In the Shadow of Midnight - By Marsha Canham Page 0,64
be of your choosing, the king’s, or mine.”
“You support this match?” she asked in disbelief.
“It may not be one I would have actively sought had I the luxury of your time and fastidiousness, but it is a good one. The man has lands and wealth and ambition enough to support you in a comfortable fashion. Nor will he suffer for his brother being in the king’s favour. Lord Rhys will make you a fine husband and breed on you fine, handsome children. Now, be a good niece and fetch more wine.”
Ariel moved by reflex and was almost to the opposite side of the room before the name of the prospective groom cut through the barrage of arguments fomenting on her tongue.
She stopped cold and stared at her uncle. “Did you say … Lord Rhys?”
“Rhys ap Iorwerth. Is he not the scoundrel with whom you made your devil’s pact?”
“Well … yes … but …”
“Is he not, as a prince in the house of Gwynedd, a suitable enough match for your noble tastes and temperaments?” “Yes, but—”
William sighed. “And did you yourself not promise the man consideration in exchange for his assistance in waylaying the king’s messenger? Did you not, in fact, suggest it?” “I … offered to lay the matter before you, but—” “But what, Niece?” William’s blue eyes reflected the flames burning in the hearth. “Are you in the habit of making willy-nilly offers to powerful men in exchange for treasonous favours? Or can it be you have changed your mind again and would prefer to warm the bed of this … Reginald de Braose?”
“No! No, I have not changed my mind. It is just that I thought … I mean, when FitzRandwulf told me you were sending me back to England …”
“Yes?”
Ariel curled her lip between her teeth and bit down hard. The wine was making her head swim. The sudden, close heat in the chamber was causing her cloak to steam and taint the air with the smell of damp wool.
“He neglected to mention the name of the intended groom,” she said in a quietly ominous voice.
“Did he now,” William grunted. “Perhaps it slipped his mind.”
Ariel flushed and continued to the bedside table. Reaching for the ewer, her grip tightened around the pewter neck until her knuckles glowed white. Oh, the arrogance and treachery of the man! The smug, insufferable gall of the lout to enjoy such a grandiose jest at her expense! Slipped his mind? Not for a moment. And not for a moment would she believe it was not another deliberate attempt to humiliate her!
She muttered an oath of contempt and raised her hand, scrubbing the back of it across her mouth as if she could wipe away the memory of his lips. He had probably been laughing all the while he was kissing her. All the while he was kissing her and laying his lecherous hands on her body!
“What else did FitzRandwulf tell you?” William asked mildly.
“What?”
The earl was taken aback by her sharpness. “FitzRandwulf … was that all he told you of our discussions tonight? That he and your brother were escorting you back to Wales?”
“What else was he supposed to tell me?” she demanded irritably. “That he would be acting as groomsman to Lord Rhys? Or as a witness in our bridal chamber? Or perhaps that he has a bride of his own waiting for him in Wales—more’s the pity to her, poor thing.”
William uttered a word of thanks as she refilled his goblet, but made no immediate move to lift it to his lips. Instead, he cosseted the vessel in his hands and stared down at the reflective surface of the blood red wine, his thoughts tumbling faster than a jongleur at a fair.
Why not? Why not leave Ariel in ignorance of their true purpose until and unless it became absolutely necessary to enlighten her? He had supposed he would have to tell her if only to convince her to return peaceably to England. But if she was accepting this Welsh prince readily enough—and it appeared she was—there was no pressing need to tell her anything about the princess or the danger or the risks to them all if a word should slip by accident into the wrong ear.
There was no question in his mind but that she would keep a secret unto the death if it was asked of her—especially one of this magnitude—but if she was blissfully unaware of any secrets that needed keeping … would she not act more