"Did you ask either of them if they had been outside earlier?"
"No. I did not." She said, "I did not think it was important."
"You should ask, then, to make certain."
"I will." She looked at him, shock in her eyes. "Perhaps it was not either of them at all. Perhaps the man who is sending you all these notes — " She broke off. He could see that she was trying to make sense of events.
The anger that was rising in him was intense. "He does not stop at locking us in an attic, then." Had he pushed Hero down the stairs, or had she merely lost her balance? Did it matter? Surprisingly, he found that it did matter very much. Hoaxing him was one thing. Hurting Hero another.
"I will find him. And he will pay for pushing you down the stairs." He would let no one hurt her. These games had to stop.
"That makes no sense though." Hero challenged him. "Why would he push me if he had just left the note by my side with the intent that I would find it — " Just then Miranda returned with the cloak.
"I will discover the answer, I promise you."
In frustration, she protested, "Do not be foolish on my account. No doubt I was just clumsy and tripped on a stone. After all, I have been known to be ungraceful and trip in the past."
He understood that she would prefer such to be the case rather than think there was someone out there who would push her down the stairs as easily as they dropped a piece of paper on the floor. He would prefer that as well. But it was becoming more unlikely by the minute.
He offered Hero his hand and pulled her to her feet so that Miranda could wrap the cloak around her. "Miranda, did you come out on the balcony to speak to Hero and then leave without saying a word?"
"No," she answered gravely, and he knew her well enough to realize that his query had opened up a curiosity in her that would soon result in a torrent of questions.
Knowing that he had no answers for her — yet, he turned to Hero and said quietly, "I apologize for the fact my quest has caused you injury."
She protested, "I merely tripped — "
"If so, the facts will tell us quickly enough, don't you agree?" And what if they pointed to the fact that he had made her a target for a madman by marrying her? What would he do then?
"I suppose you are right." She glanced toward Miranda, and he knew she was thinking about the fact that it was highly unlikely that Juliet would have come out to the balcony and left without saying a word.
"Let your sister take you through to the library now, and you get yourself seen to. Katherine's herbs will have you better in no time, I am certain of it."
She looked so forlorn, he could not help himself. He embraced her once more, briefly. He said quietly, against her ear, "I cannot tell you how much I regret that this marriage was forced upon you. I know I am not the prince most women dream of, but I hope to prove myself no frog."
Hero was puzzled at his vehemence. "I assure you I do not think you a frog." She smiled, you not only kissed me, you married me. Surely if you had been a frog before, you must now be a prince?" Hero had to laugh in a self-mocking way. "As long as you only wish someone to read to you, and not someone to take care of your home."
As Miranda took her arm to help her through the dark to the library entrance, Hero asked urgently, "Do you suppose the letter is real?"
He answered quietly, "As real as the shove that sent you down the stairs, I'm afraid. But I will know more after I do a thorough examination."
"You will examine it tonight?" It was a foolish question, and she could feel the suppressed excitement within him. He would not be able to rest until he knew as much as he could about the letter itself. She only wished that he felt some of that same anticipation focused upon their upcoming wedding night.
He nodded. "At once."
"I will wait up for you." And then, realizing that could be construed as forward, even for a bride, she added, "I cannot rest until I know what your examination reveals."
He seemed taken aback by the idea that he would see her again before morning. Halfheartedly, he protested. "It is late, you will be retired by the time I have completed my testing — "
"When you come to our room, I will be waiting to hear the news." She considered a moment. "And if I am not, I would ask you to wake me."
"Wake you?" She could see by his shallow breathing that he had not truly considered what change the marriage had brought about. They now shared a room. He could indeed wake her. For they would share the same bed tonight. "Of course," he stumbled. "If I am not all night at my examination."
"I hope you are not." She dared say nothing more direct, though she wished she had just a touch of Juliet's boldness about her tonight of all nights.
She was not asleep when he returned, though it was very late. The accident, the ache of her scrapes, the newness of knowing that Arthur would be coming through the bedroom door at some point, the note . . . There was nothing that inclined her toward sleep tonight. So she read, instead,
Le Morte d'Arthur
.
As if she had taken on his obsessions along with his name in the marriage ceremony, Hero could not stop thinking of the myth. Could someone truly possess the original manuscript? Who would it be, who would not have presented it to the Round Table Society, or a museum? And if the manuscript did exist, why, then, tantalize Arthur with the letter but not deliver the manuscript? Was the possessor driven only by mercenary desires?
Eventually, she slept, though only lightly. She awoke when the door to her room opened. To their room, she amended. He came in quietly, and she suspected he had no idea how to handle waking a wife. She listened as he paced about the room, obviously still agitated. After a bit, she realized that he had no intention of waking her.
She sat up in the dark. "Arthur?"
He turned, startled by the sound of her voice, or perhaps by her presence. Had he forgotten once again, in the excitement of the purported letter from Sir Thomas, that she would be there waiting for him tonight?
"What did your tests reveal?" she asked. "Is it real?"
He paused before he answered. She could feel his suppressed excitement fill the room. "I believe it may be authentic."
She closed her eyes. Authentic. He thought it was most likely truly a letter from Malory. "Incredible."
Almost as incredible as the fact that he was there in her room tonight. Her husband.
He answered briskly despite the lateness of the hour. "Indeed." She could almost believe they were in the library holding this discussion, rather than the bedroom. "I will want to confirm my analysis, of course."
"That will take time," she said softly, hoping that he would light the lamp and look at her. Surely he could not see her lying there and still talk as if they were colleagues rather than a man and his wife on their wedding night?
"It will take some time, but it is worth the effort." He went into the dressing room, his voice carrying in the quiet of night with a faint echo. "Barnestable is a noted expert on such matters. I will have him take a look. That way there will be no question." He sounded confident of his findings.
"But you do believe it to be genuine by your own testing?"
"I do."
"Which means," she pointed out quietly in the darkened room, "that you are not pursuing a hoax."
The lamp in the dressing room lit, and he appeared in the doorway. He was in his shirtsleeves and she began to shimmer inside, as she had the night in the library barely a week ago. "Perhaps. Or perhaps this letter is all that remains after so many years."
She wondered if he would welcome her help to divest himself of his clothing. "Do you believe that?"
His expression was bleak. "I do not know what I believe. Except that I must pursue this further. I need facts, not notes sent to me anonymously that draw me to London, trap me in an attic, and force us to marry."
She felt vulnerable, suddenly, in the bed, in the gown that had been chosen especially for her wedding night. The bitterness in his voice left her no doubt that he regretted the necessity to marry her. She closed her eyes against her own sadness. "So far, he has certainly made us dance to his tune, has he not?"
"And all without confirmation whether the manuscript exists still, or not," he agreed, his voice clearly carrying his frustration.
"We are his pawns, even now," she said sensibly, wishing it were not so.
"No longer." He stood against the doorjamb and looked out into the darkness at her.
Did he intend to abandon the search, then?
"How — "
He interrupted her question to say with heat, "I will not let him treat us so one moment longer. Tomorrow he will find his game has changed."
"What does that mean to us?" Would they speak of the manuscript no longer? Assume that it no longer existed? Could he do that after so long a time? After seeing the letter from Malory?
"What it means to me is that I must pursue this matter immediately. But I will not simply pursue the manuscript any longer. I will also pursue the one who is sending me the notes. The one who left us Malory's note to find." He sighed, adding, "As soon as I decide which avenue holds the most promise to shed light on our newest clue."
He struggled with his cravat. Without a valet he was having difficulty with his clothing, she realized.
She hurried to help him. As he stood in his shirtsleeves before her, in their bedroom, the intimacy of the moment nearly made her forget the letter. She had not fully accepted that he was her husband until that moment.
He, however, appeared to think nothing of her assistance. She could as easily have been his valet.
"I told you that I intend to go with you," she warned. If he were going soon, they must have this argument resolved or he might very well leave without her. She could not bear it.
He paused to look at her gravely. "Given this new development — the danger to you — I would prefer that you stay here, under the duke's protection, with . . ." His voice trailed off and his eyes focused on her fully for the first time since he had come into the room.
"What is wrong?" she asked as she unfastened his collar and began to unfasten his shirt as well.
"What are you doing?" He had grown still under her ministrations. His expression reminded her of the time in the attic, right before he had kissed her. She realized with a pleasurable jolt that he no longer thought of her as simply a stand-in for his valet.
As if she did not realize the intimacy of her gestures, she answered innocently, "I am helping my husband disrobe so that he might retire, of course."
"I can manage this part by myself," he said, trying to brush away her hands. But his gaze was focused on her, and she could not hear any conviction in his tone. He had, at long last, realized what the marriage meant: that she was now his wife, that she was here in this room with him for the night. She waited with bated breath to see how he would act upon that knowledge. Would he refuse further help? Or would he kiss her?
Arthur wanted to kiss her. She stood there in her nightshift, not even the robe that had protected her modesty when she came to him in the library. Inches from him, warm and open. Her hands were hovering gently over his chest as she unfastened his shirt. Such an intimate gesture. But not an unusual one for a wife. His wife.
All at once he didn't care about the letter or its supposed authenticity. He just wanted to fold her into his arms and kiss her breathless, as he had in the attic of the bookshop. His conscience warned him that he had promised earlier that evening that he would not rush her. The question was, could one kiss be considered breaking his word?
He touched her cheek, lightly, so that she met his eyes. "Would you mind very much if I kissed you right now?" He added hastily, so that she would understand, "Just a kiss, I will not insist on anything more. I understand you need time to adjust to the idea of being my wife."
Her breath was sweet when she breathed out her answer. "I would not mind if you kissed me." She reached up to remove his collar as she spoke. "I would not mind at all."
He closed his eyes against the rush of desire he felt at her response. He must be tender with her; he did not want to frighten her, to cause her to regret the marriage any more than she already did. But as he moved to embrace her, she winced away from him slightly.
He stopped short, opening his eyes to see where he had hurt her. Her arms were bared in the lamplight as they stretched up to allow her to reach his collar.
She was beautiful, perfect. And then he saw the darkness of the bruises. "What is this?"
She pulled her sleeve over the injuries self-consciously. "Nothing. Just a bruise from where I fell."
Apparently, it had been much more than a little trip, as she had told him. He lifted first one sleeve and then the other, moving so the lantern illuminated her in its soft glow. He could see the injuries she had incurred clearly because of the revealing nightdress she wore. A frisson of guilt crawled up his spine that he had not noticed before. He had been too distracted by the sight of her breasts rising from the top of the nightgown, just barely held in by the lace.
But now he saw the damage that she had done to herself in the fall. The injuries. He stood, unable to take his eyes from them. Her forearm was horribly scraped, and several bruises lay purpled upon her skin. He stared at her arm, realizing fully for the first time how close she had come to real injury, possibly even death. And there was a possibility that she had not fallen but had been pushed.
Hero stepped away, letting her sleeves fall to cover her injuries again. "It is nothing, I caught myself before I had fallen too far." He understood how seriously she could have been hurt, despite her protest. "I am fine," she assured him again.
But it was too late. He knew what the silken sleeve now hid from his view. He had seen the huge raw scrape on her arm from her fall — or push — down the stairs. And he knew it was his fault.
He touched her arm gently, above the scrape.