The Marriage Parley

CHAPTER FOUR

Richard feared he'd pushed her too far with his talk of bedding her. God, grant him strength, but the temptation of her drove him to say such things. He had no smooth address.

A chill wind crept under the tent bottom and pebbled the skin of his bare trunk. The early spring would provide no midday warmth. Outside, the smell of cook fires drifted in with the breeze.

Maggie stood at the far end of the table from him. Driven there by his words, or her reaction to them he could not tell.

She had thrown back the sides of her cape and revealed the skirts of her ruby red dress.

The cost of that fabric alone would feed many hungry mouths at Elford. His people needed him to think with his head and not his rod. Much of Elford was hard, rocky land that yielded poor crops. The rich land belonged to de Guilles. The harvest had been particularly meager this year, and it would be a long, hungry winter if he could not supplement his demesne with de Guilles's harvest.

"Are you cold?" She surprised him by speaking first.

Perhaps he had not erred as badly as he feared. "I have been colder."

"Aye." She took a few steps closer to him again. "But I would wager you have been warmer too. The braziers give meager warmth."

"Indeed." The banter between them went to his head, like too much mead. He had never questioned Margaret's beauty, but her wit and her spirit surpassed his expectations. "If you release me, I could make a fire."

"Or." She untied her cape and draped it over the bench. "I could leave you tied and make the fire myself."

Without her cape, the enticing curves of her breasts and hips were a feast for his eyes. "I do not know many ladies who can make a fire."

She laughed, and the sweet clear sound rang through the tent, and he wanted to make her do it again and again.

"Either you do not know many ladies—" Her gaze drifted over him. "But somehow I doubt that. Or you know only pampered roses who never deign to get their hands dirty."

He liked the appreciation in her eyes.

She stacked dried grass beneath kindling as well as any seasoned soldier.

"Regardless, once I am yours, you will be the only lady for me."

"Sweet words." She chuckled. "Pity the woman who takes them to heart."

"Maggie, look at me." He waited until she met his gaze. "Do I look the sort to have honeyed words dripping from my tongue? My word binds me."

She gaped at him. "That is a weighty declaration you make."

"You do not believe me?"

"I was married before, remember?" She struck a spark and applied it to the dried grass beneath the kindling. Kneeling beside the firepit, she blew on the spark until it flared into a small flame. "Men expect chastity from their wives but make no promise of the same in return."

"I do." He wished she would look at him so she could read the sincerity in his eyes. A lifetime of watching his father swive his way through Elford, and the pain it caused his mother, had cured him of adultery. When he pledged his troth, he would do so mindful that it was before God, and that his word, once given, was not retracted. "I will expect the same from you, Maggie."

She looked at him then, her lovely face thoughtful. "I remained true to my first husband."

"Perhaps because you loved him?" He needed a more definite reply from her.

Her face tightened with anger. "I despised him, but I stood by my vows. If this should go forward—"she waved a hand between them"—I will do no less for you."

"This will go forward." Richard had no real choice about that, and he suspected neither did Maggie. "All that remains is for us to come to terms."

"Ah." The kindling caught, and she fed larger pieces of wood to the fire, and then stood. She brushed off her skirts. "Finally, we get to parley."

"Now you will tell me that you are as proficient at this as you are with a bow." She had drawn closer to him. Close enough to bend and retrieve his goblet.

He could reach out and grab her and pull her to him. He resisted.

She filled their goblets and handed his to him. When he brushed her fingers with his she did not draw back as fast.

Warmth from the fire pushed back the creeping cold. Golden light flickered over the delicate lines of her face and neck.

Finally, she sat and within easy reach of him. Her growing trust in him bloomed as hope in his chest.

A man shouted from outside the tent.

They both stilled and listened.

Another voice joined the first, and then Sir Mortimer bellowed, "The first man to show steel will feel mine in his gut."

Margaret paled and stiffened. Reality could not be put off. Outside their bubble of warmth and ease, two armies stood ready and willing to fight till the last man standing.

The tent flap flew open and Sir Mortimer strode in with John at this back.

"God's bones, Lady Meg." He glowered at Margaret. "While the two of you sit here and stitch and gossip, the men grow restive."

John gave a wry smile. "Perhaps now you will admit us and allow the parley to commence?"

"The parley is commencing," Margaret said. Since John had entered, her spine had stiffened even more. "Sir Richard and I are coming to terms."

"Really?" John sneered. "Because it looks to me as if you are getting cozy while outside men grow weary of waiting. Might I remind you both that men who are sworn enemies and armed to the teeth make impulsive decisions?"

Richard did not enjoy the hungry way John's gaze roamed Margaret, and the force of his displeasure filled his voice. "We are both aware of what is at stake here, Arles. I suggest you leave us to it."

"Lady Margaret." Sir Mortimer puffed up his barrel chest. "I must protest to this. A lady, such as yourself, is not capable of negotiating such a delicate matter."

"You forget yourself, Mortimer." Margaret laced her tone with ice. "This delicate matter is my future and there is nobody better able to settle myself comfortably than I."

Mortimer flushed. "Spoken like a woman with only romance on her mind. But your lands, your people—"

"Are my first concern," she said. She gave Mortimer a hard stare and her voice was honed steel. "Might I suggest you find yourselves some dinner and leave us to it."

Arles stayed behind and eyed them both. His gaze lingered on Richard's bindings as if to reassure him they were still in place. "Be warned, Sir Richard. You will get only this one opportunity to come to terms. If you cannot, I will send for the king's army, and Elford will find itself out of favor."

Richard would love to crack his fist against Arles's jaw, but the situation called for diplomacy. Another time, he and the arrogant whoreson would meet again, and then the time for diplomacy will have passed.

"As for you, Lady Margaret—"Arles's gaze grew possessive. "You understand the alternative."

Richard waited for him to leave before he asked. "What alternative?"

Margaret gave him a long, assessing look, then she took a deep breath and said, "Him. He has petitioned the king for my hand should we fail here."

Over his dead body. Richard indicated for her to retake her seat. "Then let us come to terms."