A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden 3)

“Dirick?” she cried. “Is that you?”

He pulled her into his arms in one fluid motion. She was shaking, and her face was suspiciously wet. She was running her hands all over his face and shoulders as if to ensure that it was really he.

“My God, I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured, burying his face in her neck, smelling the rosemary and lemon and touching the tangles of her hair. “Maris, Maris,” he said her name over and over. “Beloved, have they hurt you? How did you escape?”

She sniffled in the first show of womanly weakness he’d ever witnessed. “I am not hurt,” she told him, looking up with wide golden green eyes. “But ’twas Bon de Savrille who saved me. ”

“What?” Dirick guided her back to his horse as the others gathered around, listening and yet remaining at a distance.

“Aye, he came after us and in the confusion, I managed to get away. It wasn’t far from here. ” She looked over her shoulder, gesturing in that direction, “and no one came after me. I do not know what happened. ”

With a curt nod, Dirick sent several of the men scattering to see what they could find. “Are you truly not hurt?” he asked, drawing them away from the rest of the party and angling Nick so that he stood between them and the gawking men. “My beloved, I cannot tell you what fears I had for you!”

She reached up and smoothed a cool hand over his face, touching a scrape from his fall. “They told me you’d been hurt, that you’d fallen from a horse. I was afraid you were dead. ”

He nodded. “Aye. And I suspect it was Michael or Victor who slit the girth of my saddle, nearly causing me to be trampled among Nick’s hooves. I am fine, now that you are safe. ”

She pulled him down, covering his lips with her own. He felt the dampness of her tear moisten his cheek. When she pulled back after a sweet, tender kiss, Maris was looking up at him with those green-gold eyes.

“What is it?” he asked, some new tension tightening his chest.

“I—I nearly didn’t have the chance to tell you…but you must know. I am well pleased to be your wife. I‘ve come to love you, Dirick, and I am sure you will make a find husband, and a good Lord of Langumont. ”

When he would have spoken, she pressed a finger to his lips, shaking her head. “Nay, do not speak. ’Tis enough for me that you came after me…I do not expect that you should feel the same. And, in sooth, Dirick—I do not care. ”

He would have spoken, but a shout drew his attention. Gathering her into his arms, he gave her a well placed kiss on her lips and lifted her into his saddle. Vaulting gracefully up, he settled behind her and they started off toward the shout.

A group of men gathered in a small clearing, and when they drew near, Raymond of Vermille caught Dirick’s eye, shaking his head slightly. Maris should not see, was the message in his gaze. But it was too late.

She slid from the saddle and pushed her way through the gawking crowd of men, ignoring Dirick’s shout. The scene that greeted her was one that would surely leave nightmares, but nevertheless, she moved forward. She had to see it.

Victor d’Arcy lay on his stomach, head turned to one side, and his back soaked with blood. Bon de Savrille was arranged so that he lay in a similar position, with his hands reaching eerily for Victor’s. His beard was wet with the blood that oozed from the spot where his nose had been, and his neck was bent at an awkward angle so that, although he lay on one cheek, his face was tilted back and his eyes looked at nothingness.

Nausea gathered in the back of her throat, but Maris was able to keep it at bay until she saw the horse. Then, she could control it no longer, and she turned to empty her belly into the bushes.

Dirick caught her in the middle of her wild retreat and held her while she vomited in a thicket. The violence left her shaking and trembling, and in the wake of her experience, Maris felt unaccountably weak.

Coughing and spitting, she raised her face and he offered her a corner of his tunic. There was gentleness in his eyes and tenderness in his touch. Placing a comforting arm around her waist, he walked her back to Nick.

“Come, let me take you back to the castle. ” Despite the grimness in his face, his words were solicitous and he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. Once again, he lifted her onto Nick.

“Our wedding day is ruined,” she told him tearfully, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion.

“Nay, my lady, our wedding day is saved. ” He pulled her back against his broad chest, pulling his cloak about them to ward off the spring evening, and turned Nick back toward Westminster.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“I do,” Dirick said clearly, looking straight into Maris’s eyes.

The bishop joined their hands, intoning, “I pronounce you man and wife. Let no man tear asunder what God has thus joined. ”

Dirick’s hands closed tightly over Maris’s smaller, rough ones, and she could not help but smile up at him.

“Congratulations, Ludingdon,” the king boomed from his stance off to the side of the chapel.

“My thanks, your majesty,” Dirick did not release Maris’s hand as they walked over to bow to their king.

Though their return to Westminster had been late in the day, and the other two wedding ceremonies had already been performed, Dirick had refused to wait any longer to finalize his marriage to Maris, despite the fact that he now had an excuse. His mother would likely be furious that he had not waited for the family—and for Thomas to say the ceremony—but she would be pleased that at the least the deed had been done.