In the Shadow of Midnight - By Marsha Canham Page 0,59
king’s writ.”
Ariel planted her hands on her waist. “He discussed my marriage with you?”
“Only in passing. And only by way of explaining why you are here, defying the king’s decree.”
“I am not defying him. I am refusing him.”
“You are not pleased with his choice of husbands?”
“Not pleased? Not pleased?” She held her temper in check with a visible effort. “Why, I am delirious with joy. Why should I not be? Marriage to a gaoler’s son—a rough-handed, large-nosed, bull-legged churl with the manners and odour of a wild boar—” She smiled sweetly. “How could I be anything but blissfully delighted with my sovereign’s keen interest in my future happiness?”
Eduard hid his own smile even though he doubted she could see it. “I gather you have met the happy groom?”
“I certainly have not,” she snapped. “Nor have I any intentions of doing so.”
“Not even if the king commands it?”
“Not even if the king takes me by the heels and drags me to an audience!”
“Are you not worried your refusal might put your uncle in a worrisome position?”
Ariel whirled around and glared over the parapet, her hands small and white where they gripped the stone casement. “My uncle is the Marshal of England. He is accustomed to being in worrisome positions. I cannot believe for one instant he would take the king’s defense over mine.”
“He may not have a choice in the matter,” Eduard offered gently.
“My uncle has never lacked for choices. Nor has he ever backed away from John Softsword in fear. Did you know”— she turned and confronted Eduard with a sparkle of pride in her eyes—“the king once dared to question my uncle’s loyalty before the court. My uncle! The man who made him king! And when my lord marshal demanded the Plantagenet usurper settle the matter by sword … not one of John’s so-called champions dared to pick up the gauntlet. Nay, they all turned their faces and lowered their eyes, and their knees made such a knocking sound in the audience chamber, the king had to shout his recantation to have it heard above the din.”
Ariel lifted her chin and presented her shoulder to Eduard again. “When I marry, it will not be to some bung-nosed, sin-born gaoler’s son. It will be to an earl, at the very least! A landed baron, a palatine of equal or greater rank than my uncle.”
Eduard chose not to remind her of his own sin-born heritage, but he could not resist mentioning, “A Welsh prince, perhaps?”
“Saints sieze me!” she cried, whirling on him once more. “Was there nothing about me that went undiscussed?”
Eduard hesitated, knowing it was neither his place nor his desire to reveal her uncle’s intentions. “I am certain the earl mentioned it only because he thought you found the prince a more deserving match than the son of a … a common routier.”
Ariel watched his mouth form the words. He was out of the shadows now and she could see his features much more clearly. It was a fascinating mouth, full in shape and rather more sensual sculpted by the stormy half-light. Further tricks of the uncertain sky drew her eye to the vertical cleft that divided the strong chin, and to the absurdly long lashes any woman would have drawn teeth to possess. Indeed, it was a shame about the scar. Without it … or even with it …
She looked abruptly away and swallowed hard. “Anything would be preferable to a gaoler’s son, but yes, I did suggest to my uncle that Lord Rhys ap Iorwerth would be more acceptable. He was”—she curled the fleshy pad of her lip between her teeth and made a hasty correction—“he is certainly my first choice amongst the many suitors my aunt and uncle have proposed. He is handsome. Charming. A prince, for mercy’s sake.”
“The husband of every maiden’s dreams,” he concluded wryly.
Ariel’s jaw snapped shut. “The thought amuses you, does it?”
“My lady?”
“The notion of my marrying a prince,” she said tautly, glaring up at him. “You find it laughable?” “I am not laughing.” “But you do have an opinion.”
“My opinion, my lady”—he paused and watched a lick of shiny red hair blow across the lush pout of her lips—“is that I have no opinions whatsoever when it comes to marriage. Only that I would be content unto death to remain well out of it.”
“You have no lady love?”
“No.”
“Never craved one?” “The very notion of craving a wife—” “I did not say wife, I said lady love. Have you never been in