Tori Phillips - Halloween Knight

Her tart tongue made him itch to shake her but the sight of her wan face broke his heart instead. He knelt down beside her. “What has happened to you, chou-chou?” he asked, reverting to the pet name he had called her since she had been a toddler.

Belle’s eyes narrowed. “Surely tis obvious even to you, Marcus,” she replied, not looking at him. “I have been lying about on goose down quilts all the livelong day and pleasuring myself with sweetmeats while singing roundelays.” Her lower lip trembled before she bit it.

Mark stroked her sunken cheek. Her skin was dry and cold to his touch. “God’s teeth! I will kill Mortimer Fletcher by inches. Tis a good thing that your father cannot see you in this wretched state.”

At the mention of Brandon, she attempted to rise. “Papa? Oh, where is he?”

Mark caught her before she fell to the hard floor. Belle weighed nothing in his arms. With his free hand, he fumbled with the clasp that held his cloak around his neck. “Soft, Belle. Your father is still at Wolf Hall.”

A faint sheen of tears filled her eyes, but she dashed them away with the back of her hand. “He did not come for me?” she whispered.

Mark wrapped the cloak around her and held her close to his chest willing his warmth into her thin bones. “Tush, chou-chou. Do not think ill of him. He lies abed with a broken hip.”

She gasped.

“He will mend in time and with Lady Kat’s gentle care,” Mark soothed. “Tis fear for your safety that pains him more than his injury. He has sent me in his stead.”

Belle arched one of her delicate eyebrows. “Then I suppose you will have to do. Beggars cannot be choosers. Where are your men-at-arms?”

Mark smoothed a lock of her golden hair. “I fear I have none, only—”

She bolted upright in his arms. “What!” she wailed. “Oh, Mark! I see your brains are still as thick as Tewksbury mustard!”

He fumed in silence for a moment. His brilliant plan for Belle’s escape was not working as he had expected. Though she was as weak as a milksop, the chit showed no inclination to express her admiration or gratitude for all the trouble—not to mention the personal sacrifice—he had already endured on her behalf.

“Do you take me for a fool, Belle?” he growled.

She snapped her fingers. “Nay, sir! If I could, I would not take you at all!”

Mark was torn between the urge to kiss her or to shake her. “You ungrateful little wretch! I have half a mind to leave you as I found you.” He attempted to gather her back into his embrace. He had liked that part of the rescue very much.

Belle glowered at him. “Begone then! Methinks I have given you enough amusement for one night.”

Mark glowered back. Their cold noses practically touched. “You will note that I am not laughing, Belle.”

Her mouth, faintly pink, enticed him. Her lips hovered near to his—just as they had done at their last meeting. Just before Belle had pushed him out of the apple tree.

She wrinkled her nose. “Cudgel your lusty thought, Mark. These lips are not yours for kissing and the time is out of joint. By my troth, I had rather be wooed by a snail than to be rescued by one.”

“A snail?” he snarled. The minx had not changed one jot in the last eight years. She was still as impossible as ever. “So be it!” He rose, carrying her with him. “We have dallied here too long as it is.”

Belle beat against his chest with her fists. Though her blows had none of their former strength, Mark was hurt by her lack of cooperation.

She grimaced. “Unhand me, you purple-headed malt-worm!”

He tucked the cloak under her chin. “Tut, tut. There is no need to thank me now, Belle. Later on, of course, you may shower me with your proper gratitude.”

She bit his thumb.

He almost dropped her.

“Belle!” He shook her to gain her full attention. “As much as I have enjoyed this pleasant chitchat with you, do you not think it wise that we quit this dank cell and make a swift exit into yonder woods?”

She wriggled out of his arms. “Nay!” She sank down onto her reeky pallet.

Mark thought of a number of dastardly things he could do to speed along this frustrating enterprise but he rejected all of them. If Belle didn’t kill him afterward, Brandon would. Then it would be good-bye forever to Mark’s future estate. He dropped down beside her.

“In plain words and simple sentences, pray explain to me why leaving Bodiam is not to your liking?” he asked stretching his patience to the limit

Belle shook her hair out of her face. “Because this castle is mine. Is that simple enough for your understanding?”

Mark failed to comprehend her obtuse logic.

She sighed. “Oh, why am I infected with you?”

He attempted a dash of levity. “Because I am the most wonderful man you have ever known?”

She jabbed him several times with her finger. “Don’t you dare give yourself airs with me, you gull-catcher! I am not one of your hot wenches dressed in flame-colored taffeta.”

A warm flush of embarrassment crept up Mark’s neck. Belle knew him far too well for comfort. “I never thought—” he began.

“Ha!” she cut him off. “Of course not! Tis why men like you fill this poor world with ill-favored children!”

Mark counted to ten before he trusted himself to reply. “Let us forget my past sins for the moment, Belle. Instead, let us attend to the matter at hand before daylight takes us by surprise. If you refuse to leave here because Bodiam is your home, then exactly how do you expect me to rescue you?”

For once she allowed her defenses to drop. “Papa was supposed to come with an army,” she replied in a voice filled with despair.

She took his hand in hers and held it close to her heart. Her gentle touch sent hot blood rushing through his veins. Mark took several deep breaths to steady himself. His nose tickled.

“You have no idea what it is like to be a bastard, even one that is as well-loved as Papa loves me,” she said softly. “There is nothing in this world that is mine by right—not my name, nor a title, nor acceptance in society, not even the motley rags I wear. I have nothing—except Bodiam. My sweet stepmother deeded her castle to me for my lifetime.” She lifted her chin a notch. “And I will never relinquish it, especially not to that double-dealing sot of a brother-in-law who seeks to wrest it from me.”

She leaned closer to Mark. “If I steal out of my own home like a thief in the night, Mortimer will claim that I abandoned my property and that he, as the brother of my late husband, could take possession according to the law. By God in His heaven, Mark, I swear I will never leave Bodiam.”

He squeezed her hand. “Even if you die for it, chou-chou?” he asked in a gentle voice.

“Aye,” she answered.

Mark put his arm around her and drew her against his side. Again he was struck by how thin she had become. He could feel each one of her ribs. His anger at Mortimer increased a hundredfold. Killing was too good for the scullion.

“Methinks you are going to cause me a heap of trouble—again,” he remarked in a rueful voice.

She snorted. “You once told me that I excel in trouble-making.”

Mark chose to ignore that jibe. “Then if you will not leave the castle, we must find a way to make Mortimer go,” he reasoned aloud though he did not know how he could effect this miracle before Belle died from the cur’s maltreatment.

Instead of pushing him away, she snuggled inside the crook of his arm and rested her head on his shoulder. “How many men did you say accompanied you?”

He swallowed. “Only one—though he fights like ten…and my squire,” Mark added as an afterthought. Belle would kill him if she knew that Kitt slept within Bodiam’s unhappy walls.