delicate-looking against skin that was nearly the same color. Her lips were the exact shade as her bliaut, but her eyes were a piercing blue, shrewd and intelligent as she examined the solar as thoroughly as Avalene examined Isabel. A small frown creased between her dark brows as her gaze moved over Avalene and then dismissed her.

Isabel gave a delicate wave of her hand and two more ladies stepped forward, their heads bowed. At first Avalene thought they were twins. Blue-eyed and blond-haired, they wore identical white bliauts with pink surcoats, the fabrics and jewels not as lavish as that of their mistress, but still far richer than anything Avalene owned. She looked down at her own sorry gown and amended that thought with, anything that she used to own. Between the three women, they wore more jewels than she had ever seen in one place at one time.

One of the two blond-haired girls carried a stack of pink cushions that she held while the other took a stool from the table and placed it to one side of the room. A cushion was placed on the stool and then the two remaining cushions were placed on the floor on either side of the stool. The two girls sank gracefully onto the floor cushions to take their seats, their skirts spread out around them like puddled flowers that left the scent of sandalwood in their wake. Isabel took her seat on the stool, and then three soldiers, also dressed in their mistress's colors, took up position behind the women. The room was suddenly quite crowded.

Avalene continued to stare at the tableau in dumbfounded silence. All of Isabel's people were blond-haired and blue-eyed, all dressed in the outrageously feminine colors of pink, gold, and white, and the picture they presented was as something from a religious painting. The room fairly glowed with their radiance. She had lost track of Gerhardt, who still stood near Armand at the door, but she realized he had taken a step forward when Isabel held up one hand to halt his progress.

"She is English, Gerhardt. The customs are different here." Isabel turned her head slightly to address Armand. "In my land…that is, in my husband's land, a lady's head must never be raised higher than my own."

Avalene abruptly took her seat.

"This is no lady," Gerhardt growled, as he jerked his head in Avalene's direction. He spoke to Armand. "Remove your lord's whore from my lady's presence."

Several things happened at once, but one thing happened first. A long misericorde appeared in Armand's hand with the deadly tip resting at Gerhardt's throat. Every other soldier present drew his sword and all the ladies gasped. Even Rami leapt to his feet and positioned himself in front of Avalene, his small dagger clutched in one hand and pointed toward the German soldiers.

"Apologize," Armand said in a mild tone, as if Gerhardt had made some flippant remark that was hardly worth mention. But a drop of blood began to trickle down Gerhardt's neck, changing direction slightly when Gerhardt swallowed and his Adam's apple bobbed beneath the blade.

Avalene wanted to run from the solar but she could not make herself move a muscle. This was her fault. She had disregarded the rules she had lived by all her life and allowed herself to be swept into a world that contained only Dante. There were consequences to every decision and it was time she faced the truth of her new life. Gerhardt had merely called her the name she refused to acknowledge to herself. He was about to die for simply speaking the truth.

She could see that Gerhardt had no intention of apologizing, and she could see just as clearly that Armand would cut his throat for the imagined insult. And then Isabel's soldiers would kill Armand and God knew who else. Their blood would be on her hands, all because she was a fallen woman, because she had selfishly taken the pleasure Dante offered her. She had to do or say something. She couldn't speak a word.

"This…peasant cannot be in my lady's presence," Gerhardt insisted.

Isabel rose to her feet but Avalene remained frozen in her seat, her eyes wide with horror. Of course she was an affront to Isabel, an insult not to be borne by so high a lady. She must make herself rise, make some excuse that Armand would find acceptable, remove herself to the bedchamber where she belonged. She should not be in the solar. Whores did not loiter in places where the daughter of the king could happen upon her.

"He is my favorite," Isabel said in a low voice to Armand. "I will be seriously displeased if you kill him."

Armand answered without taking his eyes from Gerhardt. "He would be dead already were my lord, Dante, present."

"Your lord is present," Dante said from the doorway. His gaze swept over the room as he moved forward. He kept an eye on Armand and Gerhardt when he walked past them but continued straight to Avalene. He wore the same black garments as the night before and now held a small wooden chest beneath one arm. The wooden chest was placed on the table, and then he lifted her cold hand and gently kissed her fingertips as if he had all the time in the world and nothing were amiss behind him. As if a man's life did not now rest upon the end of a blade. "My apologies for my late arrival, my lady. I was unavoidably delayed by this lady's father. Will you forgive me?"

He cocked his head in Isabel's direction but rudely kept his back to her. It took Avalene a moment to realize he had been in an audience with the king. Speech was beyond her at the moment, so she merely inclined her head.

Dante drew her to her feet and then turned to face their audience with Avalene fitted close to his side. One arm rested around her waist. His other hand reached over to hold hers and his thumb rubbed in a soothing motion over her fingers. She had to concentrate just to breathe, but she did notice that Isabel's gaze moved to their joined hands.

"Apparently I missed an insult to my lady," Dante said. He seemed unconcerned by the deadly blades that bristled all around them. "'Tis probably best if it remains unspoken in my presence. However, my men do not act without provocation and I am certain my lady is due an apology that I have not yet heard."

Isabel's eyes tightened at the corners and she spoke to Gerhardt in a swift volley of words, the guttural language one Avalene had never heard.

Gerhardt cleared his throat, his head now tilted back at an awkward angle in a useless effort to avoid the sharp point of the misericorde. "I apologize. No offense was intended."

Avalene didn't think that was strictly true, but kept her opinion to herself.

Dante inclined his head toward her, his voice still no more forceful than if they spoke of the weather, but it was hard to miss the undercurrent of steel. "Do you accept this miserable cur's apology?"

"Aye, my lord. No offense was intended." She had a very good idea of what would happen if she declined.

Armand waited for Dante's slight nod, and then the blade came away from Gerhardt's throat. She could hear many sighs of relief as Dante's soldiers lowered their weapons. Isabel gave a small wave of her hand and her soldiers' swords returned to their scabbards as well. Gerhardt produced a handkerchief from his sleeve and blotted away the blood on his neck.

"You must be Dante Chiavari," Isabel said, her hauteur fully recovered. "You will forgive my captain. The customs here are much different from those in our homeland. Indeed, they seem to be different from those I recall from my childhood. Your…friend is welcome to remain, of course."

"Of course," Dante echoed. He loosened his hold on Avalene just enough to give Isabel a curt bow. "If you will permit me, I would like to introduce you to Lady Avalene de Forshay, daughter of Baron Weston, one of your father's loyal Marcher barons in Wales."

Isabel's eyes widened slightly as Avalene dropped into a curtsey that was made awkward since Dante kept hold of her hand and did not let go of her waist. "My lady, I am most honored to make your acquaintance."

A furrow appeared between Isabel's brows. "What are you doing here, Lady Avalene, in the company of a foreigner, dressed in servant garb?"

I fell madly in love with a handsome Italian and have happily made myself his harlot . Uncertain how to answer that question aloud, she looked to Dante.

"Lady Avalene was forced to flee her home unexpectedly," Dante answered smoothly. "She was unable to take any of her belongings on the journey and her clothing was damaged beyond repair on the trip to London. Her new garments will begin arriving this afternoon."

"Did you steal her away from her husband?" Isabel asked.

"Nay, my lady. She is here on your father's orders."

"Natürlich." Isabel looked disappointed, and then her face brightened again as she looked at Avalene. "You will join us in my solar in the afternoons, Lady Avalene. I have been away from England for much of my life. So much has changed! You will help reacquaint me with all I have forgotten and entertain us with stories of your journey to London. How wonderful and frightening to be accompanied by only a boy and three men. Our journey to England was quite a trial, what with so large a baggage train and so many mouths to feed and so many to bed down each night."

It took Avalene a moment to absorb this complete change in Isabel's demeanor toward her. Did she now expect them to be fast friends? The princess and the harlot? Amazing.

"I would be pleased to join you in the afternoons," Avalene said. Gerhardt had obviously described their small party to Isabel after their arrival yesterday. She had no intention of telling Isabel anything about her reasons for being in London and the details of her journey would be quite sketchy. Still, she could hardly refuse a royal summons.

"Please be seated again, ladies," Dante told them. "I am actually glad to find you here, Princess. Your father bid me give you a message; he would like to meet with you tomorrow morning to discuss the particulars of your upcoming marriage."

The feathers on Isabel's barbette danced as though they were living things when she turned her head sharply to look toward the windows. "I was not aware that a betrothal had been contracted."

"The negotiations are completed," Dante said.

Isabel's mouth tightened, and then she released a small sigh and took her seat again. Avalene quickly followed suit, although that earned her a puzzled look from Dante, who had missed the explanation about raised heads. She gave him a barely perceptible shake of her head and a look that she hoped conveyed, Later .

"Actually," Dante said slowly, still looking at Avalene, "I brought the contracts with me for your advisers to review before your meeting with Edward." His gaze went to Isabel. "The king gave me leave to relay the particulars, should you care to hear them."

"The details must be dire, indeed, if my father cannot relay them to me himself." She fingered one of the braided tassels that hung from her girdle and seemed almost to speak to herself. "I suppose he thinks I will be in better spirits tomorrow if he gives me the night to mull over whatever bad news you bear."

"The situation is somewhat complicated," Dante admitted. He reached down for Avalene's hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "I had hoped to speak with Lady Avalene privately before I met with you. This news affects her, too."

Avalene's head shot up. "Me?"

"You would be the only Lady Avalene in the chamber," Dante teased, but the humor did not quite reach his eyes. He turned again to Isabel. "The man your father chose for you is presently betrothed to Lady Avalene."

Every gaze in the room turned to Avalene. She looked at Dante and blinked once. "The king intends to give his daughter to Faulke Segrave?"

"Aye," Dante nodded. "Faulke's father came to the king with the betrothal contracts that Faulke and your father signed to get Edward's approval. The king proposed a betrothal to Isabel instead. The contracts are drawn up and all the details have been agreed to by Faulke's father and Isabel's. However, your father and Faulke both signed your betrothal contracts. Your betrothal still stands until Faulke and your father renounce it, and Faulke signs Isabel's contracts."

It took her a moment to digest all of that information, and then she smiled up at him. It took a concentrated effort to remain seated. She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck, throw her head back and laugh aloud. "He will renounce me! How could he not? Princess Isabel will bring much more to a marriage than I ever could."

Dante did not return her smile. "What she would bring to the marriage is most of the problem."

"What do you mean?" Isabel demanded. "Who is this Faulke Segrave?"

Dante gave such a brief description of Faulke that Avalene wondered how he could think it sufficient for the woman who would hopefully marry him.

She half listened as Isabel began to pepper Dante with questions that he patiently answered, questions about Segrave's family, their importance in Wales, their holdings and fortresses, and then more about Faulke himself, his previous wives, his daughters, their ages, his age. More than an hour passed before her initial curiosity was satisfied.

"And what does this baron's daughter have that he would find preferable to a royal daughter's dowry?" Isabel asked at last.

Avalene supposed the question was not meant to sound insulting. Isabel certainly hadn't called her a whore or harlot, but simply wanted to know Faulke's motivations in the whole matter. Indeed, she was curious about the answer herself. Why did Dante have any doubts that Segrave would refuse Isabel? No sane man would refuse such a match.

"Avalene represents an opportunity for the Segraves to set themselves up as the next princes of Wales," Dante explained. "Rebellion is always a worry for Edward in the Marches, and Avalene is a direct descendant of the last prince. If Segrave had a son with her, every native in Wales would rally to their cause.

"On the other hand, marriage to you means an English earldom, a few more minor titles, and extensive properties in England along with their incomes. Segrave's father is anxious to acquire all of it, but Faulke has his mind turned toward rebellion and freedom from English rule." Dante gestured toward Gerhardt. "Edward insists that your personal guard and one hundred of his own soldiers reside with you in your husband's household, within Segrave's fortress. Segrave will have a hard time leading a rebellion when the enemy is already within his walls."

Clever, Avalene thought. And little wonder Faulke would not be keen on such a marriage when the conditions meant openly living with the king's spies and soldiers. His own wife would be his jailer.

Isabel studied Dante's face. "There is more."

"Aye," he said, his mouth turning downward. "All titles and claims already conveyed to the Segraves by the Crown will be forfeited and then given back in your name to be held for the children of your marriage. Segrave will hold his lands and titles through you during your lifetime. If you die before Segrave and have an heir, Segrave will hold his heir's claims and titles through his lifetime. If you were to die without issue or if you and your heirs die before Segrave, everything will revert to the king. The Segraves would lose all rights to the titles and lands they now hold in addition to all the titles and lands that are part of your dowry."

Avalene felt her joy fade. No wonder Dante looked so resigned. Faulke would never agree to those terms unless he could be absolutely certain Isabel would provide him with heirs who would outlive him, and who could know such a thing? The only thing that could possibly sway his decision was the fact that Dante had no intention of letting Faulke have her, while Isabel was Faulke's for the taking.

Isabel pursed her lips, her expression thoughtful. The room was so quiet that every small noise seemed magnified: the rustle of fabric as one of the German women smoothed her skirts, a quiet cough from one of the soldiers, the sound of fingernails against skin as someone scratched an itch. Gradually the corners of Isabel's mouth curved upward into a smile, and then she laughed aloud.

"Ah! I see my father's plan." The feathers on her barbette danced a merry dance as she tilted her head back and laughed as Avalene had wanted to laugh earlier. "'Tis a brilliant strategy! Not that I would expect any less from a Plantagenet. I wonder what excuse he gave?"

Avalene looked at Dante, but his expression remained impassive. He had no more idea of what Isabel meant than she did.

Isabel's voice was still touched with laughter when she spoke to Gerhardt, a torrent of words in his strange language. The only word Avalene recognized was "Segrave." Isabel laughed again at the end of her small speech, but Gerhardt did not smile with her. He looked…worried.

Avalene's gaze went to the other members of Isabel's entourage who also understood what their mistress had just told Gerhardt. The two women kept their gazes carefully lowered, but both were blushing. All three soldiers wore frowns. Why wasn't anyone but Isabel smiling?

She looked again at Dante and noticed his lips were pressed together ever so slightly. Her eyes widened as she realized he understood their language. Her curiosity was aroused even more.

"So," Isabel said to Dante, as she dabbed the corner of her eye with her sleeve, "how do we convince the hapless Faulke Segrave to relinquish his Welsh maiden in favor of an English earldom?" Before Dante could answer, she turned again to Gerhardt and this time spoke in English. "Did you ever imagine a man would need such incentives to marry a Plantagenet?"

"Nay, my lady," Gerhardt murmured. His frown looked permanent.

"We encountered Segrave on our journey to London," Dante told her. "He also journeys to the city and I have sent out a search party to watch for his approach. My spies will let me know when he is near the walls. He will then be brought here to be presented with the new contracts. Your father hopes you will allow Segrave to be introduced to you at that time. Once he renounces Avalene and signs the betrothal contract, arrangements can be made for your journey to Wales."

"Wales," Isabel repeated, tapping her chin as she gazed across the room at no point in particular. "It would seem we are to live amongst the savages, Gerhardt."

"Aye, my lady." Gerhardt looked glum at the prospect.

Isabel rose gracefully and inclined her head toward Dante. "I will meet with my father tomorrow, and then I will likely have more questions for you. Lady Avalene, I will see you in my solar tomorrow afternoon."

Avalene kept a polite smile on her face. Dante seemed distracted by the parade of Isabel's retinue trailing from the solar. Her timing for an escape to the bedchamber was perfect. "If you do not mind, I would like to excuse myself now. My head aches, but I am certain I will feel better if I can just lie down for a little while."

"Of course," Dante murmured. "I will come with you."

Her eyes widened. Everyone in the solar would make lewd assumptions if they both retired to the bedchamber. She looked around at all of Dante's soldiers and felt herself blush. She spoke to him in a low whisper. "Could you at least dismiss some of your men before we both excuse ourselves?"

He gave her a puzzled look, and then she watched understanding dawn. Men could be so obtuse at times. He gave her a wry smile. "Go on to our chamber. I will join you after I have dismissed everyone."

Avalene was seated on the edge of his bed and looking toward the window when he entered the chamber an hour later. A soft smile curved her lips when she saw him, but her eyes looked sad. He had known she would not react well to the news about Isabel and Segrave. He could not blame her. He had been just as elated when Mordecai had told him the identity of Faulke's English bride, initially just as certain as Avalene that Faulke would be eager to renounce her in favor of such a prize. He should have known it would not be easy.

"I thought you wanted to lie down," he said as he loosened the laces to his tunic. She might appear composed to anyone else, but he could sense the stress in her, and could see it in the tightness around her eyes and the stiff set of her shoulders. It had been a stressful day for them both. He slipped off his tunic and boots, and then stretched out on the bed behind her with a stack of pillows at his back. "Is your head feeling better?"

"A little."

She had her back to him so he picked up the end of her braid and rubbed the soft tassel against his hand. The tickling sensation reminded him of another time he had felt the same touch in a very different place. His body hardened in anticipation and his breathing quickened. No. He shut that part of himself down, forced it from his consciousness. He was here to comfort her, to calm her fears. After everything that had been said and done today in the solar, she was likely in shock. He had promised to take care of her, and that did not always mean his own selfish needs would be taken care of in the process.

A distraction occurred to him, one that was sure to please her. "I have a surprise for you in the solar."

She looked over her shoulder and lifted her brows.

"Reginald tells me a few of your new gowns have arrived. Would you like to see them?"

"What color are they?" she asked suspiciously.

He smiled. "Red, of course."

She made a face, not disappointment or disgust, nor was it elation. He wondered at the thoughtful expression even as she gave a small shrug. "I can wait until our evening meal to see them."

His smile faded. During their journey she had mentioned Brunor's odd edicts about the clothing colors at Coleway. Red was the only color she had worn for years. What if she now loathed the shade? "Would you rather have gowns made up in different colors?"

"Perhaps," she mused. This time she seemed shy as she looked at him over her shoulder at him. "Why did you choose red?"

"That is your color," he said simply. "Aside from chemises and nothing at all, that is the only color I can imagine you wearing." He reached out to stroke her cheek. "You even wear red in your cheeks."

He liked the way she turned her face toward his hand to prolong his touch, the way her lips curved into a sweet smile.

"There is also the fact that red and gold are my colors," he went on. "They are the colors on my family's banners and devices, worn by all Chiavari males when they ride into battle, and worn by their ladies at tournaments or other important occasions. You can imagine my surprise when a lady wearing Chiavari colors fell into my arms inside a drafty castle in England."

"I doubt the color of my gown was the first thing you noticed," she teased.

"No, that was not the first thing I noticed." His voice had gone soft with the memory. The first thing he had noticed was how right she had felt in his arms, the realization that his arms had been empty until that moment when he found what belonged there, who belonged there. He held out his arms to her now. "Come, lean back and I will rub your temples."

She settled against his chest, all warmth and softness. He rested his chin upon her head and inhaled the sweet scent of her, glad he had angled his body so she wouldn't be aware of what her nearness did to him. The thought of what she would feel like pressed against him even more intimately made him shift his legs a little farther away from her. Comfort. Need. The two requirements were becoming tangled in his mind. He placed his fingertips on her temples and started a gentle massage using just enough pressure to ease the tight muscles. She made a sound of contentment and sighed. Comfort was enough for now.

"I must have scared you witless, a big, red bundle, hurtling at you from the sky," she said, still recalling their first meeting.

"I knew you were behind the tapestry," he said. "I also knew the railing was about to give way. I was waiting for you, waiting for your fall."

Waiting all my life for you , he added silently, waiting all my life for you to fall in love with me . Last night and the night before she had said that she loved him, spoken the words quite clearly, but on both occasions the words had been uttered in the aftermath of passion. Could he make her say the words now?

And there was that selfishness again. He mentally shook his head. Comfort now. Need later.

"What did Isabel say to Gerhardt?" she asked suddenly. "Just after she started laughing over her father's strategy?"

He stopped rubbing her temples, filtering through his memories of the afternoon for the moment she was asking about. Ah, yes. "What makes you think I could understand what they were saying?"

"I could tell you understood." She reached up to nudge his hands, working his fingers back into motion on her temples. "Your mouth tightened a little, and I could tell you were just as displeased. It made me curious."

Her curious mind missed little. No one else had ever been able to read his expressions as effortlessly as she did. She always seemed to know his mind, her assessments so accurate that sometimes he wondered if she could read his thoughts or somehow gauge his emotions in ways that were outside the normal way of things. If she were his enemy, he would be in trouble. Because it was Avalene, he liked the talent, liked knowing she was so attuned to him, connected in a way that no one else could be.

"Isabel is barren."

"What?" She stiffened against him. "How can anyone know that for certain?"

"She was married for many years," he said. "She has no children, not even a stillborn. And yet, her dead husband has many bastards to prove his virility. Edward told her to keep the information about her husband's bastards to herself. He had his spies spread a story that her husband contracted mumps as a young man and was incapable of producing children to explain away her lack of them and to make her more marriageable. Few Englishmen travel to that part of the world and it's unlikely that anyone here will contradict the story before she is wed."

"The Segraves do not know," she said slowly. "Faulke has proven that he can sire children, so his father must assume it will be only a matter of time before Faulke will sire heirs on Isabel to secure the riches of her dowry as well as reestablish the rights to their own lands and titles." Her voice took on an affronted edge. "Edward is tricking them!"

"Aye."

"That is…that is not fair!" she sputtered.

"Was it fair, what Faulke intended for you?" he countered. "When kings and nobles are involved, life and fairness bear little relation. There is always the chance that Isabel and her husband were simply not suited and she will produce a dozen heirs with Faulke. No matter, you must keep the secret. It will be hard enough for me to convince him to marry her without that hanging over his head as well."

"Why must you convince him?" she asked.

"Because he has something I want."

She became still, and then she sat up enough that his hands fell to her sides as she turned to look at him.

There was a puzzled line between her brows. Did she not yet understand?

"He has a betrothal contract that says he has the right to wed you. I intend to marry you, Avalene. I assumed that was what you wanted, too. If I am wrong—"

She pressed her fingers to his lips and smiled, the quiet smile that made her look like a serene Madonna. "You are not wrong. Until today, it seemed unlikely there would even be that possibility."

His temper flared over her doubt, but he tamped it down. She would be his wife. No matter what obstacles stood in his way, he would surmount them. Just one word had put that steel in his conviction. He had heard the name Gerhardt called her.

It had taken every ounce of his self-control to remain in the hallway where the sound of Gerhardt's angry words had frozen him in his tracks. Somehow his instincts prevailed over the haze of fury. He had a few moments to think through his response and act rationally. Gerhardt was Isabel's favorite. She would be displeased if the man were murdered before her eyes. She might not cooperate with his scheme to convince Segrave to marry her, which meant he could not wed Avalene.

That realization had decided his course, but he had also vowed that no one would ever have cause to make such an assumption about Avalene ever again in her lifetime. He was ashamed that he was the cause of the mistake being made in the first place. It was his selfish refusal to provide a suitable chaperone and separate quarters for her the moment they reached the palace, as well as the tawdry gowns he had provided. He had treated her like a whore. He could not blame Gerhardt for mistaking what appeared obvious. Luckily for him it did not seem to occur to her to blame him for the incident. God, he loved her.

She began to move her fingertips back and forth over his lips and he caught her hand before she could distract him any further.

"Mordecai chose me for this mission because he knew I would be the only one with sufficient motivation to convince Faulke that his future lies with Isabel. However, until my meeting with Mordecai and Edward, I did not know that Isabel was his intended bride. Now that we know all of the particulars, I will be able to form an effective means of persuasion. I will make certain he signs the betrothal contracts within a day of setting foot in London. Once I deliver the contracts to Edward, he will give his permission for us to wed. We can be married before we sail for Venice."

Her smile turned to one of joy and something he could not quite define. "You really do love me."

"I do." He couldn't help but smile back at her, at the note of wonder in her voice as if she were the lucky one. His finger traced the small dimple in her cheek. "But I doubt you will ever be able to understand how much. My world was a very dark place before you came into it. I am at home in the darkness, and you will likely see traces of it still lingering in the years to come. Intrigues abound in Venice, and I will be vigilant about protecting you. There will likely be times when you see a side of me that is…unpleasant, although hopefully not as unpleasant as the day we encountered the mercenaries."

She looked at him with blank surprise. "How could I find fault with anything you might do to keep me safe?"

"How, indeed?" he murmured. He playfully tapped the tip of her nose with his finger and earned a smile. Being able to make her look this happy justified his existence. She was happy that he wanted to marry her, not because of the wealth or power she would enjoy as his wife, and despite knowing the sort of monster he had been for most of his life. She was happy because she loved him. He could see it shining in her eyes.

"I learned a new phrase today while you were away." She turned in his arms and then placed her hand on his chest. Her gaze lowered, suddenly shy. "Mi sei mancato molto."

Sometimes it was acceptable for comfort and need to collide. He leaned down and kissed her, a kiss to seal his promises, a kiss that meant they were going to miss their evening meal.