Medieval Master Swordsmen(62)
“But what if she loved him?”
He scratched his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
She frowned. “You are too heartless. Why must one always marry for social standing? Why can she not marry for love?”
He finished scratching his head and sat down on the bed at her feet. “Every father wants his daughter to marry for wealth and status. That way, he knows she will be well taken care of. Love is not the issue.”
Elizabeau watched his expression, his body language, seeing for the first time just how weary he was. She sat up, looking him in the face. He met her gaze, brilliant blue to dark green.
“Love is the greatest issue of all,” she said softly. “I would want my daughter to be happy. I would rather have her happy than rich and royal. I would rather be happy than rich and royal.”
His good humor faded as he gazed into her magnificent eyes. He could feel himself weakening, much faster than he ever had before. It was frightening. His hands ached to touch her, his arms were pained to hold her. He knew exactly what she meant and it was becoming more difficult by the second to deny her.
But there was still an ounce of strength in his body, a thread of resistance to the desires of his heart. He continued to gaze at her, struggling against his natural instincts to reach for her. He had to see reason; he had to become reason.
“I want you to think very carefully about what it is you wish for,” he said hoarsely. “It would not be a world of utter happiness and contentment. It would be a world of stress and anxiety for the rest of our lives.”
Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Precisely that,” he said, shifting on the bed to gain a better look at her. “Let us say for the sake of argument that we do marry. Let’s say that we do it tomorrow. Now our future is sealed; I have broken my vows to my liege, destroyed my mission, and compromised the future of England. I cannot go back to de Lohr; everything I have worked for my entire life is destroyed in that one solitary moment. Now instead of the king’s assassins, I must fear de Lohr and de Burgh’s wrath. Now the entire country is hunting the two of us and there is no safe haven. So we must flee.”
By this time, Elizabeau’s expression was darkening. Rhys continued. “But where do we go? We cannot return to Whitebrook; they will find us there. I will be thrown in the vault and probably executed for treason or thievery, and you will still be forced to marry your prince after I am dead and the marriage is annulled. However, if we do manage to escape, we will more than likely flee to France and, presumably, seek sanctuary with my father. But my father is a very old man and my eldest brother, set to inherit the title, wants nothing to do with me. So we cannot go to Navarre. Do you understand what I am saying so far?”
Elizabeau’s face was dark with disappointment and fear. “De Lohr would execute you?”
He shrugged faintly. “My marriage to you would be considered a very serious crime.”
Her gaze lingered on him a moment before turning away. Something in his argument sounded so depressing and final. Deep down, perhaps she knew he was right. It was the first time she had entertained such thoughts. But so much of her wanted to deny the verity of his words.
“It does not have to be that way,” she said softly. “We love each other, Rhys. There is nothing more important than that. Where there is a will, there is a way. We can find our own lives together and be happy. We do not need de Lohr or Navarre or even England to accomplish this. We simply need each other.”
She wasn’t looking at him as she spoke, giving him his first clue that perhaps she was viewing a future with him in a less than romantic light. It was painful for him to think that something in what he had said had somehow planted a seed of reason. As much as that had been his goal, he was sorry he had apparently achieved it.
“I wish that were true,” he murmured. “God knows, I wish it were the complete truth. We would spend the rest of our lives as fugitives, or in hiding. I suppose it could be done, but how much happiness would we really have knowing the history and turmoil we had left behind in our selfish desires? At what point would you grow to resent me and at what point would I grow to regret my lack of honor?”
She did look at him, then. “You are the most honorable man I know,” she whispered, her dark green eyes boring into him. “It has never been my intention to strip you of that, not ever. But I cannot help what I feel.”
His expression softened. “Nor can I,” he said. “But it is something we cannot give in to. I have been struggling for the better part of a week to convince you of this.”