Free Seduced by Grace by Jennifer Blake

plain as a wart on a pig’s bum that this rescue was a trap. I fear it’s one that will entangle us until there is no hope of escape.”
    “Your concern for him does you credit,” Marguerite said, keeping her voice even with an effort.
    “He is too good a man to die for no reason. Yet make no mistake, milady. As I am under his command, my concern is for my own neck.”
    She turned her head to search his face, studying theset of his mouth under its line of mustache, the tilt of his chin, the grim look in his black eyes. The cynicism was there, as expected. Beneath it, however, lay brooding edginess that suggested real anxiety for his friend. She liked him the better for it, in spite of herself.
    “What would you have him do?” she asked quietly. “Turn about at once and ride for the nearest port?”
    “If I thought he would.”
    “You must know it’s too late for that.”
    He turned his head to stare at her, his face set with anger. “I don’t know it, no. Here I am, jaunting merrily down the road to what may be a slaughter at the end. As far as I can see, it’s all for your sake, Lady Marguerite. What should I do, do you think? Shall I join your noble cause or knock our good David senseless and remove him from the king’s clutches. And yours.”
    The idea was so beyond reason that Marguerite jerked on hearing it, causing her mare to dance away a step or two. Bringing the palfrey back around and under control, she spoke over her shoulder. “That is your decision, sir.”
    “So it is,” he muttered as he swung his charger away from where he matched her pace in the line of march. “So it is.”
    Marguerite frowned as she watched the Italian gallop forward again. Was his lack of commitment a reflection of the attitude of David’s men toward the undertaking that lay ahead? She did not like to think so, as it could mean trouble in the ranks. That was David’s concern as their commander, of course, yet she felt responsible in some fashion. They would not be here but for her.
    The business with Warbeck seemed headed for yetanother confrontation between York and Lancaster. Some declared the eternal strife between the forces under the white rose of York and red of Lancaster, called by some the War of the Roses, had ended after the Battle of Bosworth Field, which brought Henry Tudor to the throne. Certainly he had held sway since then. Regardless, the jockeying for position and final supremacy had never really ceased. Nor would it, so it seemed, until the last drop of Plantagenet blood was shed, the last Plantagenet claimant to the throne banished or dead.
    Here was David, now, set to proclaim himself a new contender for the crown at Henry’s behest. To successfully divide the forces of the York contingent, he must attract a sizable following. Yes, and what then? She had not dared breathe the thought in the king’s presence, yet her great fear was that David’s campaign as a rival York leader might succeed too well. He could become such a danger to Henry’s Lancaster regime that he must be eliminated. If that happened, she could not bear it.
    David was far too good to die for no reason. She and Oliver could agree on this if on little else.
    The muffled thud of hooves dragged her from her morbid preoccupation. David was riding toward her down the line, the sun glinting on his chain mail he wore without helm or armor here among friends, catching random gleams from the trappings of his destrier. As he drew closer, he smiled with a flash of white teeth in the sun-bronzed planes of his face. And her heart smote her with so violent a blow that she lost her breath.
    “Why so glum, ladies? Oliver is a fine one with a compliment, but you can’t be missing him already.”
    Astrid made a sound of disgust. “Yon cockatrice? Never!”
    “No?” He slowed, turning his mount to come up beside them. “I was sure the journey would go more swiftly for his presence.”
    He spoke to Astrid, but Marguerite thought his gaze was