Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [136]
“And my beautiful back!” he said caustically, and she released him instantly and turned away.
“You’re right, of course. Whatever you’re going to do, you have every right. We let you fall into the hands of the French—we betrayed your loyalty even if we did it by accident—”
“And if it wasn’t an accident?” said Lymond mildly.
She turned and faced him. “Then if the King was responsible, I am his niece. Take what revenge you want.”
Moving with exquisite care Lymond came close to Margaret Douglas for the first time of his own accord. With two pensive fingers, he released the clasp of her cloak, and it dropped, a slither of blue, to the ground. The white of her dress, lit by the fire, flowed like summer snow into the eyes. “And what about Matthew?” he said. “The very partial husband?”
Her eyes were wide. “What’s Matthew? One step to a double—perhaps a triple throne.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes. All.”
She was as pale as the silk. Scott saw Lymond’s gaze rest on her, delicately practised, just before he moved. Then he touched her, and the woman’s eyes closed. Folded with infinite care on the sweet edge between agony and delight she suffered a kiss of an expert passion which made itself lord of all the senses, of thought, and the dead fields of time. The fire blazed on Lymond’s shoulder and arm and his bent head, and Scott saw something regal in the still, white and gold figures melted into one, pliant as a painting in honey and wax.
Then Lymond raised his head, releasing her mouth, and taking the woman’s hand, drew her to the long settle by the fire. Margaret slipped to his feet.
“Come away.” Words were choking her. “Come away with me. Work for us again. The Protector will give you all you lost—your manor—your money—more than you can ever have here. This wandering exile is slow death for a man of your sort.… Come back with me!”
He drew a slow finger across her cheek. “With the game so nearly won? I’m heir to Midculter, Margaret. If things go well, my rooftree will be more impressive than any the Protector is likely to offer.”
“More impressive than Temple Newsam?” said Margaret; and the two pairs of eyes locked.
The fine, scarred fingers which had killed the papingo and set fire to his mother’s house played gently with the thick, beautiful hair. “You would take me to your home?” said Lymond softly. “But even Lennox—”
“—daren’t gainsay the Protector. And if you proved yourself valuable to Somerset, as you could—Francis, with your mind, your imagination, your leadership—”
“—And my savoury reputation. It’s hopeless, Margaret. If my character in Scotland were intact, I could make Somerset uncle to an emperor; as an outlaw, my practical value is nil. Unless a good name can be created for me. Or restored.”
He didn’t go on, and there was a silence. The woman had laid her cheek on his knee, her long hair fallen on the shining firelit swaths of her robe, spread about the hearth. A log dropped, turning the man’s hair a brighter gold. Without moving, Margaret repeated, “Restored?”
Lymond’s soft voice was reflective. “Mightn’t some story be concocted that the authorities would believe? Of forgery—strategic betrayal—something with witnesses, convincing enough to clear me?”
At bay before every weapon of his mind and body, Margaret answered him unwillingly. “It’s no use, Francis. It does no good to pretend. Nothing can restore the past: how could it? The man who left the dispatch is dead. I could teach speeches and confessions to any number in his place, but do you think they would withstand the boot or the rack? Arran would make very sure this time he was not being deceived again. You can’t remake a reputation out of nothing.”
“I can’t, perhaps; but you generally manage to get what you want. Even me, for a consideration. I’ve told you my price.”
This time, the pause was a long one. The woman gasped suddenly. “I make no conditions.”
“And I make only one,” said Lymond, and with smooth strength