My Lord's Desire. Margaret Moore

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СКАЧАТЬ she had little choice but to agree to the role he had assigned her.

      “I don’t want a rebellion any more than you do,” she snapped with frustration and anger. “Therefore I shall go along with your plan until we can discover the identity of the conspirators—but only until then.”

      With that, she turned on her heel and marched out of the garden.

      THAT NIGHT, after the tables had been cleared and taken down so that the courtiers could dance, Armand took another drink of wine and watched Lady Adelaide clap hands with a dark, bearded knight. She’d already danced with three other men. Apparently her attempt to find the conspirators involved flirting with every single male at court.

      God help him, what had possessed him to kiss her? It had been a stupid, impulsive decision—if one could consider giving in to his overwhelming desire a decision.

      His explanation had come after, although that hadn’t been totally impromptu. He had been thinking of ways a man and a woman could be seen talking together, and wooing came to mind. Then he’d noticed Lady Jane.

      “What’s the matter?” Randall inquired solicitously. “Is your knee troubling you?”

      Armand stopped watching the vivacious, beautiful Adelaide who kissed with such heart-stopping passion, and turned to his companion. “Yes,” he replied, for that was partially the truth. His knee did hurt.

      Meanwhile, Adelaide trotted past them, the bearded man’s arm around her slender waist.

      She’d made him forget everything and everyone while they kissed, including Bayard. Damn the woman—and damn that black-haired knave dancing with her. “Who’s that with Lady Adelaide? I don’t recall seeing him at court before.”

      “That’s Sir Oliver de Leslille. Most of his family’s estates are in Ireland. I must say I’m rather surprised Lady Adelaide accepted his invitation. She’s never danced with him before.”

      Randall’s wistful gaze drifted toward the minstrels, and the young lady sitting near them.

      “Why don’t you go talk to Lady Eloise?” Armand suggested, taking his mind from his own troubles for a moment. “She’s all by herself and would surely welcome an intelligent conversation.”

      Randall blushed to the roots of his hair. “Oh, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t know what to say.”

      “You know a lot about music. Talk about that.”

      A stubborn set came to Randall’s lips. “Why don’t you ask her to dance? You have before.”

      “I give you my solemn word that although Lady Eloise seems a very sweet and charming young woman, I only asked her to dance to avoid dancing with Lady Hildegard,” Armand sincerely replied.

      Randall appeared to struggle between relief and annoyance. “You used her to get away from Hildegard?”

      “Wouldn’t you? And it should comfort you to know Lady Eloise wasn’t happy to be asked, either. I’m sure she would have preferred to refuse, but she didn’t want to offend me.”

      Randall smiled, and as he got up to go, Lady Mary came sidling up to them.

      “I hear you were a very naughty boy this afternoon, my lord,” she said, addressing Armand as Randall beat a hasty retreat.

      Armand forced himself to smile, although obviously Adelaide had been right to worry about rumor and gossip. It was also true that his reputation had suffered since the surrender of Marchant, but to judge by Lady Mary’s bright, eager eyes, that shouldn’t affect his chances for an advantageous marriage. “Was I?”

      Lady Mary waggled a long, bony finger at him. “Sneaking out of the hall like that and depriving the ladies of your company.”

      She must not have heard about the kiss. “I was overwhelmed by all the beauty and clever conversation.”

      Lady Mary looked as if she didn’t believe him, as well she should not, but he continued to smile nonetheless.

      “Where did you go?” she asked.

      “To see my horse.”

      That wasn’t exactly a lie. He had gone to the stable, although much earlier in the day, to feed and water and brush the nag. The poor creature had been so pleased to see him, he’d felt guilty for not coming sooner. Afterward, he’d encountered Hildegard and escaped her as soon as he could—only to be forced to take refuge in that hut with Lady Adelaide. Which had been a different sort of torment.

      “Oh, yes, I’ve heard about your horse,” Lady Mary said. “Very mean-spirited and prone to biting.”

      “Not if he’s shown the proper respect and affection.”

      Lady Mary lowered her voice and slid him a glance that managed to be both brazen and coy. “Like his master?”

      “I don’t bite.”

      “Pity,” she murmured, her eyes glowing with seductive interest.

      No doubt she hoped to arouse him, or at least encourage him. Unfortunately for Lady Mary, after that kiss with Adelaide, she could strip naked and he wouldn’t care.

      What the devil was wrong with him? He had come here to get the ransom for Bayard, and by God, he would. “Would you care to dance, Lady Mary?”

      When she eagerly assented, Armand led her toward the other dancers in the center of the hall with a smile fixed upon his face, but a look akin to martyrdom in his eyes.

      LATER THAT NIGHT, Adelaide made her way up the curved stairs toward her bedchamber in the east wing of the castle apartments. She hadn’t been this exhausted since the day her father had died, still cursing God and her poor dead mother for not giving him sons.

      How many men had she danced with tonight? Fifteen? Twenty? And none of them had sounded like those men in the garden.

      Normally, she rarely danced, for she felt on display when she did, and she wanted to avoid raising the ire or jealousy of the other ladies.

      Tonight, she hadn’t even refused Sir Oliver’s invitation, although his dark-eyed scrutiny always made her uneasy, and his voice was nothing like those they’d overheard. It was too deep, and he had an Irish accent—his inheritance from his mother, he’d said.

      Of course, accents could be feigned, and perhaps the conspirators had somehow disguised their voices in the garden, or later in the hall.

      Why would they do that, unless they’d feared being overheard? And which, then, were their natural voices—those in the garden or the hall?

      It was also possible that the plotters were not even nobles. Servants crossed the garden to get from the courtiers’ apartments to the hall all the time; no one would look askance at a small group of servants talking together for a moment.

      As for Armand’s impertinent, improper, unwelcome kiss, his reason for it was plausible, and yet…

      A sound echoed in the narrow stairwell—a soft, slight scraping, as if something had rubbed against the step or wall, СКАЧАТЬ