Disclaimer: The following is a work of fan fiction, and is not intended to infringe on the copyrights held by ABC Television, Gil Grant Productions, or any other holder of Covington Cross copyrights. No profit is being made from this story.

Rating: PG-13/R

Author's Note: This story is a sequel to "Sea Change". If you haven't read it, here's everything you need to know: At a harvest festival, Armus met, fell in love with, and became betrothed to, Lady Margaret (Meg) Devlin, the daughter of his father's oldest friend, Harold Devlin of White Cliff. However, Meg's father insisted that the marriage could only be performed by Meg's uncle, a bishop, who was in Rome. Therefore, the marriage was put off until Easter. And now it's after Easter.

Feedback welcome to: [email protected]

**

"A Simple Covington Wedding"

a Covington Cross FanFic

by Linda S. Oleksa

**

Lady Elizabeth arrived by coach at noon on Thursday, the day before the wedding. Only Richard was in the courtyard to greet her.

"Lady Elizabeth," he said with obvious relief as he helped her out of her coach. "I am *so* glad you're here."

Elizabeth smiled uncertainly. While never as openly antagonistic as his sister, Richard had never been particularly warm toward her, either. "It's nice of you to say so."

"No, I mean it. With all my heart." He walked her across the courtyard to the door. "Father's in the Great Hall. Pulling his beard out."

"Ah, I see. Well, I'll go see if I can help."

"Thank you."

**

Thomas stood in the center of his ancestral home, as Lord of the Castle, supreme authority in his domicile -- up to his knees in chaos.

The servants had set up the tables for the wedding banquet tomorrow, quite ignoring the fact that there were guests and family to be fed tonight. And when Thomas commented thereon, the kitchen maid who'd been directing the table placement burst into tears. Now two other maids were trying to console her, while the workmen moved tables pointlessly back and forth. Richard, who had been helping, had vanished about the time the maid began to wail. Although, Thomas considered, that was possibly more helpful than his trying to comfort the girl would have been.

The Lord stood with his fists on his hips, his teeth clenched to keep from shouting.

"Sir Thomas?"

He spun angrily, but softened immediately. "Lady Elizabeth. Thank God."

"Things are not going well?"

"Ah, they're . . . " he threw his hands up. "We brought extra help in from the village, kitchen girls, serving girls, and the regular help doesn't like it, won't help them . . . the bakers are fighting with the cooks over space in the ovens, the laundry girl dropped clean sheets in the muck and they had to be washed again . . . and *this*."

Elizabeth smiled mildly. "Don't worry, Thomas. We'll put it all right, you'll see."

Thomas nodded. He had known the wedding preparations would be chaotic, which was why he had invited -- begged -- Elizabeth to come a day early. He'd had no idea things would be quite this bad. "Thank you."

"May I meet the bride first?"

Thomas scowled broadly. "She's not here yet."

"Still?" Elizabeth asked, surprised. "I thought they were leaving White Cliff on Monday."

"They did. Monday morning."

"It's Thursday, Thomas. It's only a two-day ride."

"Yes, I know," he answered, exasperated. "But they have wagons, and coaches, and they're traveling slowly, with the ladies . . . " He threw his hands up. "We've had messengers back and forth, everything's fine -- two of the wagons are already here, in fact. They're just slow."

"Armus must be out of his mind, waiting."

Thomas shook his head. "I don't know. He's been arranging his apartment, and I don't know what else -- brooding, I imagine."

Elizabeth patted his arm. "All right, Thomas. Have the workmen put the extra tables against the wall there, out of the way. Arrange tables for dinner here, in a horseshoe. Tell the girl to stop blubbering and get back to the kitchen. I'll be down to attend to that in a few minutes."

"Where are you going?"

"To check on your son."

**

The door to the apartment stood ajar. "Armus?"

The tall knight turned. "Lady Elizabeth! Please, come in."

She entered, looking around. She hadn't been in this part of Covington Cross; they were at the far end of the north wing, rather a distance from the family quarters -- a choice that Elizabeth imagined was deliberate, and one she quite approved of. The main room, the sitting room, was large and bright, with two big windows opening onto the courtyard. On each side of the room were two additional rooms. "I put the sleeping chambers on this side," Armus said, sweeping a hand to the right, "and a study there," to the left, in the rear, "the light's best there. And this last room," he shrugged, "I suppose it will be a nursery, in time. I've been putting the crates in there for now."

"It's lovely, Armus."

"Do you think so?" He put his fists on his hips -- his father's gesture -- and looked critically around the room. The furnishings were fine and clean and bright, but on the whole -- "I'm thinking it's a bit . . . I don't know . . . "

"Masculine," Elizabeth supplied. "That's to be expected. When your bride has moved some of her things in here, it will soften. You'll see."

Armus nodded. "Well, that's why I'm glad you're here. About Meg's things." He went to the open doorway of the fourth room, which was half-full of crates and boxes. "Two of the wagons have come already. I gather there's a third. And so I thought, I'd unpack some of her things, to make it more, you know, to make her feel at home, but then I thought, maybe I shouldn't, maybe that would be prying, and so I . . . what do you think?"

Elizabeth smiled at him fondly. "I don't think I've ever heard that many words out of you at one time, Armus."

The young knight flushed again. "I'm talking too much."

"You're talking just enough." She eyed the boxes. "Most of these are probably household things, anyhow, bedding and such, but leave them. And when Lady Margaret is ready, help her to unpack them without complaint. That's the key, you know, *without complaint*."

Armus nodded eagerly. "I can do that easily enough. I think you're quite right. That's a good solution."

Cedric came into the sitting room, struggling with a box of books. "In the study," Armus said.

"Yes, yes," his brother answered. "We do have servants for hauling things, you know."

"They're busy with Father."

Cedric set the box down with a loud thud in the study and came back to the main room, wiping his hands. "Hello, Lady Elizabeth." And to Armus, "Anyhow, that's the last of it. Every last thing."

"You brought *all* the books?" Armus asked. "Even the ones on the desk?"

"Yes, all of them."

"No, no. I wanted to leave those there." Armus went into the study and came back with five books. "Here, go put these back. We'll bring them up tomorrow."

"Why?" his brother protested.

"In case Meg wants something to read tonight."

"She's not going to read five books in one night."

"Just put them back."

Cedric sighed. "Fine. Fine. I'm so glad I'm not your servant *all* the time."

"So am I, brother. So am I."

His younger brother stomped off. "I'm sorry," Armus said. "He's been in such a mood lately, I don't understand it."

Elizabeth nodded sympathetically. "It'll be better tomorrow. You've moved your things in here, then?"

"Yes. Just today. I thought we'd put Meg in my room -- my old room -- tonight. The light's good there, for primping or painting or whatever girls do -- and the room next to it is empty, so she can be close to her mother, plus there's plenty of room for maids and such . . . "

"Of course," Elizabeth answered. "And sentiment had nothing at all to do with that choice."

Armus smiled wryly, shaking his head. Then he sighed. "I wish she'd get here."

Richard appeared in the doorway. "Third wagon's here," he announced. "How much *stuff* does one woman need, anyhow?"

"At least three wagons fulls," Elizabeth answered.

"What about the coaches?" Armus demanded sharply.

Richard shrugged. "The driver says they were half an hour behind him."

"What is *taking* them so long?" his older brother all but roared. "It's a two-day bloody ride . . . "

Another shrug. "She'll be here when she gets here. Nothing to be done about it."

"You are ever so helpful, brother."

"Uh-huh." Richard chose to ignore his sarcasm. "Well, I'll send them up with the trunks, shall I?"

"Please."

Gratefully, Richard slipped out.

"I must say," Elizabeth mused, "I'm anxious to meet the young lady at the center of this turmoil."

"You'll like her," Armus promised warmly. "She's . . . she's . . . "

Elizabeth laughed gently. "Yes, I'm sure she is."

**

John Mullens perused the letter with interest.

He had known, of course, the date of this blasted wedding; he had watched with great disdain the ever-thickening procession of wagons and coaches that made their way up to road to his rival's home. He had chaffed and snarled, resenting every moment of happiness he presumed was occurring down the road. Weddings and the Greys, he scowled. His son had died at such a wedding.

He hated Thomas Grey, and all his children, and he was fully prepared to hate Margaret Devlin as well.

But with the King's latest, sternly-worded orders, he had seen no opportunity to destroy their happiness . . . until now.

Messengers on the main road -- the King's road -- he was not permitted to hinder. But this one had conveniently strayed onto Mullen's lands, stopped for a piss and a meal. And so Mullens had the letter.

Lady Diedre Hamilton was evidently the bride's aunt. She had not been expected to attend, but her plans had changed at the last moment and she was on her way. According to her letter, she was coming in response to Lady Margaret's protest that she could not bear to be married without her beloved aunt present.

So, Mullens thought to himself, so here was his opportunity. A small enough thing, to be sure, the absence of a beloved aunt at a wedding. Despite the girl's protest, Mullens was fairly certain the wedding would proceed without Aunt Diedre. But perhaps it would take a little of their joy away -- especially when the aunt arrived *after* the ceremony. A little chaos and confusion to add to festivities.

It wasn't enough, Mullens mused, but it was a start.

Grinning to himself, he pocketed the letter and went to lay his trap.

**

The coaches were supposed to be half an hour behind the last wagon. But an hour after the wagon's arrival, they were nowhere in sight.

"Father," Armus said loudly amid the noise of the Great Hall, "I'm going after them."

"Armus, I'm sure they're fine," Thomas yelled back, as a table clattered off its legs and crashed to the stone floor.

"This close to Mullens?"

His father considered. It was unlikely in the extreme that Mullens would attempt to interfere with the girl's arrival. Not only did he have to fear the King's wrath, but also Harold Devlin's. And yet . . . well, there was no harm in it. "Take your brothers."

"Thank you."

Armus scattered one servant to the stables to order the horses, another to find Richard and Cedric. Then he ran up the stairs to his room in search of his sword. It wasn't there. None of his things were there. He cursed and went on to his apartment.

On his way back down the stairs, he glanced out the windows and saw the coaches finally, in the courtyard. "Thank God," Armus breathed to himself. And suddenly his knees were weak. Finally, after so many months, finally he was going to see his Meg again, to hold her, to kiss her, to look at her, to laugh with her and talk with her in a way that their letters simply couldn't

match. And tomorrow, he would marry her. Finally, he did not have to be without her. Ever again.

The riders were off their horses: Harold Devlin, his oldest son Michael, a collection of men-at-arms. A boy, noble-dressed, maybe ten years old, that Armus did not recognize.

And from the coaches, a collection of ladies and maids, Marie Devlin -- and finally, finally, Lady Margaret herself.

Armus held his breath.

She was dressed simply, for travel, in dark gray, her hair back in a single dark braid. She was smaller than Armus remembered. Was she really such a tiny thing? And was she really so young? And her face . . .

Even from this distance, Armus could see that she looked pale and wan, with dark circles under her eyes. She kept her eyes down, shy, and when she did look up, she looked . . .

Sad.

Armus frowned to himself. Maybe he had imagined that. Maybe she was distracted by something, or had a stone in her shoe, or had turned her ankle climbing down --

Why did she look so completely *miserable*?

He had been so sure she would arrive all smiles and bliss, that she would run joyously into his arms . . .

. . . that she felt as he did . . .

But Lady Margaret Devlin looked like she would rather be *anywhere* else but here.

Frowning still deeper, Armus walked slowly down the rest of the stairs and out into the courtyard.

As he arrived, the Bishop climbed out of the carriage. He was not a tall man, for his girth, and his very presence immediately irritated Armus, even before he spoke. The Bishop stretched and yawned loudly, not bothering to cover his mouth. "About time we got here," he said loudly, to no one in particular.

The other Greys arrived as a group, and there was considerable fussing, greetings and introductions. Armus, of course, had to greet the his bride's father before he could greet her, and also Michael, and the boy, who was Michael's son Jeremy. And then Lady Marie. And then finally he turned to Meg . . .

. . . and found, instead, the Bishop, who offered his ring.

"So you're the groom," the man said bluntly as Armus bent to kiss his ring. "My God, but you're a big one. What was Harold thinking? Meg will never manage to carry your sons. If she even manages to conceive them."

Armus was so shocked by the holy man's affront that he could not even begin to form an answer. Which was just as well, he thought, when he could think again; it did not sit well, to chastize a Bishop of the Church. Speechless, he turned at last to his lady.

And stopped, his heart frozen in his chest.

Meg was staring pointedly at her feet, unwilling even to meet his eyes. Her shoulders hunched forward, her hands clenched in nervous little fists in front of her, as if she were expecting to be hit.

Armus felt as if he *had* been hit. He felt as if the world had suddenly slipped out from under his feet. As if his future had vanished in a single moment. And it had, if he had lost her love . . .

"Lady Margaret," he said formally, quietly.

Her hand came out, and he took it, feeling how cold and thin her fingers were as he bowed over them. He kept his eyes on her face, and as he'd hoped, she did glance up, just for a moment. But as he had feared, her eyes were full of grief. He released her hand and took a step back, frowning. "Meg . . . " he whispered.

She looked up again.

The Bishop bellowed, "Come on, come on, you can kiss her tomorrow. Show me my room. If I don't use a privy soon, I'm like to bust a gut."

Lady Margaret did not look up again.

**

"Armus?"

He looked. Richard was at his elbow in the emptying courtyard, staring at him curiously. "You don't look happy, big brother."

Armus shrugged. "Meg didn't look happy," he answered.

"It's a long ride," Richard suggested.

"I know. But . . . "

His brother grinned. "You thought she was going to fly out of the coach and into your arms."

"Something like that," Armus admitted.

"In front of her father and her mother and the Bishop?"

"Well . . . no."

"Yes, you did."

"She's not *happy*, Richard."

"You think too much." Armus glared at him. Richard shrugged. "Look, get the girl alone. Kiss her. That's all you need to do."

"And how am I supposed to manage that?"

Richard shrugged, grinning. "Do what I do. Take her on a tour."

Shaking his head, Armus went back inside. Take her on a tour. Of all the stupid, transparent . . . he grabbed the first serving girl he saw. "Go ask Lady Margaret to join me in the front sitting room when she's refreshed," he said. "Tell her I'd like to show her around her new home."

The servant nodded.

And Armus went to wait.

**

"Sir John!" Trout bellowed in the foyer. His voice bounced through all the open doors and up the stairway. "Sir John!"

"I'm not deaf, you know," Mullen snapped, coming out of his study. "Or I wasn't, until you came in. What is it, Trout?"

"I've done as you said, sir. I stopped the coach and brought it here. But sir . . . sir . . . it's no lady! It's the Bishop himself!"

"It's *what*?" Mullens demanded. "You did *what*?"

"It's the Bishop!" Trout repeated eagerly. "In the coach, come see for yourself."

"You kidnaped a Bishop!" Mullens barked. "You kidnaped a . . . show me, you idiot!"

"But I thought you'd be pleased, sir . . . "

"Oh, yes, I will be very pleased in *hell*!"

He followed the henchman out to the courtyard. There, surrounded by his men, stood a regal black coach, drawn by two nervous black horses. The coachman sat up very straight, not saying a word. The blind to the coach were drawn.

"Here, see here," Trout said eagerly, peeking through a gap in the curtains. "See?"

"Idiot," Mullens snapped under his breath. He approached the coach and pulled the door open. "Your Eminence . . . " he began.

"Who, me?" a husky voice replied from the dark of the interior.

Mullens hesitated. The voice *might* have been a man's . . .

"Please," he ordered politely, hedging his bets, "step out of the coach."

"Well, it's about time!" The darkness moved, a fat white hand gripped his, and a -- person -- stepped out into the daylight.

Dressed in black, head to toe. Rather short, rather round. Hair back severely. Pasty-skinned, deep voiced. But definitely -- Mullens was pretty sure -- a woman.

"Lady Diedre, I hope?" he asked carefully.

"I am Diedre Hamilton. Are you Grey?"

"Oh, God forbid," Mullens uttered unwittingly. "No, Madam, my name is Baron Mullens."

She smiled archly. "Your mother named you Baron? How very ambitious of her."

"John. My mother named me John."

"Better. Well, then, John, and this is not Covington Cross?"

Mullens flinched. "No. Definitely not. This is my home, Torsun-Narr. And you, Madam, are my honored guest."

"Well." She looked him frankly up and down. "Well, I suppose I *am* honored, my dear Baron, but I really can't stay. My niece is being married at Covington Cross tomorrow, and I must be there."

"Yes, yes," Mullens answered smoothly. He was back on familiar territory now; this was part of his plan. "Well, you see, there's been rather a change of plan."

"The wedding's been canceled? Dear me, I must go to her at once, poor girl . . . "

"No, no, nothing like that, I assure you. The wedding will proceed, but it will be on Saturday, rather than tomorrow."

"That's damn inconsiderate. When people have traveled all this way . . . "

"Oh, I quite agree, Madam. I quite agree. This Grey family, you see, they're a bit . . . well, unreliable. It seems the second son has wandered off somewhere, and the wedding has been postponed until his return."

The woman looked highly skeptical. "And that will be on Saturday?"

"Yes. Or, rather, we hope it will be. And if he has not returned by then, the wedding will proceed without him."

"I see." She looked around. "And why, good Baron, am I here?"

"Well, you see, your letter came so late that all the rooms at Covington Cross were full, and so they asked me if I could offer you the hospitality of Torsun-Narr."

Diedre frowned. "I would have thought they'd farm out someone lower placed. After all, I am the bride's aunt . . . "

"Of course, of course. Her favorite aunt, from what I hear," Mullens soothed. "In fact, it was Lady Margaret who suggested this arrangement. She wanted absolutely the best accommodations for you," he improvised madly, "and since of course the best suites at Covington will go to her father and mother, well, you see, it was perfectly logical that she should ask that you be lodged here."

"It seems very irregular to me."

While Mullens tried to think of a better explanation, she shook her head. "All right then, John," she said with imperial familiarity. "Show me this castle of yours."

**

Eleanor was trotting up on corridor, on still another of her father's endless errands, when she caught sight of her brother through an open doorway. She skidded to a halt and went in.

Armus was sitting alone. He had a book in his hands, open, but he wasn't reading it. He was, she could tell at a glance, in full brood mode. The castle could have burned down around him and he wouldn't have noticed. "Armus?"

No answer. She hadn't expected one. "Armus," she said again, shaking him gently by the shoulder.

Armus started. "Eleanor. I didn't hear you come in."

"I know," she said with a laugh. "You were a million miles away."

He shook his head. "Not nearly that far," he answered sadly.

Alarmed, she sat down next to him. "What's wrong? Meg's here, I thought you'd be happy now."

Armus looked at her for a long moment. Then he shrugged. "Will you do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"Go see Meg. Ask her . . . just . . . see if she has everything she needs."

Eleanor frowned at him quizzically. "Okay."

"Thank you."

Still puzzled, Eleanor went. What in the world, she wondered, was going on? Oh, the whole meeting in the courtyard had been awkward, no question, but that was all the Bishop. What was going on with Armus and Meg?

She knew her brother well enough to know that he was unlikely to talk about it. But Meg, on the other hand . . .

She rapped lightly on the door of Meg's room -- Armus' old room, she thought with a smile. She wondered if anyone else had figured out that her brother had found a way for his bride to sleep in his bed the night *before* the wedding. Of course, he couldn't be there with her, but Eleanor liked the symbolism.

No answer. Frowning again, she knocked once more and then quietly pushed the door open.

Meg was alone, sitting back in the armchair, fast asleep.

Eleanor stood for a moment, considering. Meg had not changed her clothes, had plainly not even washed before she dozed off. The thin layer of road grim on her face was streaked and smeared, and in the sleeping girl's hand was a grungy, damp-looking handkerchief. As if she had been crying when she dozed off . . .

Well, it was a long ride from White Cliff.

Eleanor trotted back downstairs to her brother. "She's asleep," she reported.

Armus looked as if she'd slapped him. "Thank you," he said simply. Then he stood and walked out.

Eleanor shook her head. "Men!"

**

"That's not the Bishop, is it?"

Mullens scowled deeply. "No, Trout, I believe we can safely say that that is not the Bishop."

"Sorry, Boss."

Mullens glared at him. "Sir," Trout amended quickly. "I meant, sir, boss. Sir."

"Oh, Baron!" the woman called loudly from the stairs. "Is there someone here who can help me with my laces?"

John Mullens growled audibly.

**

Lady Margaret reappeared at dinner time, looking somewhat cleaner and less tired, dressed in a dark green gown that complimented her dark brown hair and eyes.

She also, of course, began to blush the minute she felt Armus watching her. But she took a deep breath and went over to him. "I am very sorry," she began nervously, not looking up at him. "The maid brought your invitation, and I meant to . . . that is, I was just . . . I sat down for just a

moment and I . . . "

"Yes, yes, yes," the Bishop bellowed behind her, making her jump. "You'll have all kinds of time for talk after tomorrow. Right now your elders are starving. Sit, sit."

Blushing still deeper, Meg moved toward the chair the Armus held for her.

"No, no," the Bishop continued, "you go sit with your mother, where she can keep an eye on you. I won't have you two making cow eyes at each other, you'll ruin my appetite. You, boy, you sit here with the men."

Armus took a slow, deep breath to get his temper under control. Bred from birth with a deep respect for the Church and its representatives, he could not bring himself to defy the Bishop. But watching Meg walk away, with her chin nearly on her chest and her cheeks deep scarlet, he was moved by the urge to strangle the man.

Still, the man scarcely mattered, if Meg's heart had changed.

**

Bishop Devlin, Thomas decided during the first course of dinner, was the most obnoxious man that he had ever had the misfortune to meet -- with the possible exception of John Mullens.

He had begun to form that opinion during the blessing the Bishop had said over their meal. He wasn't entirely certain, the man had used so many words, but he thought the blessing had said that the castle was already blessed by virtue of having the Bishop present. And now, the man stuffed himself with one hand and gestured with the other, talking all the while.

And he had had the affront to take Armus' seat at Thomas' right hand. Which meant that Thomas could not avoid him.

" . . . parochial priests," the Bishop was saying, with distaste. "Good willed, men, to be sure, but really, what can they know of the world when they've never set foot outside their own parish? And how can they lead their flocks when they know nothing at all?"

Thomas glanced at his son, on the far side of the Bishop. Usually, Armus would have been the first to wade into this discussion, arguing for the intelligence of most such men. But Armus was toying with his food, and paying no attention whatsoever. Thomas sighed. "I don't know, Eminence," he began carefully. "I have known any number of clerics who were remarkably

well-read and intelligent . . . "

"Reading!" the Bishop snorted. "Reading benefits you nothing! It should be a learning reserved only for the clergy, who have at least the wit to understand what they've read. And at that, they should read only the Holy Bible and its scholars. All of this other trash that's circulating, stories

and tales and such, bah! Only children need stories, and those should be told by their mothers!"

There, Thomas thought, *that* will surely bring Armus into this fight, with his intellect blazing . . .

But it didn't. The young knight glanced at the Bishop and scowled, but said nothing. His gaze immediately returned to the other end of the table.

Following his the direction of his attention, Thomas was not at all surprised to find that his son was looking at his bride-to-be. She was also picking at her food, and silent, with Ladies Marie and Elizabeth conversing around her. She kept her eyes down.

Thomas felt a little smile flicker over his face, and fought to control it. They'd been just like this when they first met, at White Cliff. Both of them a little shy, not knowing what to say. And how quickly that had changed. He glanced over at Harold, who gave him a matching quick smile. He was thinking the same thing.

" . . . I truly think that *all* clergy would benefit from making such a pilgrimage," the Bishop had gone on. "I don't think a man can be truly holy until he's been in the presence of His Holiness. I tell you, Thomas, it's a life-changing experience."

Thomas nodded thoughtfully. He wondered if the Pope's life had been changed by meeting this Bishop. And vowed to keep the church leader in his prayers from now on.

**

"He's a handsome boy," Elizabeth said, with a nod of her head toward Jeremy. "But I would never have thought you old enough to be a grandmother of one that age."

Lady Marie smiled her thanks. "We started very young," she allowed. "And so did Michael. Jeremy has been just frantic to be allowed to travel with the adults -- you know how they are, at that age, so desperate not to be a child."

"I do know," Elizabeth replied. "We want to keep them in the nursery, and they want to be out in the world."

"Exactly. Your children aren't here?"

"They'll be over tomorrow, for the wedding," Elizabeth answered. "I thought there would be enough chaos and confusion here for today, without them."

"It's very kind of you, to help Sir Thomas with the arrangements."

Elizabeth nodded. "I'm very glad to do it."

"Whatever I can do to help," Marie offered, "let me know."

"I think we have everything under control, for the moment. But I will keep that in mind. You know how quickly things can unravel."

"I do, indeed."

Elizabeth glanced at Meg, who sat between them. She had not said a word since they sat down, and Elizabeth had not seen a single bite enter her mouth. Nerves, the older woman surmised. Still, the deep silence was a bit unnerving. "Are you recovered from your long journey?" she asked kindly.

The silence continued. "Meg?" her mother prompted.

Startled, Meg looked up and blushed. "Forgive me, Lady Elizabeth. I was . . . I was listening to the Bishop."

Not hard to do, since his voice was loud enough to carry clearly into the stables. Elizabeth smiled indulgently. "Funny, I was trying to ignore him."

The bride smiled, wispily, but for the first time there was a glimmer of animation in her eyes. "That's very difficult to do."

"It's an acquired trick."

The girl sighed. "At least Diedre isn't here."

"Praise the Lord," her mother answered.

"Diedre?" Elizabeth asked.

Meg nodded grimly. "She's my aunt. The Bishop's twin sister."

Elizabeth reached for her wine glass and gulped.

**

Diedre Hamilton came down the main stairs of Torsun-Narr in a sweeping gown of that particular yellow-gold color that looked so splendid on olive-skinned women. Unfortunately, she was the more sedately pale English noble woman, and the color made her look like a three-day corpse.

Or so Mullens uncharitably thought, watching her.

"Is dinner ready?" she asked without greeting. "I am simply famished."

"By all means, then," Mullens answered grandly, following her into the dining room. She was, after all, supposed to be his guest; he could scarcely order her to take her meals in her room. Though he would have gladly welcomed it if she had offered to.

As they entered, the serving girl finished laying the last piece of silver and scurried out. Lady Diedre 'tsked' loudly. "You're alone here, aren't you, Baron?"

"Madam?"

"There is no woman running this house," Diedre said firmly. "The signs are everywhere."

"I . . . have been a widower for some years," Mullens conceded carefully.

"I knew it. I knew it. Why, I took one look at this place and said to myself, that poor man is trying to run this household without a woman at his side! I knew it right off."

Mullens drew himself up sharply. "My household, Madam, runs perfectly well."

"So you think. But tell me, when was the last time the tops of the door frames were dusted? Do you know? I can tell you, it has been at least a year. I checked, you see. I always check such things. And the draperies in my room -- I doubt they've *ever* been properly aired."

"I apologize," Mullens answered, "if your accommodation are not what you're accustomed to." I will, he thought to himself, cheerfully have you moved to the dungeon, if you would prefer.

The woman patted his hand familiarly. "Oh, my good man, it's not your fault, not at all. We both know how these peasants will take advantage of everything. Clearly, while you're out guarding your lands and doing the King's work, they're here doing nothing -- at best. At worst, you know, they're sitting in your chairs and sleeping in your bed and Heaven knows what other carrying on. And probably robbing your larder blind, as well. I doubt you keep a close eye on your household accounts, either."

"Well, of course I . . . "

"Oh, nonsense. The kitchen girls tell you what they need and you give it to them, isn't that true? All men are the same way. Just give the girls the money and think they're in control. I'll tell you what, my Baron. After our dinner, I will go to that kitchen and set things right for you."

"You really don't need to bother . . . "

"It's no bother. I love to get my hands into things."

John Mullens sat back, frowning, and trying to determine when, exactly, he'd lost control of his castle.

**

At Covington Cross, the Bishop said, "I suppose your boy will be off to the seminary soon."

Thomas hesitated. "Cedric? Perhaps. We had discussed it, but I think his inclination lies in other directions."

"Nonsense. You're not going to let the boy decide for himself, are you?"

"Well, I . . . "

"I have no patience with indulgent parents. The boy should know his place, his duty. And *your* duty, Sit Thomas, is to see that the Church has the men it needs to continue its work."

The Lord of Covington Cross sat up dangerously straight. "I have a duty also . . . " he began, in a near-snarl. Then he stopped. A guest, and a man of the Church, however much Thomas disliked him. He modified his tone considerably. " . . . to *protect* the Church, which is what keeping Cedric out of it may well be doing."

The Bishop snorted. "Piffle. You're just not willing to take a firm hand with the boy. Indulgence."

Thomas glared at him, but did not answer.

If there was any chance, he decided, that Cedric would turn out like *this* man . . . then let the boy be a knight.

**

"Where did you *get* this roast?" Diedre demanded.

Mullens smiled. "It's quite good, isn't it?"

"Good? My goodness, it tastes like they slaughtered an old milk cow! I've never tasted anything so tough and stringy."

"But . . . "

"Oh, goodness, they really *are* running all over you, aren't they? My poor, poor man. What's to be done for you? Gracious. It's a good thing I came when I did. I don't think you would have lasted another day without me."

"Uh . . . " Mullens answered stupidly.

The woman stood up and thumped her napkin down on the table. "I'm going to that kitchen right this minute. I'll set them right in no time, you'll see. You leave everything to me."

Mullens watched her go, dazed. His hand fell to his belt, to his dungeon key, and tightened convulsively.

In the kitchen, the shouting and the crying began.

**

Things did not improve after dinner. "Come," the Bishop said heartily, as soon as he was done eating. "Bring those benches by the fire, boys," he ordered Richard and Cedric, "and I'll tell you of my visit with the Pope."

"Oh, joy," Richard said under his breath. But there was no escape for him. There was no escape for anyone.

The families gathered obediently near the fire. The Bishop stood and paced, delivering his story as if it were a sermon to a particularly wayward group of sinners. "Now, let us begin at the beginning. I started my journey on a Thursday, I believe. It was September, quite chilly, and I wore my best cloak, of course . . . "

Lady Elizabeth settled next to Marie Devlin, mostly so that she could watch Thomas as the tale progressed. He was clearly bored, restless, wishing for a barn fire or a war to break out. She smiled to herself. As always, however challenged, her beloved behaved with complete decorum. Well, almost always.

Her attention strayed from the Bishop's story almost immediately. She watched Richard and Cedric, who were sitting at the back of the crowd, whispering to each other, giggling like schoolboys. Michael was with them, and though he was older and should have been wiser, he was joining right in. Every now and then the Bishop shot them a stern look and they stopped --

until he looked away.

Eleanor was staring off into space, completely lost in her thoughts.

And Meg . . .

The Bishop had put her center front, as if she most of all needed the benefit of his watchful eye. She sat up straight, her hands folded quietly in her lap, the very picture of polite attention. Elizabeth shook her head. The girl was either perfectly bred to politeness, or she was a complete

dolt.

She could not begin to imagine what Armus saw in the girl.

She looked around again. Armus was standing half in shadows, leaning one shoulder against the hearth, his arms crossed, and his expression completely unconcealed. He was paying no attention to the Bishop's story. Instead, he was all but glaring at his betrothed.

Elizabeth looked back at Meg. The girl never let her attention waver from the speaker. But now Elizabeth could see the tension in her shoulders, her back. She knew that Armus was looking at her, and she was trying desperately not to look back.

And abruptly, Elizabeth understood everything.

Meg Devlin was shy. Not in that courtly, fashionable manner young maidens pretended to these days, but deeply and genuinely shy. And while the rest of the company was merely annoyed at the Bishop's behavior, young Meg was mortified. She was also exhausted. And, understandably, nervous.

And Armus was so sensitive to her moods that he had immediately picked up her unhappiness, and begun to reflect it back. And Meg sensed his unhappiness, and became more miserable, and then Armus saw that she was more unhappy . . .

Elizabeth sighed. Sensitive souls, too inexperienced to deal with each other's moods, tormenting themselves over nothing. And if something wasn't done . . .

She leaned toward the girl's mother. "Is your daughter quiet well?" she whispered.

Marie looked over at her. "She's exhausted," she whispered back. "We had three ships of wounded in the week before Easter, and then the journey itself . . . "

"With the Bishop," Elizabeth supplied.

The other woman nodded. "Exactly."

"Excuse me, ladies," the Bishop said loudly, "was there something you wanted to say?"

*Damn him*, Elizabeth thought before she could stop herself.

But Marie Devlin had been dealing with her husband's pompous brother for some years. "Yes. Lady Elizabeth was commenting that my lady daughter seems tired, and so she does. If you will excuse us, I think it's time that we ladies took our leave." She stood, and Elizabeth joined her. "Meg, dearest, say good night."

Meg stood, bewildered, and went to join her mother. "Good night, good sirs," she said with a small curtsey. She focused her eyes on her father, and avoided at all costs looking at Armus.

Eleanor normally would have resisted being dismissed with the ladies. This time she was deeply grateful. She also said her good night.

"Sleep well tonight," the Bishop called as they went. "Especially you, Meg. I doubt you'll have any such luxury tomorrow night."

The girl's shoulders hitched a fraction higher, but she did not turn.

The four women reached the safety of the corridor. "I hate that man," Eleanor spluttered through clenched teeth. Then she realized what she's said. "Forgive me, Lady Marie, I didn't . . . "

"Please," the older woman said. "He is a repellent toad."

Elizabeth also nodded her agreement. "At least we're free of him, for tonight. I pity the men."

"I don't think I've ever been so glad to be wearing a skirt," Eleanor agreed earnestly.

Meg said nothing. She drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it to her mouth. When she took it away, Eleanor saw flecks of red on it. "Are you all right?" she demanded.

Meg nodded, folding the handkerchief away. "I bit my tongue," she answered.

"One more day," Marie comforted, "and he'll be gone."

"Just get through the ceremony," Elizabeth agreed.

Meg nodded sadly, starting up the stairs. "I just wish . . . " Then she broke off, her eyes brimming with tears.

"What is it?" Eleanor asked. "What's wrong?"

But the other girl shook her head, and tucked her chin down. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing," her mother answered gently. "Go on up to your room. I'll be there directly."

Meg sighed, and did as she was told. Marie turned and went back to the hall.

Confused, Eleanor looked to Lady Elizabeth. "Why is everybody so unhappy?" she asked.

"Misunderstandings, mostly," Elizabeth answered. "And the Bishop. Don't worry. Marie will fix it."

Eleanor looked doubtful. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure. Go to bed now. We've all got a big day tomorrow."

Still concerned, but not seeing how she could help, Eleanor did as she was told.

**

Mullens entered his bedchamber, pulling his vest off and throwing it on a chair. He was exhausted. That woman . . .

He heard rustling, in his closet. The doors were ajar. Frowning viciously, he threw them fully open.

That woman was standing before his dresser, with the top drawer open.

"Madam!" Mullens barked.

"There is no need to shout," she answered archly.

"Madam," the Baron repeated, controlling his volume only with considerable effort, "Madam, what are you doing?"

"I'm looking in your drawers, obviously," she answered. "And just as I expected, your laundry work is shoddy. Look at these." She held up a pair of silk legging. "They're positively *gray* with dirt. Heavens, don't you have *any* decent girls in the laundry?"

"Madam, if you don't *mind*," Mullens answered tightly. He swiped at his underclothes, but the woman pulled them away. "Those are my private things."

"Yes, yes," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "What have you got in here that you're embarrassed of, Baron? Something to hide?"

He swiped for his underclothes again, and this time snagged them. "Of course not, but really, a man does not expect his private things to be pawed through by his hos . . . by a guest, after all." He wadded the stockings and tried to stuff them back in the drawer.

"Oh, not like that," Diedre answered tartly. "Here, give me those." She took the stockings out again, and folded them slowly, precisely. "These are fine fabric, for all that they've not been cared for. Very fine indeed."

With maddening slowness, she deposited the stockings back into the drawer. Then, incredulous, Mullens watched as she reached for more. "Now these, on the other hand . . . "

Mullens sprang. "Madam, please." He pushed his body between her and the dresser, forcing her to step back so that he could close his drawer. "Madam, I am . . . I am . . . " he sputtered, fighting for words. "I am deeply embarrassed that you should so clearly see the shortcomings of

my household, and I beg you not to expose them any further."

The woman tilted her head to one side and regarded him quite seriously for a moment. Then she shrugged. "Very well, Baron. But please, I do not mean to embarrass you. A household without a woman in it, the servants are bound to run it into the ground. You really should consider remarrying. A strong hand is all this castle needs."

Mullens felt his own strong hand coming toward the woman's face. He managed to divert it, to make a show of rubbing his forehead. "I'm sure you're right, Madam. But right now . . . "

"Call me Diedre," she answered.

"Diedre," he responded automatically, "But at this moment I have a terrible headache and I would like to retire . . . "

"Oh, poor dear." She put her two fleshy hands to his forehead. "Why don't you come and rest your head in my lap? That will sooth your pain away."

Mullens felt his mouth go dry, as it did before battle. "I . . . uh . . . no, no, Madam -- Diedre, I . . . it's not . . . that is, I . . . Madam, you must go!" And he took her arm firmly and escorted her out of his room.

"Now, Baron, we're both adults here . . . " she protested.

"Yes. Yes, we are." And he closed the door firmly behind her, and put his back against it.

He felt as it he'd had a very close escape. From a fate worse than death.

**

Some minutes after the ladies had excused themselves, Marie Devlin came back and whispered something to her husband. He considered a moment, then nodded, and she left.

"What's her problem?" the Bishop asked bluntly, interrupting his story yet again.

"No problem," Harold answered evenly. "Just a minor detail. Armus, if I could have a word with you?"

Armus felt his heart sink even further. So, she wasn't even going to tell him herself, but had asked her father to do so. Still, he rose and followed the older man into the corridor.

"My daughter," Devlin said without preamble, "craves a word with you before she sleeps."

"I imagine she does," Armus answered grimly. "The Bishop won't like it."

Devlin smirked. "I'll hold the Bishop here. Go on." And then, as Armus turned away, he called him back. "Armus."

"Yes?"

The older man considered for a moment. "My daughter," he finally said, "is yet a maiden. And I expect that she will be when she is married."

Armus flushed. "I don't think that is an issue, Sir Harold."

"It is to me."

Armus straightened to his full height. "On my honor as a knight, I will not defile your daughter, Sir Harold."

"Thank you." And saying no more, Harold went back to his brother's endless talk.

**

With a sigh, Armus trudged up the steps. He dreaded this meeting. After all this time, all these months of longing for Meg, of wishing only to be alone with her -- now he would have given anything to avoid it. In company her words were veiled. But now, alone, they would have to speak plainly. And he would have to hear what he already knew: that Meg Devlin did not love

him and did not wish to marry him.

Very well then. Time to have it done with.

He knocked on the door of her room -- which had been his room, until today. Marie opened the door to admit him. Meg was standing across the room, at the window. She turned, shy and sad, as Marie slipped out and closed the door, leaving them alone.

"Lady Margaret," Armus said formally. "You wanted a word with me."

"I did, my lord," she answered, just as formally. "It seems that there are -- changes -- we need to address."

Armus shook his head. "So. You've forgotten how to speak plainly then."

The woman flushed lightly. "I have had no occasion to practice plain speech."

"Well, try, now," Armus said, rather more coldly than he intended. "If ever there was a time when we needed it, it's now."

Meg flinched at his tone, but she was noble-born: she straightened, brought her chin up. "Very well. It's clear that things have changed between us. I would not have you enter this marriage in these conditions. So -- if you will tell me what I need to do, I will help you to escape this contract in any way that I can."

"I don't need your help," Armus snapped. "I am perfectly capable of telling my father that I will not marry you all on my own."

She nodded gravely, her body perfectly still. "Very well."

"That's it, then?" he demanded. "That's all we have to discuss?"

Without answering, Meg turned back to the window.

Watching her, seeing the tension in her body, the sorrow in her posture, Armus felt his anger fade away. Beneath that emotion was enough grief for a lifetime. He wanted to turn and leave. That would have been the smart thing, the dignified thing to do. Just go and have it done with.

But he had to know . . .

"Can you tell me," he said quietly, "how it is that I so quickly lost your love?"

Meg turned, her eyes bright with tears. "What?" she asked.

Armus shrugged. "Your last letter -- scarcely a week ago, you said you could not wait to be here . . . and now . . . what did I do wrong? Why do you not love me?"

"I . . . " She paused, taking a deep breath, blinking those tears back. "I will always love you. I will love you until I die, and into Heaven or Hell if I can."

"But . . . "

She gestured that she wasn't done. "But I will not marry you if it's going to make you as unhappy as you have been this day. I would rather be alone than to see you so despondent."

Armus blinked at her, scarcely daring to believe what he thought she was saying. "But . . . when you got out of the carriage . . . you were so unhappy . . . "

"I had been *four days* in that carriage with the Bishop. He made us stop at every tavern between here and White Cliff -- do you know how many taverns there are?"

"Ten?" Armus guessed.

"Fourteen," Meg corrected, "and I have been in every one of them, listening to him embarrass everyone around him with his comments and his crassness, listening to his endless . . . and then we were finally here and you were displeased to see me . . . "

"I was displeased because you were unhappy . . . "

"I was unhappy because you were displeased!"

And then words ran out, and they simply stared at each other, across the room, too overwhelmed by new hope to speak.

"Meg . . . " Armus finally managed to whisper, "Meg, will you marry me?"

The tears she'd been fighting finally spilled onto her cheeks, but it didn't matter now. "Oh, yes," she whispered back.

They both moved, and met at the middle of the room, and Armus swept her up in his arms, holding her fiercely, kissing her at last even as her tears dampened his cheeks, and after a time they began to laugh.

"Armus," she finally said, breathless and still laughing, "I love you with all my heart, but . . . "

"No but."

"But I can't breathe when you hold me like this."

"Oh." The knight immediately sat on the edge of the bed and lowered his bride-to-be onto his lap. "Better?"

She caught his face in both hands and kissed him warmly. "Oh, I was so . . . "

"I know."

"I thought . . . "

"As did I. Oh, God, Meg, I thought I'd lost you . . . "

"Never."

"What a stupid fight," Armus breathed, between kisses. "We should vow never to have a fight like that again."

Meg shook her head. "No."

"No?"

"No. I like the making up too well." She kissed him again, badly, through giggles. "I love you, Armus."

"I think we could make up without fighting," Armus answered. "I love you, Meg." He shifted a little, his fingers tracing down the back seam of her dress, rounding to cup the curve of her butt, to pull her closer still. His other hand pressed between her shoulder blades, bringing her breasts tight against his chest. And all the while he planted kisses on her mouth, her cheeks, her eyes, her lovely white throat, down her neckline . . .

Meg made no move to resist him. On the contrary, she arched again him, her mouth eager for his kisses, her hands in his hair, drawing him closer as well . . .

Armus loosened his grip, drew back from her.

"What?" Meg moaned in protest.

The knight sighed. "I gave your father my word."

Meg sat back and stared at him. "*Why*?"

"I thought you didn't love me, I didn't think it mattered."

She moaned again, letting her head fall against his shoulder. "Armus . . . "

"One more night, Meg," he promised earnestly. "Tomorrow we will be married, and then no one can keep us apart."

Meg sighed. "Well. We've waited this long. What's one more night?" And then she kissed him, hard and deep, to be sure he knew exactly what one more night was.

Armus felt his resolve weakening, but resisted. It had, really, not much to do with his honor or his promise to Sir Harold. And everything to do with the fact that, sooner or later, they would be interrupted. He wanted to take her somewhere and lock the door and have the whole night . . .

And he could, he realized, do exactly that. Just not tonight. "One more night," he whispered.

Meg nodded, resigned. "All right. But . . . "

"What?"

"But promise you won't let anything happen to you, between now and then."

Armus grinned. "What do you think will happen to me?"

"I don't know," Meg shrugged. "I just . . . I have the most horrible feeling that something *else* will get in our way. Like . . . it's just silliness, I know . . . "

"It is," Armus assured her. "You are here now, inside Covington Cross. No harm can possibly come to either of us."

She nodded seriously. "I know. Just nerves. But . . . will you stay inside the castle, then? Until the wedding?"

Her husband-to-be chuckled, bewildered and touched by her concern. "All right. There's no need, but if it will make you happy, I will stay inside the castle walls until . . . ah, wait."

"What?"

"I had planned to go in the morning to pick flowers for you. Just from the meadow below the castle gates, no further. Nothing will happen to me there, I promise."

Meg looked doubtful. "Take your brothers. And your sword."

"To pick flowers?"

"Yes."

"Meg."

"Humor me."

"But Meg . . . "

"Four days in a coach with the Bishop," she reminded him. "Fourteen taverns. You can take your brothers and your sword."

Armus laughed. "All right. All right. I promise."

"Good." She rewarded him with still another kiss.

Armus set her on the bed beside him. "I should go. You need your rest."

Meg shrugged. "I'm not really tired. I had a nap, remember? I am so sorry about that . . . "

"Forget it," Armus answered. "There's plenty of time to show you the castle. I do wish you'd seen our apartment, though. I've been working on it for weeks."

"I'm sure it's wonderful. I can't wait to see it."

He considered for another moment, then stood up. "Come on."

"What, now?"

"Yes, now."

She paused moment, then took his hand and stood also. "If the Bishop catches us . . . "

"He won't be able to say a word," Armus assured her. He led her into the corridor, went to the next door, and knocked.

Lady Marie answered at once.

"I'm taking Meg to see our apartment," Armus said simply. "Would you care to join us?"

Marie looked at the two of them, standing there holding hands. Youth, she thought fondly, when five minutes alone could erase a whole day of unhappiness. "I should like that very much."

**

Cedric peered nervously around the stable. The horses stirred a little at the intrusion of his lantern, but no people appeared. He turned and gestured to his brother. "I think it's empty."

"Thanks the Lord," Richard breathed in relief. He stepped into the light, bringing the jug of wine out from under his arm. "One more *minute* with that man . . . "

"I started my journey on a Thursday," Cedric mimicked, rather well. "And of course I wore my best cloak . . . "

They both laughed. Cedric set the lantern down safely away from the hay. Richard pulled the stopper out of the jug, took a long drink, and passed it to his brother. "I don't think I've ever endured a longer dinner."

Cedric shook his head. "Poor Armus. He had to sit right next to him."

"Yeah," Richard agreed, "but you notice who escaped first *after* dinner."

"Where did he go, anyhow?"

"Guess."

Cedric looked blank for a minute. Then he got it. "You're jesting. Harold sent Armus up to his daughter's room, just like that?"

"Well, I'm sure Lady Marie was there, but he still got away from the Bishop." He sat down on an old crate and retrieved the jug.

"She's funny," Cedric observed, flipping over a bucket and sitting opposite him.

"Meg?"

"Yeah."

"Funny?"

"Not funny ha-ha," Cedric explained. "Funny strange. I mean, since she got here. She's all quiet and shy again, like she was when we first got to White Cliff."

Richard smirked. "That's an act."

"I don't think so." He took the jug again and drank.

"You're young, Cedric," Richard answered. "When you know more about women, you'll realize that she's not really shy, she's just . . . clever."

Cedric opened his mouth to answer, and a much younger voice said, "She is not!"

The Grey brothers jumped. Richard reached for his sword, which of course he didn't have, but he did have a perfectly serviceable knife. "Come out of there," he called in the general direction the voice had come from.

Jeremy Devlin emerged sheepishly from behind the hay.

"What are you doing here?" Richard demanded.

The boy shrugged nervously. "Hiding from the Bishop. And she's not clever. Not like that."

Richard winced. "I suppose you've overheard everything."

"Yes, sir."

"About the Bishop, too?" Cedric inquired nervously.

The boy smirked, an expression rather older then his years. "Everybody says stuff about the Bishop," he answered.

"And, uh, you know not to repeat any of it, right?" Richard asked.

"Sure, I know. You'll get excommunicated."

"Only if Father didn't kill us first," Cedric told him.

"Shouldn't you be in bed?"

The boy shrugged. "He's still up. I'm not going back in there."

The brothers looked at each other. He was young, sure, but he was about to be kin of a sort -- and they were not about to send such a young innocent back into the Bishop's clutches. "Pull up a seat," Richard said generously. "We're hiding, too."

"I know." The boy found a horse blanket and joined their circle.

"Want some wine?" Cedric offered.

"Cedric!"

Cedric look ed at his brother. "What? You gave me wine when I was his age."

"That was different."

"Why?" Jeremy asked.

"Because he's my brother, and you're not." Richard rescued the jug from his younger brother and put it safely behind him. "*And* I got in big trouble for it."

"Why?" the boy asked again.

Cedric chuckled. "Because I got falling-down drunk."

"And fell down in front of Father," Richard reminded him. "And when he yelled at you, you just giggled. So *I* got in trouble."

His brother kept laughing. "I remember."

"It's not funny."

"Yes it is."

"It is," Jeremy added. And then he added, "I wish I had brothers."

"No brothers?" Cedric asked.

Jeremy shook his head. "Just sisters. Three of them."

"Eeewww," the Greys chimed sympathetically.

"But my mother's expecting again," the boy continued. "So maybe she'll have a boy this time."

"It's no wonder you wanted to come to the wedding," Richard commented. "Just to get away from the women."

Jeremy nodded solemnly. "They never let me do anything. Every time I start to have fun, I get all this oldest son responsibility lecture." He sighed heavily. "I hate it."

Richard and Cedric exchanged a glance. In all the bustle and hurry, in all the attention that their older brother had gotten in the past weeks, they'd rather forgotten that there was, in fact, a huge responsibility that fell on Armus with this wedding. As younger sons, they were spared at least the most immediate pressures: to marry well and father children, as soon as possible. The fact that Armus deeply loved his bride made that burden much easier -- but the responsibility remained on him, as it had from his birth. And on Jeremy, from his.

"You know," Richard began slowly, "sometimes if you want to have fun, you just need to . . . take the opportunity when it presents itself."

"Huh?"

"What he means is, they can't stop you if they don't know what you're up to."

"It's easier to apologize than to ask permission," Richard explained further.

The boy looked dubious. "I'll get in trouble, though."

"Sure you will," Cedric answered. "But they can't take the fun away once you've had it."

"Have you ever done that?" the boy asked curiously.

"Oh, sure," Cedric answered. "Like, there was this one time, I ended up in a convent with a whole group of school girls and I . . . uh . . . well, maybe that's not the best story."

"You think?" his brother asked. "I was thinking about the time we went boar hunting and met that . . . hmm."

"Oh, yes, her," Cedric replied with a grin.

"Do all your stories involve girls?" Jeremy asked brightly.

"Well . . . "

"Actually, they do," Richard admitted. "But you can have adventures without involving young women. When I was about your age, I met this old man in the forest. He kept hawks. He said he'd been the royal falconer. I didn't believe him, but he might have been . . . and I went with him, to search for nests. And I climbed way up this tree and took the hatchlings for him, while these hawks were diving at my head, and the one caught me, and I almost fell out of the tree . . . " He sighed warmly. "Adventure."

"Remember when the horses got out?" Cedric countered, warming to the storytelling. "And we were out all night in Tiner Forest, chasing that colt of Eleanor's?"

"And the owl scared us to death," Richard answered, laughing.

"And that other time . . . "

Richard got the jug back out, and he and Cedric drank wine. The boy with them drank in their stories of adventure.

**

The wedding morning rose bright and clear.

Breakfast was served buffet-style in the smaller dining room, with guests and family coming and going as they would. Armus loaded up a plate in his traditional fashion and sat down at the long table. By the time he got to the bottom of it, Cedric and Richard had wandered in, then Michael and Jeremy, and finally Lady Elizabeth.

Eleanor came in with a tray, set it down, and proceeded to load it with a variety of foods. "You're not eating with us?" Cedric asked.

"I will," Eleanor answered. "I'm taking a tray up to Meg."

"She's not coming down to breakfast?" Armus asked, a little concerned.

Eleanor glanced at him. "It's her wedding day, silly."

"Women don't eat breakfast on their wedding day?" Richard asked curiously.

Their sister sighed, clearly exasperated by their ignorance. "*He's* not allowed to see her before the wedding," she explained, gesturing to Armus. "It's bad luck."

"Old wives' tale," Armus said dismissively. "Superstition."

"Yes," Elizabeth agreed, "but like most, it has some basis in fact."

Armus eyed her curiously. "It does?"

"Nerves. She's nervous, you're nervous -- it's best that you stay apart until the last minute. Otherwise you end up having foolish arguments."

"Already did that, "Armus countered. But he shrugged his acceptance of the inevitable. He stood and went around to his sister. "Bid my lady good morrow for me, and give her this." He bent and kissed her on each cheek.

Eleanor giggled, took the tray, and went. Armus snagged another roll while he was up, and sat back down to his breakfast.

"So, are you?" Cedric asked, his mouth full of eggs.

"Am I what?"

"Nervous?"

"I should think he'd be scared out of his mind," Richard offered.

"God knows," Michael offered, "I was on my wedding day."

Armus shook his head. "Not a bit." He shoved half of the roll into his mouth and chewed.

"What, not even a little?" Cedric challenged.

"Not even a little. I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

"Awww," Cedric teased, grinning.

"If you're not worried about the girl," Richard said, "you might be worried about what the Bishop will say during the ceremony."

Stricken, Armus stopped in mid-chew. "I had . . . " he stopped to swallow. "I had not considered *that*," he admitted.

"Oh, good, you've given him something to be nervous about," Cedric complimented.

Richard grinned. "That's what brothers are for."

Armus shook his head again. "It doesn't matter. I don't care what he says, so long as it ends with 'man and wife.'"

"Such a romantic," Richard teased.

"Leave him alone," Elizabeth protested. "I think it's very sweet. And commendable."

Richard rolled his eyes, but refrained from further comment.

"Done with your breakfast?" Armus asked presently.

"Me?" Richard answered. "Sure."

"Good. Get your sword. You, too, Cedric."

"What, are we dueling now?"

"No," Armus answered, standing up. "We're going to pick flowers."

"Oh, no," Cedric answered. "I'm not going with you."

"Yes, you are."

"Can I come?" Jeremy asked.

"What if someone sees us?" Richard demanded.

"No," Michael answered his son. "You stay here."

"What if a *girl* sees us?" Cedric added.

"He's welcome to come along," Armus said, gesturing to Jeremy. "We're only going out to the field below the castle."

"The open field?" Richard protested. "You don't need any guarding there."

His older brother shrugged. "Very well. You can stay in the castle and help Father with the final arrangements."

The boys looked at each other. Richard stood up. "I'll get my sword," he said glumly.

"Me, too," Cedric conceded.

Jeremy climbed to his feet. "Please, Father, can I go too?"

Michael wavered. "You're sure he's no trouble?" he asked Armus.

"None at all. I'll look after him."

"All right. You may go."

The boy grinned, ear to ear.

**

Buttercups and pimpernel, redmaids and lupines, shooting stars and ladies lace and linanthus.

"Armus," Cedric said, with a touch of whine, "are you almost done?"

"Almost," his brother said, throwing still another armful of flowers into the back of the wagon. He looked around the meadow. Something yellow, over to his left. There were lots of reds and blues in the mix, and purple, not much yellow. He started off again, his sword tangling in the tall grass.

"This is sad," Cedric sighed.

"Pathetic," his brother agreed. Richard was sitting on the tail of the wagon, relaxed and half-dozing. "Let's walk back to the castle and see what the Bishop's up to."

"Uh . . . no."

Richard smiled and closed his eyes.

Armus grabbed several handfuls of the yellow flowers. They were tiny, but very pretty. He glanced around, checking on Jeremy. The boy was over at the tree line, near the road, his arms half full of lacy white flowers, mixed with deep purples. Satisfied, he drifted back to a patch of deep blues.

**

John Mullens had lukewarm, greasy porridge, with a hefty side of Lady Diedre's complaining, for breakfast.

Most of his kitchen staff had run off in the night.

He endured in uncustomary silence, his mind dancing protectively through vision of torturing her on the rack, of drowning her with his own hands in the moat, of throwing her off the highest battlement.

When the interminable meal was over, he hurried to the guardroom. "Daniels," he snapped to the first man he saw. "Take this." He thumped a bag of coins into the man's hand. "Go to the village, find me a kitchen staff."

"Er . . . " the man answered uneasily. "I don't think they'll come, sir."

"Why?"

"Well . . . because of *her*, sir."

"Oh, for God's sake. She'll only be here one more day."

"Yes, sir, but . . . but . . . "

"Spit it out, man!"

"But she *frightens* us, sir!"

Mullens glared at him.

Trout stood up as well. "We've been thinking, sir. Maybe it would be best . . . that is, of course it's your choice but . . . "

"What?"

"Well . . . mightn't it be better just to send her on to Covington Cross?"

Mullens glared harder, at both of them. "Find a staff." he barked. Then he turned on his heel and stomped out.

But he was very strongly starting to think that they might be right.

**

Jeremy stepped through the trees and up onto the road. It was a royal road, wide and smooth and well-maintained this close to Covington Cross. On the far side, in the shallow ditch, were more of the tall white ladies lace that he'd been gathering.

As he approached, something stirred in the weeds.

Jeremy froze. It was something big, he decided. Not a rabbit or a dog. Maybe a badger, or a deer. Something big. Nervous, he glanced back over his shoulder. He could barely see through the thin strand of trees to the meadow. But the wagon, and Cedric and Richard, were easily in shouting distance. And there was no animal in this part of the country that would attack a man -- or a boy -- in daylight.

He took another step toward the ditch.

The figure stirred again. And stood up.

It was a girl.

She was not older than Jeremy, perhaps younger. Her hair and her eyes were jet black; her skin was deep olive. He knew instantly what she was by her clothes: Gypsy.

They gazed at each other for a full minute. Then the girl smiled shyly and ran away.

Jeremy thought one word -- adventure! Then he dropped his flowers and ran after her.

**

Armus heard hooves on the road, a group. Guests for the wedding, he guessed. He threw one last armful of flowers onto the wagon. They were now stacked level with the sides, and nicely heaped in the middle. Time to get back and get cleaned up. "Where's the boy?"

Richard stirred. "Over by the road."

"Where?"

Sighing, Richard stood up. "Over there," he pointed, looking.

The boy was nowhere in sight.

The hooves passed, the riders hidden among the trees, and continued down the road, not making the turn into Covington Cross.

"Damn," Armus said. He ran toward the road, cursing the sword that tangled and slowed him down. His brothers followed, no less hampered by their arms.

The road was empty, save for a heap of wildflowers, trampled under horse hooves.

And just passing out of sight, a group of riders carrying the unmistakable black-and-gray colors of Torsun-Narr.

"Son of a bitch," Richard said with heartfelt vehemence.

Armus just stared for a moment. Then he moved, running back through the grass to the wagon. He drew his knife and slashed at the harness of the nearest horse.

"What're you doing?" Richard demanded when he caught up.

"Ride," Armus said. "If you go through the forest, you can be at Torsun-Narr before them. Stay to the woods, watch the gate."

"Why?" Richard asked, leaping onto the horse's bare back.

"If they take the boy inside, we've got them. But be careful. Don't get caught. We'll get the horses and join you."

"Got it." Richard kicked the horse hard and was gone.

Cedric and Armus left the wagon and the remaining horse and ran back to the castle.

**

There were times to stand on ceremony. This, Armus Grey decided, was definitely not one of them. He took the familiar stairs to his room two and a time and rapped firmly on the door.

Eleanor cracked the door open. "Armus," she laughed, "I told you, you can't . . . "

Her brother shook his head. "No time for games, Eleanor. I need to see Meg. Now."

She sobered instantly. Glanced over her shoulder at the others in the room. "A minute," she said, and shut the door.

It was closer to half a minute before the door opened again. Meg waited for him, still damp from the bath that steamed near the fire, wrapped tightly in a robe. Marie and Eleanor were also there, and Lady Elizabeth. Armus made no move to send them out. He barely took the time to notice them. "Meg."

"What's wrong?" she asked fearfully.

"Jeremy's missing. He was in the field with us and he's vanished."

She frowned, puzzled. "Jeremy?"

"I said I'd watch over him, Meg. He's my responsibility."

Meg knew, then, exactly why her husband-to-be was there. She paused only an instant. Then she nodded, just once. "Then of course you must go," she answered, a touch faintly.

"Thank you," Armus answered softly. He took her hands. "I'll be back before you know it."

She merely nodded again, her eyes full of grief and worry that she would not give voice to. Armus bent and kissed her quickly, not caring who watched. "I'll be back," he promised, and he strode out of the room.

Eleanor trotted after him. "Armus," she said in the corridor, "Armus, wait a minute. Give me two minutes to change and I'll go with you."

"No." He kept walking. "I need you to stay here."

"Armus, stop it. You know I'm as good in a fight as any . . . "

"Eleanor." Armus stopped and turned to her. "I need you to stay here. I need you to stay with *her*." He gestured back toward the bedroom. "She's frightened out of her mind. You can help her, distract her . . . teach her to shoot a crossbow, for all I care. Just stay with her, Eleanor. For me. Please."

Eleanor gazed at him steadily. Then she nodded. "All right. But you *better* come home safe."

Armus glanced passed her once more, to the open door of the bedroom. Then he turned and ran down the steps.

Eleanor returned slowly to the bedroom. Meg was sitting on the edge of the bed, silent, pale. "I'm sure it won't take long," Lady Elizabeth was saying, encouragingly. "Boys that age wander off, they'll find him in no time."

"Maybe he followed a rabbit, or a deer," Eleanor offered. "That field is full of both, in the morning."

"Don't worry, little one," Marie encouraged. "Let's get you dressed."

"All right."

Her mother reached for the golden gown that was draped on the bed, but Meg shook her head. "No. Not that one. Not until they're back." She stood, seeming to steady herself, and walked to the closet for a common dress.

Marie and Elizabeth shared a look, which Eleanor caught. She nodded, too.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

**

The gypsy girl was fast and sure-footed. Jeremy struggled to keep up with her as she sprinted through the light forest. When he fell behind, she paused until he caught up. Grinning, Jeremy ran faster.

Then he hooked his foot on a root and fell flat on his face.

It startled him more than hurt. He climbed slowly to his feet, shaken, brushing off his clothes. The girl was standing five feet away, at first concerned and then giggling.

"It's not funny," Jeremy protested.

The girl giggled more.

"All right, it's a little funny," he admitted. "I'm Jeremy."

The girl considered for a long moment. "Ayla."

"Ayla. That's pretty. What are you doing out here?"

"I live here," she said, still a little shy.

"Here? In the forest?"

"Everywhere."

Jeremy reached down and plucked a daisy. He held it out to her. "You live in wagons, right?"

She took the flower carefully. "And tents, yes. Do you want to see?"

He hesitated again, for half a second. Warnings from his nursery, something about gypsies stealing children -- but he wasn't a child, was he? "Sure!"

**

They rode right up to the gates of Torsun-Narr in force, Armus and Cedric, Harold Devlin and Michael, a dozen men-at-arms. Richard came out of the trees and swung onto the riding horse they'd brought for him.

"Well?" Armus asked.

Richard shook his head. "No one's been in or out since I got here. And I don't see how they could have gotten here ahead of me."

"So they didn't bring him here," Devlin said. "They've hidden him somewhere else."

"Makes sense," Richard answered. "That way Mullens himself can deny everything."

"So now what do we do?" Cedric inquired.

As if in answer, the man gate swung open and Baron Mullens himself stepped out. He was followed by a dozen men of his own, all heavily armed.

"Gentlemen," he said clearly, "and Greys, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You have something of ours," Richard snarled. "We want it back."

"I?" Mullens protested, all hurt innocence. "Tell me, what have I of yours?"

"You have my kinsman," Devlin replied. "You will return him immediately."

"I have no kins*man* of yours," Mullens replied.

"We know you've taken him hostage," Cedric challenged.

"Hostage? Me? How can you say such a thing? I am an honorable gentleman."

"Oh, please," Richard snorted.

Mullens shook his head. "I assure you, there is no one within the walls of my castle that is not a willing resident."

"Then you won't mind if we look around," Armus said quietly.

"Oh, I would mind that very much. I remember too well what happened the last time I allowed you within the walls of my home. Something to do with a crossbow, remember?"

"Because of your treachery!" Cedric yelled.

Harold held up a restraining hand. "I will find him, Mullens," he warned sternly. "And if I find that you had anything to do with his disappearance . . . there will be consequences you had never imagined."

Mullens stared up at him. "We have been friends many years, Harold," he answered slowly. "Don't let yourself be drawn into this conflict. You won't like being my enemy, I promise you that. But . . . " he smiled suddenly, unpleasantly. "Oh, I'd forgotten, they're next to kin now, aren't they? When was that wedding to be, anyhow? Today, wasn't it? At noon? And here it is, noon, and here's the groom . . . well. Plans do have a way of changing, don't they?"

Armus merely glared at him.

"Where's the boy?" Richard demanded.

"I don't know what boy you're talking about. Now get off my lands." Mullens spun, his black cape swirling around him, and swept back into the castle.

"Damn!" Richard said fervently.

"Now what do we do?" Cedric asked.

Armus straightened up. "We go back along the road," he answered. "And look for a trail." He glanced at Devlin. "We find the boy, wherever he is."

**

The gypsy girl's tribe was less than thrilled when the noble boy wandered into their camp. "He'll bring trouble," one young man said.

"That's my brother," Ayla told Jeremy. "He's a pain." She took the boy's hand and pulled him to the biggest of the wagons. "Grandmother!"

The woman who came out was the oldest woman Jeremy had ever seen. "Ayla, what've you found?"

"This is Jeremy. He was in the woods."

The old woman looked him up and down. "He looks hungry."

**

Thomas Grey hated being left behind. Hated it.

Oh, the arguments were all logical enough. He was the Lord of the Castle. He had guests arriving, guests to greet and to explain the delay to and to entertain. He had ongoing wedding preparations to attend to. And, there was some chance that the boy would return on his own. Or that Mullens would come, and that the castle would need to be defended.

He still hated it.

As the noon hour approached, appeared, and then passed, he positively stalked through the corridors.

"Sir Thomas?"

Thomas turned, masking a scowl. "Your Eminence?"

"Where is my lunch?" the Bishop demanded. "It is the noon hour, and I am hungry."

Grey barely swallowed his retort, something about the Bishop being well able to skip a meal or two with no harmful effects. "I will . . . see to it that something is brought to you at once," he said in a choked voice.

"See that you do," the Bishop ordered, and swept off.

Thomas wondered if he could persuade his remaining sons to elope.

**

Daniels finally returned. "We found three women," he announced to Baron Mullens. "They'll be here in time to start dinner."

"What about the noon meal?" Mullens yelped. His henchman shrugged helplessly.

"Damn." Mullens stomped around the room. Another bad meal, another endless gripe session from Lady Diedre. He considered drawing his dagger and cutting his own throat. Or hers, which was somewhat more appealing.

"We should just give her back," Daniels muttered.

"No," Mullens snapped. "No. The Greys are simply frantic over this boy they've lost. When they discover the aunt is missing also . . . "

He paused, pondering. The wedding was already being delayed. Could he delay it further? He went to his desk and drew out the letter he had intercepted, the one announcing Lady Diedre's expected arrival. "Find me a courier," he said to Daniels. "Someone who won't be recognized as my man. Have him take this to Covington Cross immediately."

"Yes, sir."

"And then take your men and search the woods for a boy."

"A . . . boy, sir?"

"A boy. A noble boy. It seems that Harold Devlin has misplaced one. I want him found, and I want him brought here."

"Well . . . where should I look?"

Mullens sighed, exasperated. "Somewhere between here and Covington Cross, I imagine."

"Yes, sir."

**

"Well," Cedric said, looking up and shielding his eyes from the sun, "you're officially late for your own wedding."

Armus looked over at him.

"And if looks could kill," Richard told him, "you'd be late for your own funeral."

"She'll wait," Devlin said quietly.

They were back to the meadow, on the road just below the castle. The road was hard-packed, the prints badly muddled. "If they stuck to the road," Michael observed, "it'll be damn hard to track them."

"They couldn't have stayed on the road forever," Armus answered. "They must have gone off somewhere . . . " He stepped to the far side of the road. "Richard?"

His brother stepped over and examined the brush. A broken twig here, a bit of mashed grass there. "Maybe," he answered slowly. He moved further into the woods, his trained eye scanning carefully for more signs. But he found nothing very conclusive. A boy *might* have come this way . . .

He moved further still. "Armus!"

His brother joined him, looked to where Richard pointed. A root stuck out of the ground, a smooth clean space where the bark had very recently been peeled away. Beyond it, very distinct imprints in the grass. Two knees, two hands, and a face.

"I'll get the horses," Armus said.

**

They sat in the front sitting room in oppressive silence.

Meg and Marie both held fine needlework in their laps, and Marie was actually doing hers. Meg simply held hers, and stared out the window.

Eleanor didn't even pretend. She paced.

One of the servant girls came in. "Excuse me, I don't mean to disturb you, but . . . what are we to do with the flowers?"

"What flowers?" Eleanor asked.

"The wagon, Lady. The men have brought it in from the meadow, but we don't know what to do with the flowers."

Eleanor glanced at the others, shrugging.

Meg put her needlework down. "Find me some ribbon."

**

"Boy in the forest," Daniels muttered under his breath. "Somewhere between here and Covington. Damn lot of country, here to there."

"Maybe the gypsies know," one of the men suggested.

"The what?"

"The gypsies. They're camping in the woods, not far from here."

Daniels snarled. "You know we have orders to run gypsies off the Baron's lands."

"They're not on the Baron's land, they're on Grey's land."

"Show me."

**

The servant girl took the message with a coy smile. Damn cute, this messenger was. Not that she had time today. "Come back again," she invited.

"Oh, I will, miss," he answered with a grin.

The girl glanced at the letter, then dropped it on the desk in Sir Thomas' study -- where it waited, unopened, for three days.

**

"I thought," Meg said vaguely, "that he meant to pick a bouquet. Maybe a few for my hair . . . "

"He's kind of an over-achiever," Eleanor answered.

They stood together, looking at the pile of flowers that covered the floor of the room. "What shall we decorate?" Eleanor asked, flourishing a roll of ribbon.

"Everything," Meg answered simply. They set to work.

The Bishop came in. "Any word yet?"

Meg shook her head. "Not yet."

"Well, I must say, this is damn inconsiderate of them all. This wedding was supposed to be two hours ago. How long to they think I'll wait?"

"Until my grandson has been found," Marie answered, rather sharply.

"Oh, pshaw. I'm sure the boy's just wandered off. He should still be in nursery, if you ask me."

"I didn't," Marie answered under her breath.

"It may take a while," Eleanor said, trying to break the tension. "Especially if Baron Mullens has taken him back to . . . "

"*Mullens* has him?" Meg demanded, dropping her scissors.

Damn, Eleanor thought. They had agreed not to tell Meg that little tidbit. "Well, perhaps. His men were seen in the area . . . "

The girl sat down heavily, dead pale. "Mullens . . . " she whispered.

"They have dealt with Mullens before," Marie said soothingly. "I'm sure everything will be fine."

"Everything is not fine," the Bishop answered sternly. "Do you know that I had to *ask* for my noon meal? I'm not accustomed to being treated with this level of disrespect."

"Mullens . . . " Meg said again, faintly.

"And you, girl, here playing with these flowers when you ought to be at prayer."

"At . . . prayer," Meg said, still distant. "Yes. I ought to be."

She stood up gracefully and walked out.

The Bishop watched her go. "Marie, that child is peculiar."

Marie Devlin bit her tongue and ignored him until he went away.

**

Ayla's brother looked up sharply. Around the fire, the others did the same. Carefully, the young man set his plate on the ground and stood up. A yellow dog moved toward the food, but turned away at a single glance from the gypsy.

"What is it?" Jeremy asked in the sudden silence.

"Shh," Ayla warned tensely. "Riders."

"I don't hear anything," Jeremy whispered.

The girl pointed. Jeremy looked where she pointed. Nothing. And then, as he watched, the horses and riders came into view.

There were an awful lot of them.

And none of them looked familiar.

The gypsies formed a loose circle around the fire, pushing the children toward the center. The riders spread out in a similar ring halfway around them.

"What do you want?" Ayla's brother asked.

The leader of the riders stared at him. "Who are you?"

"I am Rom," the young man announced proudly.

Mistaking this announcement of the man's heritage for his name, the rider nodded. "We don't want any trouble, Rom. Just give us the boy."

The brother glanced back to Jeremy. "Are these your people?"

"No," the boy answered nervously.

"The boy is our guest here," the gypsy announced. "He will leave when he wishes to leave."

The rider nodded. "You misunderstand, friend Rom. Let me say it again." He drew his sword with a slick twang. "I said, give us the boy."

The gypsy folded his arms. "I understood you. I said no."

The rider moved forward, raising his sword point to the gypsy's throat.

"You are very bold," a man said behind him, "against a man with no sword."

Daniels glanced over his shoulder -- and directly into the eyes of Richard Grey. Behind him, other riders from Covington emerged from the woods and surrounded his men. "Do you have any courage against an armed enemy?" the young noble inquired.

"Draw your sword and you'll see," Daniels challenged.

"Richard . . . " Armus tried to warn.

Too late. His brother already had his sword out, and was riding at the man.

The minute their swords clanged together, every other rider in the field joined the battle. The gypsies drew back away from the wheeling horses and whirling blades, pushing Jeremy with them. Armus knocked his opponent from his horse, then rode toward them. "Jeremy! Are you hurt?"

"No," the boy called, clearly frightened.

"Come here."

The boy ran to his side, and Armus lifted him with one arm onto his saddle. He spun his horse, trying to get the boy clear of the battle, but Daniels put his own horse in front of him, blocking his retreat.

"Michael!" Armus called. The boy's father rode over and Armus all but threw Jeremy to him. He watched them retreat to safety, then turned his attention back to Daniels.

Daniels swung over his head, a blow that Armus easily blocked with his sword. With his free hand, he reached out and shoved the man off his horse. The man hit the ground, rolling away from his frightened horse's feet, and clambered up. "Coward!" he called. "That's no way to fight!"

Armus shook his head. "I have no quarrel with you."

"You do now!" The man ran at him, sword waving.

Armus nudged his horse easily out of the man's way. Daniels stumbled past him and ran into the side of Cedric's horse. Cedric looked down, surprised, and hit him on the head with the butt of his sword.

Daniels obligingly dropped. And stayed down.

"Nice work," Armus called.

"Armus!" Richard cried.

Armus turned swiftly, warned by his tone, in time to see the sword blade coming at him. The blow from behind would have taken his head off. But he turned, and he ducked, and he leaned away from it. And so he was surprised by the sudden pain above his eyes, and the blinding rush of blood . . .

Richard saw red, but sprang past him, swinging high and bringing his sword down hard on the shoulder of his brother's assailant. The rider fell, bleeding heavily. Richard watched him only long enough to see that he wasn't getting up. Then he turned his attention to Armus.

His brother was still upright and in his saddle, which Richard found surprising. But he had both hands pressed against his forehead, and blood streamed between his fingers. His horse was prancing nervously. Richard nudged his own horse against his brothers and grabbed the reins. "Armus?"

"I'm all right," Armus answered.

"You are not." Richard peeled his neck scarf off and shoved it against his brother's hands. "Take this. Take it."

Armus released his grip on the wound long enough to put the scarf over it, then resumed holding it with one hand. "The boy?"

Richard looked over the field. Mullen's men were in retreat, and at the far edge of the tree line, Michael was settling his son behind him on his horse. "He's fine. Cedric!"

Cedric came over. "God, Armus, you're hurt . . . "

"Really?" Armus answered sarcastically.

"Take him back to the castle," Richard ordered. "Take a couple of men with you."

"What are you going to do?"

Richard looked around the camp. "When Mullens hears about this, he may come back, for these people."

"And?"

"And we can't let them suffer for trying to protect the boy." Richard sighed. "Tell Father . . . tell him there's going to be some extra guests at the wedding."

"I'm not telling him," Cedric protested. "He'll have a fit."

"Just tell him," Richard argued. "We'll already be on our way, he can't say no once we're there."

"But Richard . . . "

"Cedric," Armus said firmly, "argue later. I'm bleeding now."

Cedric glanced over at him. The blood was already seeping through the cloth over the wound. "Right. Right. Let's go."

**

Eleanor entered the chapel quietly and waited in the doorway until her eyes adjusted to the dim interior. There were close to fifty extra candles, she knew, all white, waiting to be lit for the wedding, but at the moment only the standard lamps lit the room.

Meg sat at the end of the third pew, with the friar beside her. Both were silent. Eleanor hesitated, but they were not at prayer. She went forward.

Meg looked up quickly. "Are they back?"

"No." Meg turned away. "There's a messenger. From the King."

The other girl snapped around. "A what?"

"A royal messenger," Eleanor repeated patiently.

"What does he want?"

"He says he can only deliver his message to *you*, personally."

"What? Why? What now?"

"Now, there's no need to be alarmed," the friar comforted. "Perhaps the King . . . er . . . "

"This *cannot* be a good thing," Meg answered firmly. She got to her feet. "Thank you, Friar." She took Eleanor's arm and they went out.

"I'm sorry to disturb your prayers," Eleanor said as they moved quickly through the main castle.

Meg shook her head. "Probably just as well. I start out praying for their safety, and somehow always end up asking that the Bishop be struck by lightning."

Eleanor burst out laughing.

"You laugh," Meg answered dryly, "because you think I jest."

"I'm sure they'll be fine."

Meg sighed deeply. "I think the whole world conspires against this marriage."

They entered Thomas' study, where Thomas was waited with a tall, slender man in the King's colors. He seemed calm, but Eleanor could tell that her father was nearly as agitated as Meg was.

The messenger glanced at him, and Thomas nodded. "Lady Margaret Devlin," he announced.

"A great pleasure, my lady." The courier executed a deep bow and a chaste kiss of her hand. "I hope I am not disturbing you."

Meg shook her head. "I await the King's wishes, of course."

The messenger produced his message, sealed in heavy wax with the royal seal. Meg took it, but hesitated. She glanced at Eleanor and then at Thomas. Thomas nodded. Nervous, she broke the message open.

The messenger, Eleanor noted as her sister-in-law-to-be read, was trying not to smile.

"Oh," Meg said softly.

"Lady Margaret?" Thomas inquired in concern.

"Hmm," she answered vaguely, finishing the letter. Then she looked up, a little startled. "His Majesty sends his regards, to you and to my father. And he sends a gift."

"A wedding gift?" Eleanor blurted. "From the *King*?"

Meg nodded.

"Well," Thomas answered slowly, "such things are not unheard of, I suppose."

"Where is it?" Eleanor asked the messenger.

The courier no longer tried to conceal his smile. "If you will come with me, my Lady?"

"Of course," Meg answered vaguely. She was still stunned. Not unheard of, Thomas had said, but it was damn rare, wasn't it? And more rare, the letter made it clear that the gift was for her, as thanks for her service to returning Crusaders at White Cliff. Not a part of her dowry, not property of her husband-to-be, but *hers*. Thank God Armus wasn't the type to be upset by such an arrangement . . . was he?

"My lady?" the courier inquired gently. Startled again, Meg followed him -- with Eleanor and Thomas just behind her.

They went outside, across the courtyard and around the far side of the stables. And there, with more of the King's men, waited two beautifully matched horses, a stallion and a mare, both deep gray in color with white manes and tails.

Eleanor caught her breath. They were more beautiful than any horses she had ever seen. Smaller than the chargers and riding horses of the castle, finer-limbed, deeply muscled -- they looked fast, even standing still. They had heavy necks but small heads, and their faces curved between their eyes and muzzles. Both of them danced in their halters, the mare rather more than the stud, tossing their heads, occasionally nickering, high-spirited, but friendly enough.

"Beautiful," she breathed.

Her father was no less impressed. "I've never seen horses quite like these," he said quietly.

"They're Arabians," Meg answered. She moved forward to pet the stallion. He pushed his head at her, playful, searching for horse treats in pockets. "From the Holy Land." She moved on to the mare, who was more skittish, but also welcomed her touch.

"Beautiful," Eleanor said again.

"Wait until you see them run."

Behind them, a great clatter arose in the courtyard. Meg wheeled, her face lit with hope and dread. "They're back!"

**

Lady Diedre came down to dinner in yet another dress. This one was navy blue, a color that made her skin look all the more pasty. More, it was deeply cut, revealing much too much of her ample bosom.

John Mullens thought he would faint. And worse, he had to announce to her, "Dinner is not quite ready yet."

"That kitchen of yours," she said, shaking her head. "I'm telling you, Baron, they will ruin you."

"They're doing the best they can," he protested.

"At any rate, it gives us a moment to talk." She tucked her arm through his, leaning so that her bosom rested against him. "And really, Baron, I do think we should talk."

"Ah . . . " Mullens leaned desperately away from him. "About what, dear lady?"

"Why, about you and I, of course. It seems that happy chance has brought us together, and we are clearly ideal for each other, don't you think?"

"Ideal for . . . "

"Why, yes. You have this vast castle, with no idea how to run it properly. And I, while still a very eligible woman, I have no husband. So you see, we can be exceptionally good for each other. I will speak to my brother at the wedding, and with his approval, we can save the Bishop another trip to this part of the country . . . "

Mullens more seriously considered the notion of fainting. "I . . . I . . . my dear lady, if I have somehow given you the impression that I . . . "

"Oh, of course not, my dear Baron, of course not. You've been the perfect gentleman. But a woman knows these things, doesn't she? And I know that you're noticed, I *am* a woman."

Mullens closed his eyes tightly for a moment. Then he opened them, shook loose, and moved away. "Trout!" he shouted. "Trout! Get the coach! Trout!"

His man rushed into the hall. "Sir?"

"The carriage," Mullens said frantically. "Get the damn carriage. Get it now."

"But where are we going?"

"To Covington," Mullens answered. "The wedding is today, not tomorrow. We must leave at once."

"Today?" Diedre demanded. "But you said . . . "

"Plans have been changed," Mullens explained desperately. "We just got the message, before you came down, the wedding is tonight, we can just make it if we leave right away . . . damn it, Trout, hurry!"

"But sir . . . "

"*Now*!"

**

Armus stumbled as he half-fell off his horse. Cedric was there already, grabbing his elbow, helping him into the kitchen. Despite the scarf pressed tightly against the wound, the blood dripped between Armus' fingers. It also ran down his face, blinding him in that eye. He didn't think the wound was terribly bad, but it would *not* stop bleeding.

He stumbled again in the doorway, praying that Meg was not in the kitchen. If she saw him like this, covered in his own blood . . .

The kitchen was crowded, but his bride was not there. Lady Elizabeth was. She took one look, then grabbed a clean towel and replaced the scarf. Again, the cloth soaked through immediately. "Cedric," Armus barked. "Send for the physician. And then guard that door. Don't let Meg in here."

"But she's good with . . . "

"Don't," Armus repeated.

Cedric did as he was told. He dispatched a servant for the physician, another for his father, then he stepped back into the courtyard and put his back against the door. He was frankly glad to be away, out in the fresh air again. His brother had taken a wicked cut, one meant to take his head off . . .

He glanced down and noticed that his hands were covered with drying blood. And his cuffs, and his sleeves . . .

"Cedric?"

Thomas and Eleanor and Meg were all standing there. He straightened up. "Uh. Father. We found Jeremy, he's safe. Armus is . . . he's hurt, it's not bad, truly, just a cut here, but he asks . . . he asks . . . "

Meg caught his gesturing hand out of the air and held it hard. "Is this yours?" she demanded.

"No."

"Get out of the way."

"No, Meg, come on, Armus said . . . "

Thomas put a hand on her shoulder. "Lady Margaret, please. Perhaps it's better if you wait here. I'm sure it's nothing serious."

Meg stared up at him. Then she sighed. "All right," she conceded. "All right." She turned back to Cedric. "It's a head wound, then?"

He nodded, relieved. "Just a cut, on his forehead. It's not even that big, it just bleeds like crazy."

"Head wounds do that," Meg answered calmly. "Remember your nose? How is your nose, anyhow? It looks like it healed straight enough." She reached up, took his nose between her fingers, and twisted sharply.

Cedric yelped, bending to one side, taking a step as she took his off balance. She released him and stepped through the kitchen door.

Elizabeth was standing with Armus, doing what she could with the wound -- which wasn't much. *Damn*, she thought, watching the girl approach, all wide eyes and pale cheeks. First a bleeding knight, and now his fainting bride . . .

"Damn it, Cedric . . . " Armus bellowed.

"I *tried*," his brother protested.

Meg did not faint. She reached up for the towel over the wound, gently shouldering Elizabeth out of her way. "Let me see," she urged quietly. Armus tried to turn away from him. "Let me *see*," she insisted.

Her voice was so firmly commanding that Armus gave in. Once when she saw the wound, she grew even calmer. "All right," she nodded. "Sit down here. Let me see what I'm doing."

The kitchen, which had been thrown into a sudden panic by his arrival, was soothed like a wave by hers. Armus sat down on the long bench at the side of the table. Meg sat on the table itself, her feet on the bench beside him, and examined the wound more closely, holding the towel beneath it to keep the blood out of his eye. Satisfied, she reapplied the direct pressure. "Get me some ice," she said to the nearest maid. "And some more clean towels."

She glanced at Thomas. "You have a physician?"

"I've sent for him," Cedric assured her.

Thomas shook his head ruefully. "He's gone to Bradshire"

"I'll send for mine, then," Elizabeth said quickly.

"How long will that take?" Meg asked.

"Perhaps an hour, there and back."

The girl shook her head. "Never mind. I'll stitch it myself."

Armus looked up at her. "You'll . . . what?"

She smiled gently, brushing his blood-matted hair back from his forehead. "Do you trust me, my love?"

"Absolutely."

The girl came back with a bowl of ice. Meg took a big piece, wrapped it in a clean towel, and used it to replace the towel over the wound. "Thank you," she told the girl. "Now, would you find my mother, please? Ask her to bring my sewing basket. Eleanor? In my room, in the top of the green trunk, there's a bottle of clear liquid . . . "

"Liquor?" Eleanor guessed.

Meg nodded, with a hint of a sheepish smile.

"I'll get it," Eleanor said.

The bride looked around again, considering. "I need two mugs," she said, in the general direction of the remaining maids. "And a large bowl of rainwater." The girls scattered. Meg sat still, waiting very calmly, holding the ice firmly over the wound, stroking her beloved's hair with her other hand, humming softly to herself, as if she hadn't a care in the world.

Elizabeth could see Armus relaxing, and with a start realized that she was relaxing herself. So was everyone around her. She looked at the young woman with new eyes, understanding finally exactly what Armus saw in her.

Marie arrived with the sewing basket, as composed as her daughter. "Bad?" she asked.

"Not very," Meg answered calmly. "Wide enough, but not deep. It should have bled clean by now."

Her mother set the basket down. "Tell me when you're ready."

"A few minutes yet." She gestured her mother closer. "Hold this a moment."

Her mother took over the wound tending, while Meg slipped to the sink and washed her hands, with soap, for a long time. Then she came back, took the ice, and her mother retreated.

Armus felt his face growing numb, first over the wound and then spreading down his cheek. The pain was nearly gone. Surprisingly, he felt sleepy. Calm, almost serene, but sleepy.

Eleanor returned with the clear liquid. At Meg's direction, she opened it and poured some into each of the cups. Meg left one on the table. She put the other in Armus' hands. "Drink this." He sipped it obediently. "Drink it all," she insisted.

He did, feeling the sharp burn of the liquor all the way down, knowing that he'd need it against the pain yet to come.

**

Richard burst into the kitchen. "Armus!"

"Shh," Meg answered softly.

The younger knight drew himself to s halt, looking around. He had been so rushed to get back here, so impatient with the pace of the gypsies and the wagons, so fearful for his brother's life -- and now, here in the kitchen, everything was calm.

"Father . . . " he began again.

"Outside," Meg said firmly.

Thomas nodded to his sons, both of them, and led them outside. Eleanor followed, glad to be out before the actually stitching began.

"You've brought the boy back?" Thomas asked.

"Yes." Richard nodded. "He's safe -- well, he was safe. Now he's upstairs with Michael and Harold."

Thomas nodded grimly. "As it should be. Where did you find him?"

"You were supposed to tell him," Richard said sharply to Cedric.

"I didn't have time!" Cedric protested. "Father, we found him in a gypsy camp."

"Gypsies took him?"

"No, no," Richard said quickly. "He wandered off, he was following one of their children. They took very good care of him. But then just as we got there, so did Mullen's men . . . "

"And that's how Armus got hurt?"

"Yes," Cedric jumped back in. "And we drove them off, the gypsies helped up, but . . . but . . . "

"But we weren't sure they wouldn't come back," Richard completed. "That they wouldn't go after the gypsies after we were gone. So we . . . "

"Yes, we . . . "

"Brought them home with you," Thomas finished dryly.

"Well . . . yes."

"Richard. I have a castle full of guests, I have a wedding on hold and a groom bleeding all over my kitchen . . . and now I have gypsies."

"Well what was I supposed to do?" Richard protested. "I couldn't leave them out there. God only knows what Mullens would do to them."

"They seem very nice," Cedric offered.

"It does seems the honorable thing to do," Eleanor said reasonably.

"Of all the . . . all the . . . "

Thomas paused, turning toward the front gate at the sound of an approaching coach. "I'll be damned. Mullens!"

The coach stopped. Mullens climbed out swiftly, almost frantically. He reached back to help a woman out after him.

"Mullens, what are you doing here?" Thomas demanded.

Mullens scowled deeply. "I bring your kinswoman," he said with an evil chuckle. As soon as the woman was out, he climbed back into the coach and slammed the door. "Go, go!" he shouted to the coachman.

When the dust cleared, Thomas stepped toward the woman. "Good day, Madam. "I am Thomas Grey . . . "

"Well, of course you are," the woman snapped crossly. "Your friend has simply deplorable manners."

"He's not my friend, I assure you . . . "

"Then why did you lodge me there?" she demanded sharply. Before Thomas could answer, she was brushing past him. "Never mind, never mind. Where's my Meg?"

"Your . . . "

"Meg, Meg. Lady Margaret. You know, the bride? I hope you haven't misplaced her also."

"No, no. She's in the kitchen . . . "

"In the kitchen? My niece, my noble-born niece, is in your kitchen? What is the *matter* with people in this part of the country? Have you absolutely no sense how you ought to behave? Take me to the girl. Take me this instant."

"She's rather busy at the moment . . . "

"Nonsense. Tell her her Aunt Diedre is here."

**

Meg slid down onto the bench. "Lay down," she told Armus. "Put your head in my lap."

"Gladly, lady," he said warmly, and complied.

She smiled gently. "Hold this," she said, putting his hand over the ice pack. She took a fine needle threaded with silk from her mother, waved it through the candle flame, then wiped it in a cloth dipped in the remaining cup of liquor. Next she soaked the whole cloth in the liquor. Glancing around the kitchen, she quickly gulped the rest of the contents.

She took a deep breath. "Good news and bad, my beloved," she said calmly.

"Bad first."

"We have to clean the wound, and it will sting like crazy."

Armus tried not to wince. "And the good?"

"That after this is will be mostly numb."

Armus took a deep breath of his own. "All right."

Swiftly, Meg removed the ice pack and slapped the alcohol-soaked towel on the wound. It did indeed sting, wildly, but as she had promised, it quickly turned numb. Armus forced himself to relax and breathe as she reached for the needle.

He had had wounds stitched before, and he knew how badly it should hurt. But in Meg's little hands, it wasn't nearly as bad. The ice, he knew, had much to do with that. And her needle was much smaller and sharper than any the physician used. And he was nestled comfortably against her, her hands warm and gentle on his skin, her scent filling his head.

And, too, he had lost enough blood to induce deep relaxation . . .

She worked quickly, her mother handing her tiny scissors as she needed them, first stitching the center of the wound, then halfway on each side, then halfway between them. After six stitches, the feeling began to return and Armus winced. Meg stopped immediately, put the ice back on, and waited.

Thomas came back into the kitchen, quietly, closing the door firmly behind him. "Meg?"

She looked up, dread on her face.

"No, everything's fine," Thomas assured her quickly. "Your Aunt Diedre's here."

Meg just stared at him.

"Oh, my God," Marie said under her breath.

Her daughter poured herself another drink and downed it. "Ready?" she said to Armus.

"Ready."

She removed the ice and continued the stitching.

**

It took two more pauses, but at last the wound was stitched, tightly and so tinily that it was nearly unnoticeable. "Done," Meg announced. She helped Armus sit up, and poured him another drink.

He immediately reached for wound. Meg caught his hand. "Don't touch that. Your hands are filthy."

Armus nodded contritely. "Will it scar?"

"Not much, if it doesn't infect," she answered. "In a year it will be no more than a tiny white line, and in ten years you'll never know it was there."

Armus glanced at his father for confirmation. Thomas nodded encouragingly. "It looks very good, Armus. I must say, it's rather an unusual talent for a young woman of your station to acquire."

Meg shrugged, flushing prettily. "Your son charged me to learn things useful to our life together. Having met your other sons, it seems like a useful bit of knowledge."

Thomas grinned, delighted. "Well. If we're done here, I suppose we ought to see about getting him cleaned up for the wedding."

Diedre burst through the kitchen door, shedding Richard and Eleanor on her way. "Where *is* my darling girl? My dear girl, they've been keeping me from you, what is going on in here, come here, dearest, come . . . "

Meg stood up, and Diedre shrieked. "Look at you! You're covered in blood!"

The bride reverted instantly to maiden mode. "I . . . forgive me, Aunt, I was . . . I . . . "

"Go and wash, immediately! Honestly, Marie, how can you let her do these things, hanging about in the kitchen, tending to peasants when she should be at the altar . . . "

Armus rose smoothly to his feet and very consciously towered over the woman. "We have not met, Madam. I am Armus Grey."

Diedre was, for one instant, speechless. "You are. You are?" She looked him up and down. "My God, but you're a big one, aren't you?" She glanced at Marie. "Good for you, dear. About time you bred some size back into this side of the family. But my Heavens . . . "

"We are all going," Thomas said firmly, "to get cleaned up for the wedding now."

"No, we're not." Harold Devlin stepped into the kitchen, looking grim. "At least not today." He shrugged apologetically. "The Bishop is . . . quite put out by the delay. He has retired for the evening, and says that he will perform the marriage tomorrow, when things are in proper order."

A general groan ran through the kitchen, commoners and nobles alike.

"No."

Devlin turned to his daughter. "Meg?"

"I said no," she repeated, quietly, firmly. "I will not wait another day." She turned and glanced at Armus. "Save it is your wish?"

"No," he answered with conviction.

Meg turned back to her father. "No," she said again.

Dead silence descended over the crowded kitchen.

"Margaret, please . . . "

"Don't Margaret me," she answered tersely. "Please, Father. We have waited half a year for this day. For *this* day. And I have endured a dozen lifetimes since this morning. I cannot wait another day."

Harold Devlin drew himself to full height. "Margaret Marisa Devlin . . . "

"*No*," Meg insisted. "Father, *no*. I have done everything you asked, Father. I have been obedient and polite and well-mannered, I have been learned and I have held my tongue in the presence of fools, I have been helpful and useful and I have been chaste . . . I have been in short

everything that you could ask of a daughter . . . "

"Agreed, Meg," Devlin answered quickly, "but it's only one day more . . . "

"It's one day more than I can bear, Father!"

Harold considered his daughter for a long moment. And then, as always, he glanced to his wife. Marie nodded, just once.

Devlin sighed. To Armus, he said, "Are you sure you want a wife who speaks thus to her father?"

"Absolutely," he answered without hesitation.

He nodded slowly, turned his attention back to his daughter. "Go, my daughter, and put on your pretty gown. I will talk to the Bishop -- or I will find you a priest myself."

"Nonsense!" Diedre barked, her voice stunning in the quiet. Everyone turned to look at her. "You see to the bride," she told Harold. "*I'll* bring the Bishop."

**

They were married as the sun set.

The Bishop, deeply irritated, performed the shortest marriage ceremony possible, starkly in line with the requirements of the Church but utterly without frills.

Armus and Meg were simply delighted.

They shared their first married kiss in front of the gathered congregation, kissed their parents, then led the little procession back to the Great Hall, where the servants were still frantically laying the feast. The delay did not matter a bit; the gypsies played lively music in the courtyard to fill the gap until the string quartet was ready to take over. The company chattered and laughed and even sang a bit, until their dinner was ready.

With the formal feasting over, the crowd milled again, still jovial. Harold and Thomas found themselves against the windows, watching the scene. "They do look splendid together, don't they?" Harold commented, gesturing.

Thomas looked to where his eldest son was standing, talking with some of the guests. His wedding clothes were dark green, shot through with gold and red threads and trim, Covington colors that made him appear even blonder than he really was. At his side, her fingers laced in his, Meg wore a gold dress with green accents, red ribbons, with wild flowers woven through her dark hair. They were unquestionably made for each other; it would have been obvious even if they worn peasant drab. But as it was . . . "Splendid," Thomas agreed. It was the perfect word.

**

"Do you mean to tell me," Diedre demanded, "that that nice man Mullens was actually holding me hostage?"

"I . . . believe so," Thomas answered.

"Oh, no, no, no. That's quite impossible. I've been held hostage, Sir Thomas, and I assure you, that was not the case here. Good Heavens, the man let me rummage through his dresser drawers. That simply isn't the sort of thing a villain would do, now is it? For Heaven's sake, I had the run of his castle! And let me tell you, that castle *needs* a woman's touch. My goodness, I've never seen such shoddy housekeeping . . . "

She went on, at some length. Thomas snuck a glance over her shoulder at Harold. His old friend shrugged and left him to his fate.

**

Eleanor sighed. "She's so happy," she said wistfully, "her feet don't even touch the floor."

Cedric rolled his eyes. "And probably won't for the next several days."

She elbowed him, hard. "What?" he protested. "What'd I say?"

**

"Aunt Meg," Jeremy said contritely, "I'm really sorry."

She beamed at him like some faerie princess, all gold and green. "It's all right, Jeremy."

"But I almost ruined *everything*."

"But you didn't," Armus answered firmly. "And you did learn something, right?"

The boy considered. "Yes. If I ever want to run off with gypsies again, I'll tell somebody where I'm going."

His aunt and his new uncle glanced at each other and shrugged. "Close enough," Meg declared. Armus just laughed.

**

"I don't know," Thomas said, shaking his head. "I really think we ought to do something, send a letter of protest to the King at the very least . . . "

"She doesn't seem to care that she's been held hostage," Elizabeth answered. "Strange."

"We have nothing to protest," Meg said sincerely. "Keeping Aunt Diedre for two days was the nicest thing John Mullens could have done for us."

Armus simply nodded his agreement. His one brief conversation with Aunty Diedre had convinced him. "Two in the same family," he mused. "What happened to your father, that he was so normal?"

"There was a second marriage," Meg answered simply. The others nodded their understanding. "Believe me, Sir Thomas . . . Father . . . holding her hostage was its own punishment."

"Probably the best present anyone could have given us," Armus agreed.

Thomas nodded his agreement. "Well, except for the King's horses, perhaps."

"The what?" his son asked.

Meg began to laugh. "I'm sorry. I forgot to tell you about the horses."

"*What* horses?" Armus demanded.

**

"Weddings," Richard said soulfully, bending over her hand, gazing into her eyes, "always put me in such a romantic mood."

The young lady looked him up and down swiftly. "Well, I suppose you'll be next to marry."

"I suppose I will."

"Anyone in mind?"

Richard looked *her* up and down, and swallowed, hard. She was beautiful, no question of that. But suddenly this talk of marriage was more than a little unnerving. "I, uh, I think such matters are best decided by my father."

"Pity," she said tartly, and walked away with a deliberate wiggle.

Richard couldn't decide if he had been snubbed -- or escaped something far worse.

**

Noting that her brother seemed to be looking for something, Eleanor went over to him. "Armus? Have you lost something?"

He nodded, distracted. "I can't find Meg."

Eleanor almost blushed. "She's gone upstairs."

"Oh." He stopped looking for her. "She didn't say anything, is she all right?"

Eleanor stared at him, and blinked. Was he really -- he was. "I, er, think she was expecting you to follow her."

"To . . . oh." And Armus did blush, furiously. "I . . . I . . . "

"Are so happy you can't think straight," Eleanor supplied.

Her brother nodded, laughing. "I am. I truly am."

"I'm glad."

Armus grew a bit more serious. "Eleanor . . . thank you. For staying with her today, for helping her get through this . . . "

"I was glad to do it."

"Thank you." He leaned and kissed her cheek again.

"Go," Eleanor advised.

He went.

**

He stood for a long time in his sitting room -- *their* sitting room -- with his hand on the door to his bedchamber. Within, he knew, his bride waited. And he ached to go to her. But he wanted this night to be right, to be perfect for her. A girl, he reasoned, lost her virginity only once. And that meant that he had to be patient and careful, however great his own need. And so he waited another moment, calming his mind, gaining control over his body before he went in.

The bed chamber startled him for a moment. It was greatly changed from when he'd left it just a few hours before, in this: there were flowers everywhere. Flowers on the floor, on the furniture, on the coverlet of the bed. Garlands strung over the windows, over the mirror. Flowers, everywhere. Eleanor, Armus thought, and smiled fondly. Two candles burned on the window sill, and two more beside the bed. Otherwise, the room was dark.

Or would have been, had not the Lady Margaret illuminated it with her presence. She sat very still in the center of the bed, her back against the headboard, covered to her neck and her wrists in a demure white gown, flowers still twined in her hair, her hands folded prettily in her lap. She

looked very beautiful, and very scared.

Armus closed the door behind him and latched it, even though the door to the sitting room was bolted. No point in trusting his brothers at this point . . . he shook his head, putting the thought away, and went to the side of the bed.

Meg smiled up at him, nervously, and licked her lips. "My husband."

"Oh, I like the sound of that." He sat down on the edge of the bed and took her hands in his. They were very cold. "My wife. My lady. My love." He drew her hands to his lips and kissed them lingeringly. Meg trembled, and Armus felt his heart ache for her. "Meg, Meg, stop. You don't need to be frightened. I will be as gentle as I know how to be. I know it will hurt you, this first time, but . . . "

Meg blushed deeply, but she pulled her hands back, and his with them, and kissed his knuckles. "But for a moment, I know. I do not fear that. You are the gentlest man I have ever known, and there is no one I would rather be with on this night."

"Then what troubles you?"

She shook her head, and looked pointedly somewhere else. "Just . . . maiden silliness, I think."

Enjoy it while it lasts, Armus thought, but didn't say it aloud. "Tell me."

"It's nothing . . . "

"Meg." He let his voice grow stern. "Plainly."

Meg smiled wryly. Still blushing, still shy, but she answered. "Other women. More experienced, more . . . interesting."

Armus laughed. "And I didn't marry any of them."

She laughed, too, a little. "I *told* you it was silliness."

"And so it is."

"I just . . . I don't want to disappoint you."

"Meg. How would you disappoint me?"

She shrugged, looking away again. "I don't know. What if . . . what if I'm . . . cold?"

Armus frowned at her. Without words, he reach out and cupped her breast in his hand. Then he bent and placed his mouth gently over her nipple. Through the nightgown he felt it grow hard. He sucked lightly, and her back arched as she gasped, half surprise, half pleasure. He sat up, keeping his hand where it was. "I would say that is not a problem, my lady."

Meg laughed nervously. "Then what if I'm wanton?"

"In truth, Meg, there is not a man in the world who would object to having a wanton wife -- so long as she keeps her wantonness to his bed."

"I will, Armus, you know I . . . "

"I know." He sighed. "You've had much too much time to think about all of this. You're nervous because it's unknown. Is that it?"

"I suppose it is."

Armus nodded. He took his hand from her breast and caressed her cheek. "You don't need to worry, Meg. We both know you're a quick learner -- and I, by all accounts, am not a bad teacher." He moved closer and kissed her, slowly and deeply, his tongue exploring the mysterious sweetness of her mouth. "Will you let me teach you, Meg?"

She drew back only a little, nodding, the fear nearly gone from her eyes. "I think I might like that."

He chuckled, thinking that he probably should have just kissed her in the first place. He drew her closer into his arms and kissed her again, and again. Her body grew warmer, more relaxed, delightfully smooth under that thinnest layer of cloth that separated her bare skin from his bare hand. He ran his hands across her back, over her shoulders, and then again to her breast. She jumped at the touch, but did not pull away, and as his thumb crossed her pert little nipple, she sighed. So delightful, so round and firm, and he wanted to feel their smooth warmth against his palms . . .

His hand strayed to the laces at the neck of the gown, and he pulled them loose. A bare hitch in her breath, the slightest shy of her head, told him he'd moved a little too fast, though she did not draw away even then.

Armus paused, lifted his lips away from hers. "First lesson," he said, as conversationally as he could. "Boots."

"Boots?" she inquired timidly.

"Boots," Armus repeated, "are hellishly hard to get off in anything like a romantic fashion." As she watched, bemused, he pulled his boots off and dropped them at the edge of the bed. "Swords, likewise," he continued, and put the sword, scabbard and belt on the floor, rather more carefully. "Armor has no place at all in the bedroom," he opined, shedding his fancy dress clothes casually, until he was down to breeches and shirt.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. Meg sat watching him in silence, the nervousness in her eyes almost gone, and replaced by a rapt fascination that caught Armus entirely off guard. Suddenly shy himself, he slipped off his shirt. He sat back down on the bed, awkward, feeling monstrously broad and naked. She was such a little thing, and he was so . . .

But Meg slid back into his arms immediately, her hands straying tentatively over that vast expanse of skin and muscle and bone. She twined her fingers through the pale blond hair on his chest, fascinated, as if she had never seen such a thing before. "Oh," she breathed, biting her lip softly. Watching her, Armus felt better at once. She was not the least bit intimidated by his size; she reveled in it.

And then, clever minx that she was, she let her hand stray very gently over his nipple. He took a sharp breath, closing his hand over hers before she could go any further. His breeches were suddenly uncomfortably tight. "Stop that."

"No." She bent the touched the tip of her tongue to the nipple, clearly enjoying his response.

"Stop it," Armus said more firmly. He reached for the laces of her gown again. Her little hands continued their exploration of his torso, roaming around his shoulders, down his back, across his stomach, finding the ticklish places on his sides. He loved her touch, loved the wonder of it, that she felt safe to explore his body so freely, that she trusted him so completely. Gently, trying not to startle her out of her own discoveries, he pushed down one shoulder of the gown, revealing a shapely white shoulder. He ran his fingers gently over the curve of it, kissed her where her neck

blended into shoulder, tasting the warmth of her skin. She rolled her head back and away from him, baring her throat to his tender bites and kisses. Her hands moved more restlessly now, wanting more, not knowing what she wanted.

He knew what he wanted, and guessed that it was what she wanted, too, but slowly, gently . . .

He pushed the gown down further, baring first one full breast and then the other, pushing the gown all the way down to her waist. She struggled to pull her arms free of the sleeves, and then came back to him without hesitation, reveling in the new sensations this brought, her skin on his, warmth and friction, and she pulled him as close as she could, eager, exploring. Armus kissed her, face and neck and throat, nibbled at her ears until she giggled, his hands covering her shoulder blades, tracing her spine with his fingers, past the gown to stroke her buttocks. She moaned softly and pressed tighter still against him.

Armus closed his eyes, fighting again for control, aching against the laces of his breeches. All well and good to think of patience and gentleness, when the maiden in question was not writhing against your bare chest. Another matter altogether in practice. He grabbed her around the waist -- his two hands spanned it readily -- and lifted her onto her knees, bringing her breasts level with his face. He cupped them on each side, steadying her while he kissed and devoured first one, then the other. She threw her head back and moaned again, her breathing growing ragged, her body trembling. "Armus . . . " she breathed.

It sounded like an invitation, and one he had no will to refuse. Pushing the gown away, he lay her back on the pillows and stretched out beside her. He propped himself on one elbow to look down on her, ran the other hand down the length of her body, down to her knee and back up one thigh. He paused there, watching her, watching for resistance or fear, but there was none. Her eyes had gone misty now, her reason all but gone, her body responding easily, instinctively. The slightest pressure from his hand and her legs parted for him, a little, her hips rose with her next sigh to greet him.

Her cleft was hot and damp and Armus groaned with his own desire. She squirmed at his touch. His fingers told him that she was nearly ready for him, but impossibly tight. More time, Armus thought, from the very edge of his own reason, but her hips came up against his hand, her arms clutched at him frantically, and he knew there was no more time. He took the hand away, tried to unlace his breeches with one hand, all the while kissing her neck, her face, her breasts. She tried to help; her heated fumbling only made it worse, and Armus thought he would go entirely mad with desire for her. But at last it was done. His shaft stood free, and he kicked his pants away even as he turned between her legs.

And even then, even while she reached for him and urged him to her, he thought, go slow, be careful, be gentle, and he watched for fear in her, though it was long gone . . .

Bracing his weight on one arm, he used his other hand to part her, to guide his manhood into her opening. He barely entered her, then stopped, waited for her to relax and open a little more, he so desperately did not want to hurt her . . .

He had, he reflected much later, badly underestimated her. The moment she realized that he was hesitating, she planted her feet flat on the bed and drove her hips up against him, impaling herself on him before he could draw back, piercing her maidenhead and driving his manhood to its very hilt against her hungry body.

It hurt her, he knew, because she froze for the space of five heartbeats, her mouth open, gasping. But it passed quickly, the pleasure centering again where the pain had been, and she stirred, drawing his face down to a long, deep kiss, and her body moved against him impatiently. That five heartbeats, the shock of her action and her pain, had given Armus enough time to grasp a little control. He wrapped his free hand around her slender waist, controlling her body, and moved against her, giving guidance and rhythm to her ecstatic motion.

"Armus," she whispered distantly, unafraid, "I think I'm dying."

Armus laughed out loud. "You're not dying, my love. Only a Little Death." He took her then, with strong deep thrusts, not more than six or seven before she cried out, clutching at him, and he cried out with her.

There followed a long, long silence, a time of breath slowing, limbs ceasing to tremble. "Oh, my sweet lord," she finally whispered.

He rolled onto his side, reluctantly uncoupling their bodies, stroking her hair gently. "So your husband does not displease you?"

Meg shook her head, smiling vaguely. "Oh, no. No. My sisters said . . . "

She stopped, not sure that she should repeat what her sisters had said, until Armus encouraged her. "Tell me."

"My sisters said that it could be pleasurable. But that is such a pale description . . . is it *always* like this?"

"More or less," Armus allowed. "Except, of course, that we skip the painful part from now on."

"Hmm," she said dreamily. "It seems like it ought to be a sin."

"It would have been, last night. Tonight it is all but sacrament."

"I must give my uncle the Bishop more credit for the power of his words," Meg answered wryly. She nestled her face a moment against his shoulder. Then, on reflection, she looked up sharply. "Did you know?"

"What?"

"That it would be like this. Why didn't you tell me?" Armus shook his head, bewildered. "If I had *known*," Meg continued, "I would never have let you out of my room at White Cliff. But you knew, didn't you? And you still didn't . . . you have a will of iron."

Armus chuckled. "A man must know his limits, Meg. Do you honestly think that right now I could get up out of this bed and walk away from you, for an hour, let alone half a year?"

"Not very well," Meg conceded, "because I'd be hanging on your boots trying to drag you back."

He caught her face to his and kissed her soundly. "I love you, Meg. And now that our time apart is over, now I can leave this bed because I know I can come back to it whenever I wish. For the rest of our lives."

Her eyes grew suddenly serious, and her fingers feathered over his wound. "I was so afraid that we would never be here," she said quietly.

Armus caught the fingers and brought him to his mouth, first kissing them and then nibbling them gently. "I know you were afraid, love. But you let me go in spite of your fear. I do not think your will to honor is any weaker than mine."

"*Your* honor," she answered. "For my own, I would have hung on you and begged. But I would not disgrace you."

Armus closed his eyes, all but overwhelmed with his love for this woman who was, finally, his for all time. "I love you, Margaret," he said, his words a prayer.

"And I you, Armus."

He cradled her head in his hand and drew her against his chest. "Rest a moment, my love, and then we'll see what other delights this marriage bed may yield."

She chuckled sleepily. "There is more?"

"Variations on a theme," Armus answered, sleepy himself. "More that your sisters did not tell you, I warrant."

"You're wrong," Meg answered serenely.

Armus sighed. Contented. Tired. A moment's rest, a little doze with Meg's comfortable warmth against his side. And then he would make love to her again, slowly this time; the edge of their long separation was gone, the frightening urgency, he would take his time, and he would teach her the many, many joys that lay in the years ahead . . .

In two minutes, he was sound asleep.

**

The guests stayed and enjoyed the feasting late into the night. Sir Thomas, of course, stayed also, and Lady Elizabeth, serving as his hostess, stayed with him until even Eleanor took her surprisingly polite leave of them.

And then they were alone, in the Great Hall, with the remnants of the feast behind them, a fire still blazing on the hearth.

"Well," Thomas said, joining her at the fireside, "that went surprisingly well."

"It did," Elizabeth agreed. She moved into his arms and kissed him. "All things considered, it went very well. You made a fine choice, Thomas."

"Do you think so?"

"I'm sure of it. Oh, she'll need a little time to settle in, but that won't take long. For all that she's pretty, she'd got a good head on her shoulders."

Thomas laughed. "Lady Elizabeth, you surprise me. That you, of all people, should think that a beautiful woman cannot also be intelligent." He tsked gently. "Still, I'm glad you approve of her."

"Not that it would have made any difference," she answered lightly. "Your son was quite -- determined."

"Yes, he was." He took his kiss back from her, then walked with her to a bench at the hearth side. "Of course, so was *she*." He shook his head. "I'm still not quite sure what to make of that little speech in the kitchen."

"Make a warning of it," Elizabeth advised. "That was Lady Margaret in her purest form."

"Do you think so?"

She nodded. "All day here, with nothing to do, she fretted, she stammered, she blushed -- the quintessential bashful maiden. And yet when she saw her betrothed covered with blood -- when most maidens would have fainted dead away -- she was solid as a rock. In charge, taking action, giving orders. In that little girl's body there is a will of iron."

"I should think that was a good thing," Thomas commented.

"It's a very good thing," Elizabeth agreed. "So long as she's on your side. But I'd be very careful, if I were you, not to get between her and her husband."

Thomas nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. I suppose he's her husband now, before he's my son."

Noting the sadness in his voice, Elizabeth took his hand a squeezed it. "That's how it's supposed to be, Thomas."

He smiled thinly. "I know it is. But it will take some getting used to."

"And about the time you get used to *that*," she pointed out helpfully, "you'll start having grandchildren to deal with."

"I suppose I will, in good time."

He grew silent then, staring into the fire. Watching him, Elizabeth could almost see Anne's ghost beside him. She nodded to herself. She could be -- had been, in the past -- a deeply jealous woman -- but there was no point in competing with a memory. She leaned and kissed him quickly on the cheek. "I'm going up," she said.

Startled, Thomas fumbled for words. "I could . . . uh, that is . . . "

"Shh," Elizabeth advised. "I'll see you in the morning." And she went.

Thomas sat back. He guessed that Elizabeth had guessed what he'd been thinking, in that moment -- missing Anne, regretting that she would never meet Meg, never see their grandchildren. And in a way he regretted that she had known. But Elizabeth was no silly girl, to be wounded by such thoughts. She knew his heart. Knew that he loved her, also. But that still, now and then, he loved his wife more . . .

Thomas sighed. He was fortunate, to have Elizabeth's understanding.

Fortunate, he reflected, thinking of the young couple upstairs, of his other sons, of his daughter. Of grandchildren to come. He was very fortunate indeed.

**

Armus half-woke and sat straight up in bed.

Badly startled, Meg sat up with him, clutching the blanket against her bare breast. "What is it?"

Her husband chuckled, coming fully awake, and shook his head. "There's a woman in my bed."

"Finally," Meg answered. "I'll go to my own chamber, if you'd rather . . . "

"No," Armus answered quickly. "I want you here with me." He lay back, drawing her down to him. "I want you here always, even when we can't make love." He considered a moment. "Of course, if you'd rather be . . . "

"Stop that," Meg said firmly, and he did.

"I didn't mean to fall asleep."

He could feel her smile against his bare chest. "You had a pretty exhausting day."

"Hmm. I did, at that. So did you." He drew her closer still, stroking his fingers down her smooth bare back. "But I had meant to stay awake all night and give you pleasure."

"Watching you sleep is a pleasure all of its own," Meg answered sincerely.

"My wife," he murmured warmly. "My wife."

"Do you want some wine?"

"Not badly enough to go downstairs for it."

"We don't have to." She sat up languidly and pointed toward the dresser. A carafe of wine stood there, with glasses, and a tray covered with a white napkin. Armus hadn't noticed them when he came in. Meg slid to the edge of the bed, then hesitated, still under the covers, looking around her . . .

Armus guessed immediately what she was looking for, and why. He smiled softly to himself. A thousand small details, he realized suddenly, went into the making of a married life, and it began here. "I'll go," he said, and climbed out of bed.

He could almost feel her eyes on him as he padded across the room and poured a single glass of wine. He took a short drink, then turned to face her. "Does my nakedness offend you?"

Meg smiled, a trifle shyly. "Not offends, no."

"Good." He walked back to the bed and sat down beside her, offering the glass. She closed her hand over his and drank. "Are you all right?" he asked gently.

She knew exactly what he was asking. "I'm fine, my love." Her free hand traced up to his face, fluttered across his stitches. "And you?"

He caught the hand and kissed it. "Never better." Then he frowned. "I'm hungry, though."

Meg gestured again to the dresser. Intrigued, Armus left her with the wine glass and went back. Beneath the napkin, the tray was laden with bread and cheese, summer sausage and a bowl of early strawberries. "Ah," Armus said, pleased. "This is not Eleanor's work."

"My mother, I think," Meg answered.

He took the whole tray back to the bed with him, then climbed back under the covers with his wife. They sat quietly and ate, both having missed eating most of the wedding dinner amid the excitement and clamor of the feast. Now and then they fed each other, or kissed, or smiled, or caressed.

When the wine goblet was empty, Meg took it and slid out of bed. She walked across to the dresser quickly, refilled it, and came back toward the bed. Armus watched her with interest, pleased. He had guessed, when he got up earlier, that she would follow his example. She was still self-conscious, being naked in front of him, but that would pass in time. And her body . . .

She saw the expression on his face and stopped two steps from the bed. "Armus?"

"You are beautiful," he breathed. "You are *beautiful*."

Meg smiled, more self-conscious than ever. She climbed back onto the bed and shared the glass with him again. He drank, then set both the glass and the tray on the table beside the bed. Turning, he drew his wife into his arms and onto his lap.

Her slender arms went up around his neck, and she kissed him warmly, slowly. "What else," she purred, "does my husband need to be contented?"

Armus chuckled softly. "You really *are* wanton, aren't you?"

Her arms and her head dropped at once, and she blushed deeply. "Meg, Meg," Armus said at once, lifting her face in his two hands. "I'm only teasing you a little."

"I know," she answered, uncertainly, unhappily.

He drew her close, cradling her head against his shoulder, stroking her hair. "I shouldn't have, Meg. I'm sorry."

Meg shook her head impatiently against him. "It's nothing. I just . . . I just . . . " She sat up to look at him. "I want to make you happy. And I'm not sure . . . how."

Armus smiled gently. "You're doing just fine, Meg."

"I *knew* how to be a good daughter," she went on. "But I'm not sure I know how to be a good wife."

"And you think I know how to be a good husband?"

Meg cocked her head, smiling quizzically. "I hadn't thought of it that way."

Armus sighed. "All of this -- being married, living together -- it's all new to both of us. On the big things, we have the Church to tell us how to behave. But on the day-to-day things -- like whether we wander around naked in our bedchamber when we're alone -- those things we have to work out for ourselves, you and I."

Meg nodded her understanding, and he went on. "There is so much I know about you, my wife, and so much I *don't* know. Are you an early riser, or do you like to sleep late? Do you take a big breakfast or only toast? I could go on all night, Meg. But the point is, we will learn these things, and we will work them out. Together. You don't have to have all the answers tonight. All right?"

She nodded again, a wispy smile playing around her mouth. "All right."

"Good." Armus considered for a moment, growing serious. "There is another thing that we should discuss -- and now's as good a time as any."

Meg gazed at him gravely.

"Despite what the Bishop -- and the King, for that matter -- says, I don't for a minute believe that you are my property, my chattel. Your life, your body, are your own still."

His wife frowned gently. "Not plain enough, my husband."

Armus took a deep breath. "What I'm saying is that I believe . . . among other things, but in this case . . . that you have the absolute right to refuse my lovemaking at any time, for any reason . . . or for no reason at all."

"Oh."

"Or, on the other hand, to request it."

"Oh," she said again. The frown warmed into a small smile. "You are such an unconventional husband."

"Yes, I know," Armus answered, a little embarrassed. "I thought you liked that about me."

"I love that about you."

"You understand what I've said?"

Meg nodded. "Yes. And I will remember. But I can't imagine, at this moment, why I would ever *want* to refuse."

She kissed him again, lingeringly. Armus had occasion to be reminded that he was unclothed in his marriage bed, with his equally unclothed bride in his lap. His passion for her stirred at once, but he made no move, save to return her kiss.

Meg lifted her head and gazed at him for a moment, studying, wondering. "Armus."

"Yes?"

Still more than a trifle shy, she bit her lower lip, but her eyes never wavered. "Will you make love to me again?"

Her husband smiled warmly. "I would be delighted."

He kissed her again, then lowered her back against the pillows and stretched out beside her. Meg reached up for him, but he resisted. "Be still. Let me show you something."

Her eyes were wide, expectant, nervous, but she waited. Armus retrieved the wine goblet. He dipped his index finger in the wine, then tasted it experimentally from his fingertip. Then he dipped his finger again, this time using the wine to very lightly trace Meg's lips. Her body quivered lightly, and quivered again when he bent to lick the wine away.

Her mouth reached for his, her tongue claiming his as it danced over her lips, and for a moment he allowed it, allowed her to draw in the tiny droplets of wine. Then he pulled back. She arched up to follow. "Shh," Armus said again, "be still."

He dipped his finger again, this time tracing over her eyelids, careful not to let it reach her eyes themselves. She moaned softly when he bent to kiss the liquid away. The moan became louder when he let wine drip from his fingertip into the hollow at the base of her throat. "Armus . . . "

"Shh." He drew the tiny pool in a line down the center of her chest, trailing off at her navel, then starting there with his tongue, lapping the dark line back up to her throat. Her breath hitched as he stroked the dark liquid onto her nearly-as-dark nipples. He touched her only lightly, teasingly, first his fingers, then his lips, then his tongue, and a small cry broke from her lips.

Abandoning the droplet method, he poured a tiny stream of wine directly from the goblet into the hollow of her navel. Her taut stomach muscles writhed, spilling the tiny pool down both sides of her waist. Armus bent swiftly to lick it away before it reached the sheets. He loved the contrast of her, the salt skin beneath the sweet wine, the warmth beneath the cool liquid.

Meg began to tremble. Hard, head to toe. It came to Armus that she was perhaps trembling out of fear as much as arousal, that his very lately deflowered bride might be grasping the sheets with her little hands not out of passion, but as a way to keep herself from pushing him away. That she was not quite ready for this particular pleasure just yet . . .

And her responsiveness had been enough to arouse him; his manhood was pressed snugly, but not uncomfortably, against the side of her hip. It would be no hardship for either of them if he abandoned his game and took her now . . .

And yet . . .

He leaned closer, letting his breath warm her ear even while the goblet hovered over her trembling belly. "Your body," he told her softly, "it like a beautiful instrument, like the finest lute ever made. And if you'll let me . . . " he tipped the cup ever so slightly, and let the wine fall in single drops onto the juncture of her legs, " . . . I'll show you how it was made to be played."

Meg moaned again, still trembling, but not resisting. She turned her head to look at him, her eyes heavy-lidded with arousal, yet not quite abandoning her reason. "But . . . "

"Shh. You are my wife. There is no sin here."

She fought for breath, for something like composure. "But . . . '

Armus tipped the cup further, allowing the wine to form a tiny stream, watching her gasp in surprise and pleasure. "Say yes, Meg," he urged softly.

Her body was already tensing, coiling, her lips apart, her hips twisting of their own accord. "Yes," she breathed.

He swiftly covered her mouth with his, giving home to her frantic tongue, to her moans and cries. He threw the wine goblet over the side of the bed and dropped his hand into her hot and wine-cold cleft. Her legs parted, giving him more room, and he stirred the wine into her sweeter juices, there between the nether lips, and then up inside her, his fingers strong and firm . . .

He lifted his head, intending to follow his fingers with his tongue, but Meg threw her arms around his neck and held him, dragging his mouth back to hers even as her hips writhed and thrust against his hand. Their kiss muffled her scream of pleasure, but Armus needed no sound to know that she had reached the climax of her passion.

She kissed him long after he took his hand away, while her body began finally to relax a bit. Then she melted back against the pillows. "But . . . " she finally managed to say.

Armus regarded her, rather proudly. "Yes, love?"

It took her a moment more to form a whole sentence. "But what of your pleasure?"

"There was great pleasure in that for me."

She blinked, twice. And then very gently rotated her hip against his manhood. "And what of this?"

"Ah, that. We aren't done yet, my love."

Meg considered this for a long moment. She licked her lips. And then she grew bold. "I want you. I want you in me."

Armus nodded, feeling his arousal surge at this simple announcement. "In good time," he answered slowly. His smile had just a touch of wickedness in it. "I thought first that we would finish the strawberries . . . "

He reached behind him for the bowl. While he reached, Meg moved swiftly, pushing him the rest of the way over his back. Surprised, he allowed it. And was even more surprised when she very adroitly straddled his waist and then slid down until his manhood was firmly sheathed once again deep in her body. She sat straight up, her wine-colored breasts pertly and unabashedly

naked to his view. She threw her head back and he felt another, smaller, climax sweep through her.

She took several deep breaths before she looked at him again. "I'm sorry, my lord. I think I've used up all of my patience for this year."

Armus looked up at her, grinning in perfect delight. "Fair enough. But now that you've got me where you want me, what do you plan to do?"

Her eyes took on a playful gleam. "Well, you said something about wanting to finish the strawberries . . . " She took one out of the bowl, held it between her teeth, and bent to share it with him.

Her husband bit off half, chewed, and swallowed. "Minx."

"Wanton," Meg corrected. "And a quick study."

"So I'd noticed."

She took his hands and placed them on her waist. "Teach me this," she said quietly. His hands were already lifting her, lowering her gently. "Teach me everything."

Without protest, her husband complied.

**

Armus lay and watch the last candle sputter on the verge of guttering out. He was wakeful, but not restless, perfectly content, with Meg in his arms, her back against his chest, her arms over his and their legs tangled together. Tired, wrung, but content.

His gaze shifted to the window. It was pitch black outside, the first rays of dawn but a few minutes over the horizon. It made him chuckle, very softly.

"Mm . . . what?" Meg inquired.

"I thought you were asleep."

"Mostly."

"I used to hate this hour," Armus said. "This last hour of the night, this darkest one. When we were apart, I hated it more than any other hour of the day."

"Hmm," Meg murmured. "And now?"

He kissed her hair lightly. "And now I think it's my favorite."

"Hmm," she answered contentedly, slipping toward sleep again.

"Promise me something, Meg."

"Anything."

"Promise me years and years like this."

She wriggled, gathering him closer around her. "All the years that I have left, Armus. All the rest of my life, all my years, are yours."

"Lots and lots of years," he repeated sleepily.

"Lots and lots of years," she agreed.

And the candle guttered into darkness, and they slept.

*The End*