Chapter Six
Giselle tried not to feel disappointed, but it wasn’t much use. Sir Myles wasn’t in the chapel, and she had worn the scarf just to show him that she forgave his outrageous behavior last night.
She had immediately recognized the present Mary had brought at dawn, and had thought his offer of it touching, as she had his decision not to bring it himself. That showed a certain amount of humility, as well as a recognition that she might have found his performance last night less than delightful.
She would have, had it not been for the searching, diffident look he had given her. Enough time had passed, she thought, to let him see that she had been amused by his acting and that he was forgiven for mocking her.
She listened to Father Paul say mass, his words ringing in the incense-laden air as he prayed, and despite her resolve to pay attention, she couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder to see if there were any latecomers.
There was, and he was standing near the door and smiling at her—only at her, of that she was sure, and with genuine approval and pleasure.
She was very glad, then, that she had worn the scarf.
Her heart began to beat rapidly and erratically, all hope of concentrating on Father Paul disappearing like snow in spring. She could hardly wait for the mass to be over, and when it was, she went to Sir Myles at once, in spite of the curious scrutiny of Elizabeth Cowton and Alice Derosier. She also knew she had the most idiotic grin on her face, but she couldn’t help it.
Sir Myles took her arm and led her outside, slightly to the side of the chapel and out of the crowd.
“I have to thank you for your present,” Giselle began the moment they were alone. “No, forgive me,” she stammered as he continued to regard her with an intensely interested expression in his dark brown eyes. She touched the blue silk. “I want to thank you for the present,” she finished breathlessly, quite unable to speak in more measured, unemotional tones.
“It is a better color, I grant you,” he replied softly. “It does suit you admirably, even if it is presumptuous of me to say so.”
She flushed, warm despite the cold December air. “Yes, it certainly is. It suited you last night as well, my lord, although it may be presumptuous of me to say so,” she added mischievously.
His smile widened, and there was pleasure in his eyes. “Then I take it I am forgiven for any offense I may have given?”
“You looked so silly, how could I be angry?”
“You might have smiled once or twice, instead of making me fear I had offended you beyond forgiveness.”
“I didn’t think you were paying any attention to me at all, or cared very much what I thought.”
“I was, my lady,” he said softly. “And I most certainly care.”
Giselle swallowed hard, suddenly remembering more vividly than any demure young lady should the sensation of his lips upon hers.
“I confess I was being completely selfish,” he said. “I sought solely to amuse myself. It was only as the performance progressed that I realized I was being...rude.”
“I am not totally lacking in a sense of humor, Sir Myles,” Giselle replied. “Especially since I was not the exclusive prey of the mummers.”
“I had no idea Peter was going to do that.”
“Otherwise you would have prevented him from mimicking you?” she asked archly. “That hardly seems fair.”
“If I had known you would enjoy it, I would have asked that the whole performance be about the arrogant, pompous Sir Myles attempting to woo a reluctant maid,” he answered.
Giselle stared at the frost-hardened ground, unsure how to respond. Unsure of many things, her feelings for Sir Myles most of all.
“I have another gift for you today, to make up for the others that met with less favor,” he continued. “It is in the stable.”
“The stab—?”
“I assumed you enjoy riding. You seem to dislike being confined, to promises or anything else.”
He assumed—again. Suddenly she was aware of how very vulnerable she was to his charm and his looks and this deferential manner of addressing her.
Which would probably disappear the moment they were wed. He would become an authoritative, repressive and confining husband. Despite her misgivings, she curtsied and said, “I thank you for your gift, Sir Myles.”
“I was going to ask you to go riding with me this afternoon, since the day is a fine one, if a little cold.”
“I could not, even if I wanted to. I have much to do,” she replied, her tone as chilly as the air, for she could not rid herself of the dread that his current behavior was intended only to woo her into marriage.
“Ah, yes, the duties of a chatelaine.” He gave her a shrewd and questioning look. “But is it not also the duty of the chatelaine to make sure her guests enjoy themselves? A large party intend to ride out, and I believe your uncle will not take it amiss if you join us, to insure that we are all having a fine afternoon.”
Giselle regarded him pensively. She wanted to go riding, to be out of doors and having a pleasant time instead of being concerned only with household matters.
He was right, too. A good hostess should make sure that her guests were happy, and perhaps she could best do that by joining them, although she would do her utmost to stay away from Sir Myles.
After all, she would be back in plenty of time to see to the evening meal. “Very well, Sir Myles,” she said. “I will ask him.”
“Good. Now you must allow me to escort you to the hall,” he said, taking her hand and placing it on his arm.
His muscular arm.
He gave her a sidelong glance and smiled. “You know, you are absolutely right. That other scarf would have looked quite hideous.”
Giselle wanted to feel offended. Instead, all she could do was nod and try not to think about his arms or lips or eyes, or anything else about his body.
Which proved to be quite impossible.
Safely in the midst of the boisterous, pleasant party, Giselle sighed with happiness as her new mare walked along the road. It was indeed pleasant to be absolved from any duties for a little while, even if she had to be discomfited by Sir Myles’s presence. She was no closer to understanding him than before, and she was beginning to fear she was too weak where he was concerned.
Especially when it appeared that Sir Myles was ready and capable of amending his ways in an attempt to please her, and when he chose the perfect gift for her, with true consideration for what she would like.
In one way, she could even learn from him. He was far more able to laugh at himself than she was.
Her resolution regarding marriage might crumble like the old byre they had passed some way back, if he continued in this fashion. Or had he not arrogantly told her he would make her love him. Whenever she felt her resolve weaken, she must remember that.
A lone bird wheeled above the bare branches of the trees lining the road, a speck of darkness in the clear sky, which had brightened from the dull gray of morning to the special bright blue of a cold winter’s day. The snow gleamed whitely, and here and there were patches of the dark green of holly and pine, the scent of the evergreen as strong as that of the incense in the chapel.
Once or twice she caught sight of mistletoe attached to a tree, its pale berries like wax against the bark. Cecily had told her that the druids had used mistletoe to cure a woman of barrenness.
Which made Giselle think of babies and recall Sir Myles’s face when he had spoken of children, their children, in the courtyard.
She swiveled a little in her saddle to see where he was and inadvertently caught his eye. To her chagrin, he nudged his horse forward to join her, as if her look had been the same as a summons to him.
“You seem very pensive, my lady,” Sir Myles remarked when he was beside her.
“It is a lovely day. I was watching the bird.”
“Envying it its freedom?”
She slid him a sidelong glance. “Not especially, but now that you say that, I suppose it is true.”
“I envy it, too.”
“Why? You are free.”
“No one is truly free, my lady. I have to answer to my father, who is my overlord, as well as the king, and make certain that my people prosper.”
“Oh, yes,” she agreed, although in truth, she had never considered that his life was not one of unending pleasure and self-indulgence.
Myles turned to her with a rather inscrutable smile. “I like your uncle. He seems a good man.”
“He is,” she replied matter-of-factly.
“Then I envy you,” he answered in a similar tone, free of any self-pity.
She remembered what her uncle had told her of Myles’s family and a new idea presented itself to Giselle. Could it be that Myles wanted not just her dowry, but a family, too, one that would treat him better than his own? “He thinks highly of you,” she remarked.
“Yet he is willing to cast me aside as a husband for you,” Sir Myles noted.
“I think that you may blame on both his fondness for me and his desire to do right. But I’m sure he likes you.”
“I would far rather hear you say that you like me.”
“I thought you had already decided I must,” she said with a hint of mockery.
He didn’t reply and Giselle immediately regretted not being more circumspect. If her uncle had spoken truly about Sir Myles’s family, and there was no reason to suppose he hadn’t, Myles Buxton had not enjoyed a blissful childhood.
In truth, he might have suffered far more than she had. It could even be that while she saw marriage as causing her to lose something, he saw it as a way to gain what he lacked. And if he thought she alone could provide that, no doubt she should be truly flattered, as her uncle had said.
They rode awhile in silence, with Giselle occasionally watching him out of the corner of her eye while she mused upon this idea, which would explain why he continued to pursue her despite her rebuffs. “You seem thoughtful, too, Sir Myles,” she said at last.
He looked at her with a surprised and wary smile. “Forgive my preoccupation, my lady. I assure you, I was not contemplating my own attributes, or planning ways to force you into marriage against your will.”
“Oh, no. That is, I shouldn’t have said that, my lord.”
“Yes, you should, if you thought it the truth,” he replied calmly. “I have had worse things said of me, my lady.”
Again Giselle recalled her uncle’s words, and decided to try to begin the conversation anew. “I am not used to seeing you look pensive.”
He gave her a sardonic smile. “I was thinking about love.”
“Oh?” She blushed and desperately wished she wasn’t.
“Yes. Elizabeth Cowton is very much in love.”
Giselle frowned and said nothing, trying not to feel disappointed. After all, she should be relieved there was another woman who wanted him, if she did not, and she should be glad he was being honest with her.
“Not with me,” he added, after what seemed a very long moment.
“Elizabeth Cowton’s feelings are none of my business,” she said quickly.
Too quickly, to judge by the shrewd glance he directed at her. “Alas! I was hoping you might be jealous,” he said wryly.
“Why would I be? I imagine many women find you attractive.”
“But not you?”
Giselle flushed hotly and her grip tightened on the reins.
“Unfortunately, Elizabeth’s dowry is very small, and her beloved’s family is not in favor of the match.”
Giselle frowned with dismay. “It is a pity that marriage should depend so much upon money.”
“Life without wealth is not easy.”
“No.” She regarded him with some curiosity. “You sound as if you speak from experience, yet your family is very rich.”
“My father is.” He stared straight ahead. “My brothers lack for nothing. My circumstances are slightly different. My father has given me an estate, but as for money, that must come from other quarters.”
Moved by the seriousness of his tone and impressed by his apparent lack of bitterness, her heart went out to him.
Even then, her mind cried a warning. She should feel nothing for Myles Buxton, must feel nothing for him, or her freedom would be forfeit. “Such as your wife’s dowry?” she suggested.
He turned to regard her steadily. “Yes.”
“So when you marry, you will gain wealth, while I will lose mine without ever really possessing it. My uncle controls all my money now, and when I marry, my husband will.”
“You don’t believe your husband will let you have some say in how your money is spent?”
“You are going to tell me that you would allow me that privilege, I suppose?”
“Yes, I would,” he affirmed, and she heard his sincerity.
“Yet you think it ludicrous of my uncle to allow me some discretion in the choice of my husband.”
“That’s different.”
“I do not see why,” she retorted. “Besides, I know full well how it will be. You are acting all kindness and generosity before the marriage, and you will be quite different afterward.
“My friend Cecily’s husband made no end of generous promises before they were married. She wrote me all about him, telling me how kind, how sweet, how wonderful he was. Oh, she was going to be so happy!”
“Am I to understand she is not?” Myles asked when she paused to draw breath.
“No, she can’t be! I have not had one word from her since she’s been married, nor has she ever come to visit, and I’ve invited her more than once. I’m sure her husband prevents her, for Cecily and I were like sisters. I know she would come if she could.”
“Granted there are some men who say one thing before marriage and another after, but I am not of that ilk,” Myles said. “I promise you that you will have as much freedom as any married woman may reasonably desire, when we are married.”
Giselle shot him a questioning look. “You will decide what is reasonable, I suppose.”
“Who else?”
Her only answer was to press her lips together in anger. To be sure, he had been kind and generous, but undoubtedly that would only last until they were safely wed. Then she would lose even the small measure of freedom she had at present. And he was so handsome, he would probably have a lover in every town under his rule. Oh, she never wanted to marry, not Sir Myles or any man!
“Shall we see how this mare gallops?”
“No,” Giselle replied peevishly. All she wanted to do now was get back to the castle.
Suddenly Sir Myles reached out and slapped the mare on the buttocks, which made the beast break into a startled gallop. Giselle cried out and held on for dear life as the mare ran off the road and into an opening in the trees.
“Something’s spooked Lady Giselle’s horse.” Myles called out to the company who had all been too occupied with their own conversations to see what he had done, a fact he had ascertained before slapping the mare. “I’ll stop her!”
He kicked his horse into a canter and followed, determined to have it out with Giselle Wutherton once and for all, challenge or no challenge.
Giselle finally managed to slow the mare, and when the horse halted, she slipped from its back, breathing shakily but happy to be on firm, if snow-covered, ground. It was a miracle she had not struck a tree branch and been knocked off her horse.
Sir Myles appeared, pulling his stallion to a stop and dismounting with a flourish.
“Why did you do that?” she demanded, her hands on her hips. “I could have been killed!”
“I thought you were a good rider.”
“My skill would have had nothing to do with it, if an oak tree had been in the way.”
He tossed his horse’s reins over the bare branches of a nearby bush and walked toward her. “Then I must beg your forgiveness, my lady. I can only plead a tremendous desire to be alone with you as my excuse.”
Giselle swallowed hard, realizing for the first time that they were alone. In the woods. Just the two of them. “We should rejoin the others,” she said, moving close to her mare.
“Not just yet,” Myles said, coming toward her and putting a detaining hand on her arm. “I want to talk to you without interruption.”
“You didn’t have to risk my life,” Giselle noted angrily as she faced him, uncomfortably aware of his proximity.
“I didn’t think I was.”
“Be that as it may, Sir Myles, what do you have to say that is so important that you must risk injury and scandal?”
“I want to tell you that I truly want to marry you.”
“You made that plain enough before, the last time we were alone in my uncle’s solar, when you seemed so certain I would love you.”
His brow furrowed and she thought she saw genuine concern in his dark eyes. “I know I’ve blundered—”
“Yes, you have!” she said, triumphantly interrupting him, for once. “You interfere in my duties, follow me about like an annoying shadow, you tell me I will love you and then you wonder that I do not leap into your arms with gratitude!”
His frown deepened. “I am trying to apologize.”
She opened her mouth to tell him she didn’t want his apologies, but something in his eyes made her hesitate. What was it? Dismay? Disappointment? Fear?
“Sir Myles,” she said in a somewhat calmer tone. “I don’t want to be married to anyone. Can’t you understand that? I want to be free, at least for a little while.”
His frown became a scowl. “Because your friend married a less than accommodating husband?”
“Because...because I’m afraid.”
He drew back with a look of genuine astonishment. “Not of me?”
“I’m afraid I’ll find marriage a worse prison than Lady Katherine’s.”
His gaze searched her face. “Do you truly believe that I would treat any wife of mine with so little regard?”
At this moment, she doubted it. Yet, at one time she would have said that Cecily’s husband would not have treated her badly; either.
“I want you to be my wife, Giselle,” he said huskily, reaching out and tugging her into his warm and strong embrace. “You, Giselle, for yourself. For your intelligence and kindness, as much as your beauty. Because I can imagine our lives together, and know it will be wonderful. Because I want to have children with you.”
Then he bent his head and kissed her. Not fiercely, like before, but tenderly. Lovingly. As if to promise that he meant everything he said. Tempted beyond her resolve by his gentleness, Giselle abandoned herself and her fears to savor his touch and his caress.
How easy it would be to give in to him! How simple to agree to be his wife.
Part of her wanted to do so very, very much, recognizing that she was more than half in love with him already.
But what of freedom? another part of her urged. You cannot be sure that he will not change toward you once you are wed! Delay! Delay!
She pulled back and tried to keep her regard steady as she looked at him. “Sir Myles, I—”
He stared at her suspiciously. “You still doubt my sincerity? Or do you think I am not worthy to be your husband?”
“Yes! No! I don’t know!”
“Enough!” he declared, his voice as cold as the snow beneath their feet as he moved away from her. “I have tried. I have been as patient as I know how to be, but I refuse to be subject to any woman’s whims and indecision for days, especially when I had been assured the marriage contract was as good as signed!”
“Sir Myles!” she cried as he marched to his horse.
“No! No more words. No more talk!” he growled as he prepared to mount, glancing at her over his shoulder. “I am not some boy you can play like a fish on a line!” He leapt upon his prancing stallion. “I am Sir Myles Buxton, and if you do not think me worthy of your hand, there are plenty of other women who will! Now, my lady, mount. I will take you back to the others, but I will have no more speech from you.”
For an instant, she was too astonished to move, and not only because of his harsh tone and imperious manner. What shocked her was the burning anguish in his eyes as he gazed at her.
“Do not tempt me to leave you here,” he warned, looking away.
Quite convinced that he might very well do so, Giselle went to her mare. He made no move to get down and help her, so she hiked up her skirts as much as modesty permitted and climbed into the saddle. Once mounted, she did not wait for any further commands from him, but turned her horse back the way they had come and nudged her to a walk.
Giselle said nothing as they returned to the road and rejoined the party. She dared not, for she feared that if she spoke even one word, she would burst into tears.