Colette Gale - Bound by Honor

She wanted it. She wanted him.

She no longer fought to ignore the slick heat between her legs, the throb of her tight little pearl . . . and she could not turn away from Will. She watched him as his own pleasure grew, and knew that she matched it, low and deep.

His cheeks sharpened as if he’d sucked in his breath, and she felt the faint trembling in the thigh pressed against her knee . . . and then, as she watched, his eyes fluttered for a moment, he drew in a short, sharp breath . . . and then, his cheeks flushing darker, he tensed . . . then silently eased.

The beauty of his harsh face, the controlled intensity, the way his eyelids swept down for a moment, then up again . . . the gentling of his mouth . . . oh, God . . . made her belly swirl deeply, then suddenly shoot lower, down, and she let herself go, arching a little beneath the table.

She may have gasped or closed her eyes, or even sighed. . . . Marian didn’t know. . . . But when she came back to herself moments later, no one seemed to have noticed anything. She felt flushed and warm, and a trickle of sweat trailed down her spine. Her belly had softened and she still throbbed between her legs . . . but the insistent tongue had retreated. The demanding hands had moved away. Warmth pulsed gently through her.

And she looked over and saw Will watching her.

Their eyes met and then he tore his away. But not before she saw the truth in their darkness.

The truth that made her belly burn again with want.

At last, the meal . . . which had seemed to go on much too quickly at first, but then had slowed to an interminable crawl after John’s little surprise underneath the table . . . rolled to an end.

Marian, whose knees had recovered, felt her belly begin to pitch with nervousness. Either her plan was going to work or she was going to find herself alone with John in that room with the massive bed, the restraints and whips . . . and the memories of nights past.

Or, worse, in that situation and accused of treason.

Her mouth felt parched, and when she clapped a hand to her belly, the nausea wasn’t completely feigned. “I do not feel well, my lord,” she said. It was not difficult to appear wan and weak. “ ’ Tis the meat, I am sure of it.”

“Now, my lady, ’tis no sense in delaying the inevitable,” John told her. Yet, he didn’t look as robust as he had appeared earlier. Or mayhap, she only hoped he didn’t. “ ’ Tis not the meat but your fears, methinks. Come, now, and I shall put your worries to rest.”

He offered his arm, and Marian, her belly swirling, took it reluctantly. She felt the weight of Will’s stare on her back, but of course she dared not look at him as she straightened her spine and allowed John to lead her away.

“I feel a bit ill,” Lady Joanna said in a shrill voice. Marian paused, looking back at her in relief, and noted that the woman’s face did appear to be a bit pale. Aye, oh, aye!

John turned toward the other lady and Marian took the opportunity to duck slightly and jam a finger down her throat. As the prince turned back, her belly revolted, and she upended its contents on the floor, splattering John’s fine boots.

“Peste!” he exclaimed, stumbling away. His face glowed with annoyance, but Marian didn’t care. She just hoped that Alys’s special decoction would begin to work soon.

At the least it seemed as though Joanna had been affected already, and mayhap the others would soon follow.

“My pardon, my lord,” Marian said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She grasped the edge of the table, trying to appear weak. It wasn’t difficult.

“Your false illness will not keep you from my bed this night,” John hissed, grabbing at her arm with strong fingers. Yet, a fine sheen glistened over his forehead that Marian hoped meant he would have his own problems soon enough.

But then Lady Joanna coughed, and became sick in the rushes behind the great table. The pages leapt away, but the hounds lunged. And in the next moment, Lord Beghely, who had also eaten of the “tainted” meat, was bending over, retching from the depths of his belly.

“My lord,” Marian said, “I am sorry. But I-mpph!”

She clapped a hand over her mouth as if she were to vomit again, making the appropriate gagging noises, and the prince sidestepped her with alacrity. Turning away, she faced Will, whose countenance had paled beneath his tan. Their eyes caught, and he looked at her with accusation and fury. She saw the illness in his face, lighting his eyes and making his skin appear clammy. Realization blazed in his eyes, and fear lurched through her. Would he accuse her here and now?

By now, there were others in the hall who’d become ill. The excuse of the tainted meat seemed to have taken hold, for Marian heard others speaking of the odd taste of the boar’s meat . . . despite the fact that she knew for certain that it was only a bit of boar’s meat that had been tainted.

Only a particular hunk of that cut had been shared among the high table and a few rows below it. But the power of suggestion was strong, and the sight, smells, and sounds of illness tended to raise the same in other spectators.

Of the residents of the hall, only the hounds were in their glory.

“ ’ Tis the meat!” John said, as if it were his own realization. He appeared pale and weak, and when he gagged, Marian lurched away, bumping into the solid arm of Will.

The sheriff too appeared ill, but he did not bend to empty his belly as the others. Marian assumed it was because he had ceased eating the tainted meat after her gentle warning.

Thus it was with great relief that, moments later, Marian watched a weakened John, doubled over in pain, being escorted from the hall by two of his men. From what Alys had told her about the decoction made from the herb called broom, the illness would soon manifest itself from both the upper and nether regions of the prince . . . and others.

“What have you done?” Will asked fiercely, grabbing Marian’s arm and yanking her away from the crowd, toward a corner of the hall. The sheen of sweat had grown on his forehead, and now dampened his cheeks. “You have committed treason!”

“Nay,” she hissed back, pulling away. “No one will die. ’Tis only a brief illness, just enough . . .” Her voice caught. “Just enough to keep him at bay for a night. Will . . .” She looked up at him, even about to reach for him, when he pulled back. This response, after her confused and varied feelings today, sparked a bit of anger. “At the least, your Alys tells me it will not cause but a day’s worth of illness.”

“Alys?”

“Aye. Alys.” Marian glared up at Will, fully aware of the damp wall behind her and his looming person in front of her. The bitterness of vomit lingered in the back of her mouth and she swallowed hard.

Just then, his face changed, and he spun away, heaving the contents of his belly into the corner. Braced against the wall by his splayed fingers, he lifted his face to shoot her a furious look as he swiped the back of a hand across his mouth. “Get you from me, madwoman,” he whispered. “And pray that John does not learn of your perfidy.”

Marian stepped aside, still watching him, and then turned and fled when he spun back to the corner, his body convulsed by the illness. For the first time, she wondered if Alys could be trusted. What if she hadn’t known what she was doing?

What if she’d given her poison for the prince?

What if she’d poisoned Will?

Marian hurried from the hall and made her way up the stairs to her chamber. Ethelberga, for a wonder, was there . . . although she was not alone.

“Get up!” Marian ordered, rushing past the two figures writhing on the maid’s pallet and into her chamber. She’d told them to wait for her here, not to attempt to add to the world’s population. Ethelberga’s companion was one of the steward’s sons. He would also be able to lead Marian to the dungeon gaol.

By the time Ethelberga extricated herself from the young man, Marian had yanked off her vomit-splattered overgown and was unlacing the side of her tight-fitting bliaud.

The maid rushed to her side and quickly helped divest her of the undergown and her sagging hose as her mistress drank watered wine to wash the bitter bile from her mouth. Moments later, Marian was dressed again, this time in a simple kirtle. She’d cleansed her face and hands with violet water. In the loose-fitting gown, tied only with a leather girdle and new hose beneath it, she felt more comfortable. And she thought the less-formal attire would make her less noticeable as well.

Ethelberga hid any impatience she might have had to return to her evening’s engagement, and worked through Marian’s braids to loosen the intricate coiffure. Once she had, she gathered Marian’s locks at the nape of her neck, twisted the mass of hair, and tied it into a large loose knot, leaving the rest to hang down her mistress’s back.

“I will take your wrap,” Marian said, speaking of an old fox-lined cloak of dark blue that she’d given her maid some time ago. It had a deep hood and would serve to hide her face well. “If anyone should ask for me, I am ill and cannot rise from my bed. Do not allow anyone to enter.”

Marian then piled a good amount of pillows and clothes under the blankets of her bed so that if anyone should defy her maid, or peer through the horse-eye peephole on his way to the garderobe, he would believe she slept there.

She made Ethelberga’s lover peer out into the passageway first to ensure that no one was about. No one was, which was not surprising, as some of the women were likely still emptying their bellies in the hall, and the others were certainly hovering around them, offering assistance.

The garderobes would be busy this night.

Marian hurried silently through the passage behind her guide, and down the stairs that led to the hall. More than a few diners remained in the great chamber, and the serfs bustled about clearing away the remnants of the meal. Her guide took her past them to the back stairwell leading to the dungeon, and showed her the dark passage.

“Shall I go wi’ ye, my lady?” he asked.

“Nay,” Marian told him. “I will carry this torch. You must return to Ethelberga and entertain her.” She gave him a silver coin, and when he hurried off, she turned to the darkness that yawned before her.

Down, down, down she’d go.

She must see this prisoner, this purported Robin Hood, and, if he was somehow an innocent pawn in a game of the prince and sheriff, find a way to help free him. She must act quickly, while the prince and the sheriff were ill, for she wanted no witnesses to her task.

Her torch cast flickering lights and eerie shadows that followed her down the long, curving stairwell. The walls gleamed damp with sweat and lichen, and the scent of rat droppings and stale air filled her nose. She’d pulled the hood so far up over her face that she had to turn her head to look to the side, and the wrap’s hem draped silently down the steps behind her.

At the bottom, she was met with a gray stone wall and two choices of direction. The steward’s son had told her he believed that the new prisoner was held in the last chamber to the right, so Marian turned that way. Her torch exposed a long, dark passage with barred doors along one side.

The sounds of little scrabbling paws, the drip-drop of water, and the stench of death and darkness consumed her. Marian continued on, gripping the torch, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible. She wasn’t certain how she’d release the man once she found him, but she’d figure that out when the time was right.