Rebellious Love Read online

  Samuel hung his head. For the first time since she encountered him in the wind-swept street, Verony saw the bravado that was a natural part of his eager, vivacious nature crack. Brushing away surreptitious tears, he murmured: "I-I'm sorry . . ."

  His remorse penetrated even the dead weight of her terrible grief. Taking a quick step forward, she implored the older man: "Please don't be angry at him. I know no one should be wandering around this city at night, but if Samuel hadn't found me, I don't know what I would have done. I'm deeply grateful to him, and to all of you."

  Even though I still don't know just who you are, Verony added silently. Something of her bewilderment must have shown on her face, for after a moment the man nodded. "As you say, my lady, Samuel has done well this night. Enough so that we must forgive his lack of discretion."

  He smiled at her gently in an expression of welcome whose graceful warmth few noble lords could match. "I am Aaron ben Sharon, a merchant of spices and silks who has had the honor to serve your family." Gesturing to the other adults, he added: "This is my wife, Ruth, my oldest son, Mordecai, and his wife, Miriam."

  For the first time since entering the house, Verony felt some small measure of tension leave her. Aaron's introductions told her at once where she was and why he was so confident she would be safe at least until morning.

  Inside the Jewish Quarter, she could count on remaining undisturbed by royal guards until sunrise. While night still held, superstition and prejudice would combine to keep them away.

  Remembering also that Lady Emelie had said she and the Earl Garrett counted friends among the ghetto population, Verony managed to return her host's smile. Her own was shaky but nonetheless warm.

  "I thank you for your protection, Aaron ben Sharon. You are truly a light in the darkness."

  Beneath his beard, the merchant blushed. He was not accustomed to compliments from exquisitely beautiful ladies, nor could he even yet believe he was actually sheltering one in his own home. Under no circumstances would he have turned her out to take her chances in the streets. But a quick glance at the ring she wore, emblazoned with the d'Arcy family crest, changed simple courtesy to genuine welcome. He would do everything in his power to help her. The scars he carried on his body were a lifelong reminder of the debt he owed the Earl Garrett, without whose timely intervention so many years before he would never have lived to see this day.

  The knowledge that she was safe ended the blessed numbness that had engulfed her. Pain and grief returned in full measure, wringing a soft moan from Verony.

  Aaron's wife, Ruth, was instantly at her side. "Sit back, my lady. That's it. You've had a shock but everything will be all right. You'll be back among your family before very long."

  In gently urging her back against the chair, the older woman's hand brushed Verony's rounded belly. Ruth glanced up at her husband worriedly. "I think we'd best get her into bed. She's with child, and whatever happened tonight could not have done it any good."

  Strong arms lifted her carefully. Briefly held against a broad chest covered by soft wool, Verony breathed in the pleasant scents of ginger and cloves mingling with wood smoke. While Aaron held her, Ruth and Miriam hastened to make up a bed. Lowered to it and covered warmly by a fur blanket, Verony could not stop the flood of tears trickling silently down her ashen cheeks.

  The women gathered round her comfortingly, trying to coax her into telling them what was wrong. But Verony could not. Giving voice to the terrible fact of Curran's death would make it a reality she was not yet ready to confront.

  Reassured at least that her unexpected guest's ordeal had not brought on premature labor, Ruth carefully measured a dose of ground poppy into a broth. As Miriam helped her to sit up, Verony managed to swallow most of it. Her last thought was of kind faces creased with concern before merciful sleep claimed her.

  Drifting in and out of sleep all through that night and the following day, Verony was dimly aware of people coming and going around her. Ruth or Miriam paused often to make sure she was all right before continuing with their household duties. Once she woke to find Samuel watching her. He smiled gently and held her hand, urging her to go back to sleep.

  Urgent whispers next drew her from unconsciousness. She opened her eyes to find Aaron and Ruth in close conversation.

  "I don't think anyone suspects she's here," her host was saying. "I saw several of our neighbors this morning and none acted oddly."

  "What about in the city?" Ruth asked. "Are the king's men still about?"

  Aaron shook his head. "There's no sign of them. Even the usual guard has withdrawn inside the tower. Word is that the king will leave London shortly, maybe even today. But no one knows for sure."

  "Have you been able to get in touch with any of her family? The Earl Garrett perhaps?"

  "I'm trying," Aaron assured her. "But there's something strange going on there, too. The earl and his eldest son, Mark, rode out yesterday evening with a large force of men. They headed straight for the tower and took up position around it. A message was sent inside, but I've no idea of what it contained. Word is, though, that the earl is threatening to take the tower apart stone by stone unless John does whatever it is he's demanding. Crowds have gathered nearby to watch, some shops are staying closed, and there's a lot of wild talk."

  Ruth paled. She knew full well what even the slightest social disturbance could lead to. Not all that many years had passed since the coronation of Richard the Lionhearted was used as an excuse to burn the Jewish Quarter of York and other towns. Hundreds had died, including her own father. The memory remained like a blood-tipped thorn within her. "You don't think there'll be trouble?" she asked nervously.

  Her husband looked away. He could offer little reassurance and had his own fears to confront. Grimly he said: "All I can do is try to see the earl. Once I get word to him of Lady Verony's whereabouts, it will be in his hands."

  Ruth nodded, fighting back the impulse to ask him to stay inside where there might be some measure of safety. If the streets erupted in violence, Aaron would have little chance of making it back unharmed. The grim knowledge that their pleasant home offered only the illusion of protection kept her silent. Better he should go and take the chance that the earl would be able to shield him.

  Toward midafternoon, Verony managed to get down some of the hearty soup Ruth urged on her. For once, the nausea that had plagued her since the beginning of her pregnancy did not occur.

  Cloistered in a cocoon of numbing grief and hushed expectancy, the young girl found it a struggle to stay awake. She was annoyed by the unaccustomed weariness of her body and spirit, but found she could not hold the sweet release of sleep at bay for more than a few minutes. As a pelting rain began to fall against the timbered roof, she gave up the struggle.

  It was still raining when she awoke. The neighing of horses and the slamming of a door drove away her dreams. Stirring reluctantly, she opened deep-blue eyes opalescent with repressed tears.

  In the dim light of that gray afternoon, it was difficult to see. People were entering the house, large men wrapped in capes and wearing battle helmets. Ruth stood aside for them, then fiercely embraced Aaron, who had followed quickly.

  Verony blinked, struggling to sit up. Because she was still not fully returned to consciousness, the scene before her had the strange quality of a waking dream. A soft exclamation of surprise broke from her as she recognized the Earl Garrett. He was staring at her silently, a frown creasing his proud features.

  The door opened again. Another man entered; larger and more powerfully built than almost all the others. He exchanged a word with the earl before striding to the bed.

  Verony stared up at him, her eyes opening wide in shock. Her heart skidded to a halt, hung for a moment suspended between life and death, then began to beat fiercely. The breath left her throat except in a low, strained moan.

  Gray-green eyes turned almost black with rage met hers coldly. Powerful hands shot out to grip her shoulders. His voice low and feral, Curr
an snarled; "I could cheerfully wring your neck!"

  CHAPTER 13

  The trip back to the d'Arcy compound was made in silence. Curran refused to let Verony ride. Wrapped in a blanket, she lay across his saddle. Strong arms that had always offered such comfort were now only a further reminder of his immense anger.

  Dazed by the sudden release from terrible grief and bewildered by her husband's coldness, Verony remained mute. She spoke only to sincerely thank Aaron and Ruth for their care. Their kindly faces were tight with concern as they embraced her gently.

  Lifted onto Curran's stallion, she was dimly aware of the curious eyes peering from behind shutters and around doorways. No one in the Jewish Quarter was foolish enough to venture out among an armed group of warriors whose presence was not explained. But they could speculate among themselves, waiting only until the last flick of a horse's tail disappeared beyond the wall before descending on Aaron with eager questions.

  Back inside the compound, Curran carried her upstairs to their room. Depositing her on the bed, he stood for a moment staring down at her, his expression dark and forbidding. Without a word he turned and strode from the room.

  A low moan of anguish escaped from Verony, but was quickly stifled as Lady Emelie entered hard upon her son's departure. Her expression was one more surprise to the young girl's already overburdened system. For the first time in their acquaintance, Lady Emelie looked torn by doubt, her forthright, indomitable spirit burdened by questions she could not answer.

  The sight of Verony's ashen face resolved at least a part of Lady Emelie's misgivings. She hesitated barely an instant before crossing the room to take her daughter-in-law in her arms. "There, there," she crooned softly, "you're safe now. There's nothing more to fear."

  Even as she yielded to the gentle warmth of Lady Emelie's arms, Verony had to fight back a bitter laugh. It wasn't like her mother-in-law to traffic in falsehood. However much reassurance she might receive, Verony knew full well she still had a great deal to fear. Saved from both the king and the abysmal chasm of grief, she had yet to come to terms with her husband's inexplicable rage.

  Nor was she given much chance to do so. Barely had she managed to dry her tears before Lady Emelie bustled Verony out of her wrinkled clothes and into a hot bath. Clean and dry, her hair brushed in glistening curls down her back, she was dressed in a petal-soft tunic of mauve wool under a lush velvet surcoat whose dark-blue sheen matched her eyes.

  Verony tried to ask what could possibly require these elaborate preparations, but Lady Emelie was too busy instructing the serving women to answer. A jewel chest she recognized as her mother-in-law's arrived. From it, Lady Emelie selected a circlet of beaten gold whose intricate, feather-light design took Verony's breath away. Set over the transparent veil covering her hair, it made her look even more like a beautifully adorned enchantress.

  A wide, long belt of woven gold matched the circlet. Wrapped several times around Verony's small waist, it emphasized the ripe curve of her breasts and hips. When it was in place, Lady Emelie stood back to study her. "You are far too pale, but otherwise quite exquisite."

  Their eyes met briefly, Verony's full of questions, Lady Emelie's masked but not unkind. The eager compliments of the serving women broke the silence. Before Verony could insist on being told what was going on, she found herself escorted downstairs and into the Main Hall.

  With the exception of Mark, whom Verony guessed must still be with the force at the tower, all the d'Arcy men were gathered there. Curran stood beside his father, talking quietly with Arianna. The young girl glanced up, saw Verony and Lady Emelie and excused herself to join them.

  "You look lovely," she told Verony sincerely.

  Sensing that Arianna would be more forthcoming than the formidable countess, Verony took advantage of the moment. "My note ... I hope it did not distress you too much?"

  Arianna's eyes clouded. She glanced at her mother-in-law for guidance. "It was a shock, of course."

  Lady Emelie sniffed disparagingly at such understatement. She shot a reproachful look at Verony even as Arianna's self-containment snapped. Abruptly the young girl exclaimed: "Oh, Verony, how could you do such a foolish thing! The worry you caused and the danger! Don't you realize what could have happened?"

  Verony stared at her dumbly. Didn't she realize? She had been threatened with rape by the king, tortured by a fiendish lie, driven to commit a capital crime and saved from certain death only by the miraculous intervention of unexpected allies. How could Arianna think for a moment that she didn't fully understand the gravity of her actions?

  "Never mind, that now," Lady Emelie snapped, cutting off any explanation she might have made. "The archbishop is waiting."

  Verony's gaze was drawn to the tall, somber man in conversation with the Earl Garrett and Curran. At close to fifty years, Stephen Langton was so lean and fit that he looked much younger. As Archbishop of Canterbury and primate of the church in England, he had the right to wear elaborately ornate robes of office. But instead he was plainly garbed in a brown wool tunic with only a discreet wooden cross hung from his belt to mark his office.

  The simplicity of his dress in no way detracted from the innate authority of his presence. Even Curran and the earl, accustomed though they were to receiving deference, accorded him a full measure of respect.

  For just an instant the archbishop's eyes met Verony's, long enough to allow her a glimpse behind the solemn visage surrounded by neatly trimmed white hair and a beard. There was compassion in Stephen Langton and a far-sighted perceptiveness beyond anything she had encountered even among the acutely intelligent d'Arcys.

  Distantly Verony remembered the stories she had heard of him. He was the spiritual leader of the rebellious nobles, the guiding force in the struggle for greater justice and freedom throughout England. She supposed his role in the political struggle explained his presence, but in that she was wrong.

  "The archbishop cannot stay long," Lady Emelie said. "He is only here as a favor to Curran."

  Her mother-in-law's hand on her arm guided Verony toward her husband. He did not appear pleased to see her. A scowl darkened his broad forehead. The shadow of a night's stubble hid the clean line of his jaw. His eyes were red, and there were deep lines of fatigue and tension carved on either side of his sensual mouth.

  Curran's eyes, running over her dispassionately, made Verony tremble. If he saw her distress, he gave no sign. "You look very beautiful," he informed her frigidly. "But then you always do."

  The bitterness in his voice appalled her. What could have happened to so turn him against her? Granted, he had every right to still be angry about her failure to tell him immediately of the king's lust.

  And he undoubtedly thought she should not have gone off on her own to try to save him. But surely a loving wife could not be expected to simply stand by when her husband's life was endangered?

  Biting her lip, Verony tried to still her own indignation. She had already suffered far too much to endure Curran's chastisement patiently. It was comfort she needed, not coldness.

  At the end of her forbearance, Verony snapped: "If my presence is not required at this gathering, my lord, I would just as soon take my leave."

  Curran's eyes hardened even further. A pulse beat erratically in his throat. The hand that grasped hers was bruising. "In a few minutes, my lady. Just now, your attendance is regrettably necessary."

  His derision stung Verony. Pride alone made her hide the hurt he inflicted. Unbidden, the ironic thought that this was the man she had mourned so desperately a scant day ago rose to torment her. Never could she have envisioned that they would be facing each other as adversaries, separated by some force she could not begin to understand.

  Masking her deep pain, Verony forced herself to face the archbishop calmly. She could not imagine why he might wish some word with her, but intended to get it over with as quickly as possible and escape back to her room.

  When he began to speak, in his low, melodious voice, it too
k a moment for her to realize the significance of his words. When she did, Verony stiffened in disbelief. Turning on Curran, she blurted, "You don't mean to ... I can't . . . !"

  "I do and you will," he grated mercilessly, his hand on her arm preventing her from fleeing. "Though the marriage performed by Father Dermond may well be legal, I will take no chances." His gaze drifted scornfully to her rounded belly. "The child you carry is too precious to me to risk labeling him a bastard. Otherwise, believe me, I would be anything but the eager bridegroom!"

  "Curran . . ." the archbishop began, dismayed that any union should be solemnized in such hostility.

  Verony was not aware of his intervention. All her attention focused on the desperate need to control the misery threatening to explode from her. Eyes averted, she went through the ceremony in silence. Only at the very end, when a response was required, did she look up.

  Curran was regarding her enigmatically. There was still great rage in his scrutiny, but it was undercut by confusion and what looked very much like pain.

  Puzzled by what she saw in his eyes, Verony mumbled her acceptance of the vows. This time there was no tender, lingering kiss to seal their union. As soon as the archbishop pronounced them wed, Curran dropped her hand. Turning his back, he walked over to the trestle table where the family shared its meals and poured himself a generous goblet of wine.

  The d'Arcys, always inclined to forgive one of their own no matter what he or she might have done, glanced at each other worriedly. Lady Emelie said something inconsequential, as did Arianna, but their strained attempt at gaiety made no dent in the palpable air of tension engulfing the chamber.

  As soon as she was decently able, Verony excused herself. She fled from the scene of her second marriage without a backward glance, wanting only the seclusion of her chamber where she could sob out her hurt undisturbed.