return . . .
No, she could never have grown to love such a man, not even if they were married for fifty years.
As though he had guessed her identity, and was already angry, she heard Wolf raise his voice to Kate. He grabbed at her wrist, and Margerie knew he had not changed. Older he might be, more politic at court perhaps, but underneath he was still the passionate, hot-headed youth who had courted her so fervently that she had not known how to escape his claws except to run away with another man.
Poor Jack.
If she had not forced her friend Jack to cross the cold swell of the English Channel in such dreadful weather, when he was already suffering from a fever, he might have lived to wed her as he had stoutly promised to do. For Jack had loved her in his own way, without passion but with genuine concern for her well-being, always a friend rather than a lover in her eyes.
But Jack had died within days of arriving at his uncle’s home in France, and Margerie had been left to fend for herself among strangers, clearly no longer a maid, nor yet respectably widowed. It had been a desperate time for her.
But that did not mean she could countenance the king’s seduction of Wolf’s new bride, Eloise. And it was all round the court that Henry intended to bed the former lady-in-waiting now she was safely married to one of his lords. Such arrangements were commonplace these days, for the king was never content with his wife and a mistress. And there were few courtiers who dared confront him openly about such seductions, even though it meant they could not be certain the child in their wife’s womb was theirs or the king’s.
Now Lord Wolf was looking over at her, speaking tersely to Kate. She could not delay the moment of their reunion any longer.
Yet fear still held her back.
She could not help staring, remembering how he had tried in vain to pleasure her on the night they spent together. Wolf had changed over the years, but she would have known him anywhere. Strong even as a youth, Wolf had grown broad-chested in manhood, his hips narrow, his thighs long and muscular. He was a man who took what he wanted and did not hide his desires from the world. She had heard he was a born leader of men, a bold commander in battle and a dangerous opponent on the jousting yard. And a man who loved women, but did not always treat them well.
Lord Wolf thrust Kate aside and spun to face her, a hand on his dagger hilt. ‘Who are you? Speak! Throw back your hood: let me see your face.’
His voice struck at her, fierce and commanding. He thought her a man; perhaps an enemy come here to ensnare him in some courtly plot. Instead she had been his lover once. Though to call that night’s humiliating embrace love was to grant the loss of her virginity more grace than it deserved.
You must have ice-water in your veins, Margerie Croft, not to have been moved by the heat of my desire.
She stepped forward, pushing back her hood so Wolf could see her face. His eyes widened as he recognised her, an old agony suddenly raw in his face again, and in that instant she forgave him.
As a youth, this man had frightened her into fleeing England, the king’s court, even her own family, and fate had conspired to keep her away for years. But whatever Wolf’s intentions towards her, they had not been malicious. And though deep down she had known that, she had still fled to France with the milder Jack. She had feared spending her life with a man whose forceful nature terrified her.
‘Margerie!’ he cried huskily.
Then his face changed, became more cautious, his eyes shuttered and cold, almost angry again. No, Wolf’s passionate attachment to her had been real enough. For the swiftly concealed pain in his eyes was the same pain that was in her heart. And it had a name.
Guilt.
‘Wolf,’ she managed huskily, and saw his face harden at the sound of her voice. ‘Ah, how you have changed since you were a youth. Your eyes are so cold now.’
‘As you
No, she could never have grown to love such a man, not even if they were married for fifty years.
As though he had guessed her identity, and was already angry, she heard Wolf raise his voice to Kate. He grabbed at her wrist, and Margerie knew he had not changed. Older he might be, more politic at court perhaps, but underneath he was still the passionate, hot-headed youth who had courted her so fervently that she had not known how to escape his claws except to run away with another man.
Poor Jack.
If she had not forced her friend Jack to cross the cold swell of the English Channel in such dreadful weather, when he was already suffering from a fever, he might have lived to wed her as he had stoutly promised to do. For Jack had loved her in his own way, without passion but with genuine concern for her well-being, always a friend rather than a lover in her eyes.
But Jack had died within days of arriving at his uncle’s home in France, and Margerie had been left to fend for herself among strangers, clearly no longer a maid, nor yet respectably widowed. It had been a desperate time for her.
But that did not mean she could countenance the king’s seduction of Wolf’s new bride, Eloise. And it was all round the court that Henry intended to bed the former lady-in-waiting now she was safely married to one of his lords. Such arrangements were commonplace these days, for the king was never content with his wife and a mistress. And there were few courtiers who dared confront him openly about such seductions, even though it meant they could not be certain the child in their wife’s womb was theirs or the king’s.
Now Lord Wolf was looking over at her, speaking tersely to Kate. She could not delay the moment of their reunion any longer.
Yet fear still held her back.
She could not help staring, remembering how he had tried in vain to pleasure her on the night they spent together. Wolf had changed over the years, but she would have known him anywhere. Strong even as a youth, Wolf had grown broad-chested in manhood, his hips narrow, his thighs long and muscular. He was a man who took what he wanted and did not hide his desires from the world. She had heard he was a born leader of men, a bold commander in battle and a dangerous opponent on the jousting yard. And a man who loved women, but did not always treat them well.
Lord Wolf thrust Kate aside and spun to face her, a hand on his dagger hilt. ‘Who are you? Speak! Throw back your hood: let me see your face.’
His voice struck at her, fierce and commanding. He thought her a man; perhaps an enemy come here to ensnare him in some courtly plot. Instead she had been his lover once. Though to call that night’s humiliating embrace love was to grant the loss of her virginity more grace than it deserved.
You must have ice-water in your veins, Margerie Croft, not to have been moved by the heat of my desire.
She stepped forward, pushing back her hood so Wolf could see her face. His eyes widened as he recognised her, an old agony suddenly raw in his face again, and in that instant she forgave him.
As a youth, this man had frightened her into fleeing England, the king’s court, even her own family, and fate had conspired to keep her away for years. But whatever Wolf’s intentions towards her, they had not been malicious. And though deep down she had known that, she had still fled to France with the milder Jack. She had feared spending her life with a man whose forceful nature terrified her.
‘Margerie!’ he cried huskily.
Then his face changed, became more cautious, his eyes shuttered and cold, almost angry again. No, Wolf’s passionate attachment to her had been real enough. For the swiftly concealed pain in his eyes was the same pain that was in her heart. And it had a name.
Guilt.
‘Wolf,’ she managed huskily, and saw his face harden at the sound of her voice. ‘Ah, how you have changed since you were a youth. Your eyes are so cold now.’
‘As you
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