Колин Глисон - A Whisper of Rosemary

Raymond approached him with a set look on his freckled countenance. Dirick shielded his hand against the beaming sun so that he could look him full in the eye. “Do you not look at me with such fury, man. I did meant no insult to you—’tis only that I wish to be told of my wife’s whereabouts in the future.” He raised his hand to stop the other man from speaking. “Nay, ’tis not your task to inform me. ’Tis a courtesy I request of my wife. Verily, Raymond, I can think of no other man that I’d want to escort my lady, with the exception of myself, than you. Truly.”

The other man seemed to accept his apology. “My lord, I thank you for your trust in me. I’ve served Langumont for greater than a score winters, and I will continue to serve my lady Maris until such time as she does not wish me around.”

Dirick nodded, recognizing that the man, while not combative, was also clearly delineating his loyalty—to Maris over that of Dirick. Such impertinence could have annoyed him further, but Dirick knew better. The safety of Maris was of paramount importance to both of them, and therefore, their intentions would be thus be aligned. “Verily, Raymond, and as you serve her, you serve me as well. And I must tell you that I am not so greatly pleased that you should take your service so seriously that you would rid her of an unwanted husband—”

“Lord Dirick,” the other man interrupted, a shameful look shadowing his face, “I meant naught—”

“Nay, do you not apologize. You meant only to protect your lady as any man should, particularly from the likes of Victor d’Arcy. However, as I am now her betrothed, I would take it as a personal affront should you attempt to rid her of my presence.” He allowed a bit of humor to light his eyes, even as he kept his voice commanding.

Raymond smiled with obvious relief. “Thank you, my lord, and you can be certain I shall take your words to heart as I know full well you can beat me at swordplay.”

“Not without much effort and a little luck,” he told him, remembering their mock battle at Langumont. “Now, tell me what passed this day in the market.”

Raymond sobered. “’Twas not a runaway, my lord, I should stake my honor on it.”

Dirick drew up in his saddle. “What say you, man?”

“It was no accident, my lord. The cart did not slow, and the horses did not act as though they were crazed…it seemed as though the driver urged them on. And,” he looked behind as if to see how far back was Maris, “it followed her when she ran down an alleyway.” He described how she had escaped from the cart.

Dirick swore, cold fear rushing over him. Someone had tried to kill Maris. She had nearly died. The blood drained from his head, rushing to throb at the ends of his limbs. “You did not see the driver to recognize him?”

Raymond shook his head. “Nay, my lord, he wore a helm pulled low and a mantle about his face. There were no markings on his clothing or on the cart.”

Taking a deep breath, Dirick looked up at the sky and offered a prayer of thanksgiving. Then he looked at Raymond. “I will investigate, and I would welcome any assistance you might give me. In the mean while, do you double your guard about her, especially when I am not near, and let us not tell her of our suspicions as yet. She will only argue or disregard them.”

With a grim smile, Raymond nodded.

Two days.

Maris had two days until she was to wed Dirick of Ludingdon.

The thought had driven her from the chamber, where she badgered the seamstresses who worked diligently on her gown, into the courtyard near the queen’s apartments. She was alone with her thoughts and sank onto a stone bench in the corner of the square garden.

An oak tree spread shady limbs over her perch, and a small forsythia bush burst with sprays of yellow flowers. Maris idly watched as a bee nipped into a blossom, then out, skipping over the expanse of the tree, buzzing happily all the while.

Dirick had not been far from her mind in the last days, though she’d only seen him briefly when they met upon the road from London. She’d angered and embarrassed him in front of his men and her men, yet he’d done naught but give her a brief, pointed warning.

She sighed and broke a twig from the forsythia. Fingering the soft, tender blossoms, she closed her eyes. In two days’ time, she’d belong to him…and though she’d fought the idea of marriage long enough, somehow she’d come to accept—nay, she must be truthful if only to herself—come to welcome that she would be Dirick’s wife.

A pleasant shiver spiraled down to her belly, fluttering and heating her insides. Her mouth became dry at the thought of his lips, his hands and that great, muscular body against hers, touching her, joining with her. The heat she’d come to associate with Dirick pooled in her middle, surging to her womanly place, causing her breasts to tingle, and she drew a deep breath.

She suddenly became aware that she was not alone.

Her eyes flew open and she saw a page standing there, just off to the side, as if waiting for her to acknowledge him. He held a silver goblet encrusted with rubies and sapphires, and when her attention rested upon him, he gave a short bow, proffering the cup.

“My lady Maris, I am sent by your husband with this gift to quench your thirst.”

Her face heated at the possibility that Dirick was nearby and had seen her mooning over him. When she looked about, however, she saw that no one else was in the vicinity, and she returned her gaze to the page. “Is he not to join me?” She tried to submerge the pang of disappointment.

The page shook his head. “Nay, lady. The lord said only that ’tis a gift to you, his bride, and that he looks to the day you shall become one.”

Maris took the goblet, admiring its weight. “Thank you, and you may thank my lord for his thoughtfulness as well.”

The page bowed, turned, and walked sedately from the courtyard, leaving Maris alone with the bees.

Ruby wine glistened in its silver cup, and she took a sip before resting it on the bench beside her. Mayhap Dirick, too, was willing to put their differences behind them as their wedding day drew near. It would be more than she could hope that he would welcome their marriage for more than the riches and lands she would bring him.

Another sigh escaped her lips. She could not deny it any longer: she loved him.

Though he caused her ire to rise at their every meeting, he was never far from her thoughts…and the memory of his touch lived in her dreams.

The soft rustle of someone’s approach brought Maris’s attention from the goblet beside her. Without looking up, she knew it was Dirick.

“My lady.” He greeted her solemnly, almost warily.

She raised her face to him and was immediately ensnared in his piercing grey-blue gaze. “My lord. I did not think you would join me.”

He looked at her, tilting his head to one side as if surprised as her reaction. “The ladies told me you’d come for some air. I thought to sit with you for a time, as I’ve been otherwise occupied with the king for the last days.”

Her heart leapt. He had sent her a gift, and then he’d sought her out. “Please have a seat.”

“Our betrothal contracts have been finished,” he began, sinking onto the bench next to her.

A sense of disappointment settled in her middle. He’d not come to be with her for any other reason than to talk of their contract, and of the lands she would bring him. “Verily they meet your approval,” she replied coolly, refusing to look at him or his gift, “and that of the king.”

She felt him nod next to her. “Aye. They are more than fair, and follow the wishes of your father.”