Bedding the Enemy - By Mary Wine Page 0,102

her eyes closing in horror. Edmund and his schemes. It sickened her, but she knew it to be the truth. She lifted her eyelids to find the king’s eyes on her. Every Privy councilor watched her and there was no concealing her emotions.

“He told me not to consummate my marriage, that he would not allow me to be wed to someone he did not deem noble enough.” She shook her head. “Edmund swore that it was not settled.”

Greed must have driven him insane. There was no other reason.

“He promised you to me!” Ronchford’s voice was shrill and his eyes glowed with rage. He lunged toward her, his hands grasping for her neck. “Mine! Do you hear? Mine! The Earldom was to be mine! Your creamy body was to be mine!”

Keir swung his entire arm out and flung Ronchford onto his back with the blow. The guards swarmed over the fallen lord but he fought them with unnatural strength. He suddenly laughed, an insane sound that bounced off the walls of the chamber.

“It will be mine! Do you hear? The king will set me free and I will claim what I paid for. You shall see! You will be my wife and warm my bed….” He babbled on while the guards carried him from the room.

“Remain, McKorey!”

“Yer Majesty!” Alarik McKorey turned in a swirl of kilt and rage. The man shook with his desire for blood. His hands curled into fists with white knuckles.

“The man is insane. Ye cannae challenge him in such a state. I cannae even have his head removed.”

“What of my sister?” Alarik looked at the torn rag of her dress. “How fares my sister?

“Your sister is recovering on my estate.”

Alarik stepped toward the Englishmen. “And who are ye?” He tempered his tone, trying not to growl at the man who had given his sister shelter.

“This is Demetrius Wysefield, the Marquess of Wyse.” The king supplied the information. “And we are in yer debt, my lord.”

“Good. Then I expect to be allowed to return to my lands.” The marquess was bold. He shot a hard look at his monarch along with his words. James began rubbing his chin.

“Ye’re a fine man to have near, Wyse.”

King and marquess faced off, the two men attempting to buckle one another by sheer force of will. The king finally waved his hand, breaking the standoff.

“Enough. We’ll continue this quarrel later, Lord Wyse. How is my queen’s maid?”

“Extremely lucky to be alive. I had a bishop sleeping in the adjoining chamber for a full week after fishing her out of the river.”

“Why didna ye send a letter?” Alarik’s voice still shook with rage. “I thought me sister was dead.”

The marquess turned his head in a motion that was lightning quick. “She was babbling about assassins intent on killing her. I thought it best to hear the entire tale before penning a letter that might have landed in the wrong hands and ended with someone coming to my land to finish what the river failed to do. She burned with fever for an entire week and she needed her rest after escaping that, not an interrogation.”

“But she is alive and well?” Helena couldn’t remain silent any longer. She was bursting with joy. She had hoped for such an ending, but found it difficult to absorb. Both Keir and Raelin were safe. At last her brother’s grip was truly broken.

“She is recovering. She is still not fit for travel. My physicians tell me that her bones will have to heal for several more weeks before the jostling of horses will be bearable for her. Longer if you wish to consider her comfort.”

“I certainly do.” Alarik drew in a stiff breath. “Ye have my gratitude and that of every McKorey. I will glady pay for her care.”

The marquess raised one eyebrow. “Keep your coin, man. I don’t run an inn. Your sister is my guest.” Something flickered in his eyes. “Even if she stubbornly insists that she would rather suffer the road.”

Alarik looked angry for a moment but his lips began to curve up into a grin. “Well now, that’s me sister for sure. Arguing, just to make sure no one tells her what to do.”

“I’m relieved to hear that is normal for her.” His lips twitched. “I did wonder.”

The marquess turned his attention to Helena for a moment. “You are Helena Knyvett?”

“Yes.”

He flicked one finger toward his escort. One man opened a satchel and pulled a letter from it.

“She wrote to you.” Several letters emerged

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