Outrageous Read Free

can’t…”
    “Who would blame me?”
    Her cheeks acquired a pallor, but Harbottle failed to notice. He concentrated solely on that unswerving tip. “I have money, if you want it—”
    Her color blossomed again. “If I kill you, the world would be well rid of such vermin.”
    She took a deep breath, and Griffith now thought she would plunge the steel into Harbottle’s heart.
    “Have pity,” Harbottle whimpered.
    Her severity broke, and she gestured with the sword toward the door. “Go grovel before the priest. Perhaps he’ll offer forgiveness. That’s the best you can expect, for these gentlefolk will not forget.”
    Harbottle scurried backward, and when he was safe out of range, he cried, “Whore! You shame your family by bearing their name. Your little bastard bears the punishment for your sins.” Griffith stiffened in shock, but Harbottle wasn’t through. “That whelp you bore is an idiot!”
    She lifted the sword to fling it, and the gaping courtiers dove for cover. Griffith caught her hand before she could, swung her around, and buried her face in his chest.
    A bastard, he reflected grimly. She’d borne a child out of wedlock. No wonder she’d been banished from the court.
    A bastard. A child unacknowledged by its father. Marian had brought herself disgrace and exile with her unseemly passion, and that lack of control she now exposed in her useless struggles.
    Resembling a half-crushed insect, Harbottle took to flight, limping all the way.
    Marian fought the restraint, furious that anyone dared come between her and that foul beast who maligned her son. In her ear a deep voice rumbled, “Anger is the wind that blows out the lamp of the mind, and you are the proof. Never threaten a man with death unless you mean to complete the deed. You’ve made a lifelong enemy, one who’ll be satisfied with nothing less than your humiliation and defeat.”
    Wrenching her head free, she looked up, and up, and up.
    The man was immense—and ill favored. His black hair, cut chin length, was combed straight back, leaving his face unsoftened and unadorned. His tanned skin had seen too much sun, too many battles, and the lines of experience that marked his brow found mates in the scars that furrowed his cheeks. His thin nose had been broken too many times, and his stubborn chin prickled with a day’s growth of beard. Only his golden eyes betrayed a kind of beauty, and they glowered at her with such disgust that she stiffened even further.
    “My thanks to you, but I am none of your concern.”
    He exhaled impatiently, and it ruffled the stray wisps of hair that fell over her forehead. She stepped away and heard him mutter, “If only that were true.”
    From behind her Wenthaven said, “This great Welsh beast is your newest emissary from the queen.”
    Marian swung on Wenthaven. “By my troth, Wenthaven. Why didn’t you tell me at once?”
    Spreading his hands in doubtful innocence, Wenthaven said, “I thought I did.”
    Dismissing him with a sniff, Marian tilted her head and examined Griffith, paying particular attention to his dull brown, unfashionable clothes. “He does resemble a beast. Does the beast have a name?”
    Griffith bowed where he stood, and it brought his face close to hers. “Griffith ap Powel, if it please you.”
    He spoke softly, and his name brought a rush of blood to her face. “Griffith ap Powel? Griffith apPowel is no emissary from my lady the queen. Griffith ap Powel is the king’s man.”
    Griffith straightened, a satisfied line to his hard mouth. “I am the king’s man, and therefore the queen’s, too, for they are wed and made as one by the holy ceremony of the Church.”
    Glancing around, Marian saw the crowd that had gathered to cheer her swordplay now hung on every word. Gesturing a page boy close, she handed him her sword and bade him clean it and place it with care. The time she earned gave her a chance to rein in her temper. “How is Elizabeth of York? Is my lady