She draped her arms around his neck and murmured, “Would that be so very bad, m’lord?”
“Things would get into such a wretched state, we would soon have the Scots sharing our bed.” He kissed her, then took her by the arm and started out of the room. “So behave yourself and let us go and join our guests.”
“The Scots would never dare to enter a Todd’s sleeping quarters.”
“And why not?”
“If it were a male Todd, they might well chance upon their own wife.”
He shook his head when she grinned impishly. It was going to be very hard to maintain any sort of distance from her. She seemed to pull at him to share in her love of life and easy emotion. When she made him laugh or smile, he felt something soften inside him. That would have to be stopped, but he was not sure how.
Although he trusted Saxan and wanted to have a strong marriage, he also wanted to avoid the softer, sometimes illogical emotions such as love. He would give Saxan fidelity, passion, security, and prosperity; but he would be the master of his own heart. Once he had loved, and once was more than enough.
Saxan fought against a powerful urge to blush as she entered the great hall on Botolf’s arm. She felt no shame, but did wish it was not so well known how she had spent the night. To her relief, the jests were gentle and few. The attack upon Botolf had grabbed everyone’s interest. It was of far more importance than Botolf’s bedding his wife. Saxan concentrated on her meal as Botolf deftly turned aside all inquiries, doing his best to avoid openly accusing his half-brother.
“I think it grows too widely known that my own blood kin tries to kill me,” he grumbled when the hall began to clear of guests.
“You cannot halt suspicion,” Saxan replied in a quiet voice so that they might not be overheard. “ ’Tis clear that many people know there was little love between you.”
“That is not always reason enough for murder.”
“True, but when one hears of such a crime, one first thinks of who would gain the most by your death. Most people feel there must be some driving reason for murder.”
“And the one who gains the most is Cecil.”
“No other. Why do you try to conceal the truth? Would it not be better if everyone knew? Cecil would find it hard to hide from you then.”
“I wish to save my mother the pain of any public accusation.”
“Of course. Everyone would speak openly of it then.”
“M’lord!”
Botolf, Saxan, and the few others still lingering in the hall stared wide-eyed at the man who raced into the hall. His agitation was quickly picked up by the others. There were many reasons for a man-at-arms to be alarmed, but none of them were good ones. Saxan knew that, for a brief moment, the fear that the Scots were attacking again rippled through the hall.
“Do the Scots ride our way, Charles?” Botolf inquired calmly as the young man raced up to the head table.
“Nay, m’lord. This concerns the prisoner.”
“He has died?”
“He has escaped.”
“Escaped? How so?”
“We know not, m’lord. The guard is dead. His throat was cut”
“Has he been long dead?”
“I would say no more than a few hours, m’lord. The body is cold, and the blood is drying on the floor.”
“Search the grounds, the castle, and for three miles outward all around.”
“Do you think he will be found?” Saxan asked after the soldier left.
“Nay,” replied Botolf, his voice taut with anger. “Howbeit, I cannot simply sit back and do nothing. There is always a chance.”
She sighed. “Someone was very eager that the man did not have. a chance to say anything.”
“M’lord,” ventured Sir Edric, who was seated across the table from Saxan. “I do not like to make accusations, but it should be noted that the Alansons left ere dawn fully lighted the sky.”
“And none of the other guests have left?” Botolf asked.
“Not as yet, m’lord.”
“Do you think Lady Odella is behind this attack and not Cecil?” For no reason she could pinpoint, Saxan found that very hard to believe and yet she could not shake a sudden conviction that the Alansons were guilty in some manner.
“I know not, Saxan,” replied Edric. “I but point to a fact that, mayhap, should not be ignored. Another is the fact that the assassin slipped in unseen and has left the same way.”
“Which would mean it was all done by someone who knows Regenford well,” Botolf said.
“Would Odella know the keep so well?” asked Saxan.
“I cannot say,” he replied. “She has been here several times. The information was there if she sought it hard enough.”
“But surely Cecil would have such information as well.”
“He would.” Botolf cursed. “I should have thought about that. Cecil would know all Regenford’s secrets.”
“Yet he was not here himself to put them to use.”
“We cannot be sure of that, little one. He could find many holes to hide in nearby, holes from which he could send his men. Cecil was always good at finding hidey-holes and the secret ways of a place.”
For a moment Saxan said nothing. She fought the suspicion growing in her mind, for she feared it stemmed from her own jealousy of Lady Odella. That acknowledgment was not enough to fully dispel it, however. Finally, she decided to speak out anyway. There was a good cause for suspicion. She was sure of it.
“Botolf, there is something else that should be considered,” she said.
“You sound so timid,” he murmured with a smile. “What is it?”
“ ’Tis not a pleasant possibility to present to you. Mayhap Lady Odella allies herself with Cecil. Her father as well.” She sighed when he looked at her, saying nothing, his expression revealing little. “Mayhap I just allow jealousy to rule my thoughts, but although I scolded myself about that, I was not able to stop puzzling over it. Why did she stay for our marriage ceremony and celebration? Why did she and her father leave at such a strangely early hour?”
“Questions worth pondering, m’lord,” said Edric.
“Aye,” Botolf agreed. “They are. In truth, I now recall several times that she or her father was near at hand when I was set upon by Cecil’s hired killers. Yet,” he frowned and ran a hand through his hair, “why should she try so hard to become my wife?”
“What closer ally could Cecil have than your own wife?” Saxan asked in a soft voice.
“And it is a game he has tried before, but Alice died ere he could finish.” Botolf clenched his hands.
Before Saxan could ask what he meant, their brief discussion of the problem was ended. Botolf was drawn into the business of Regenford and the leave-taking of their guests. He was kept busy seeing to the securing of the secret ways in and out of Regenford. They no longer provided a way to elude the enemy, but supplied a means for their enemy to draw dangerously close to the lord of the manse. Saxan did not see Botolf alone again until they met in their bedchamber, preparing for bed. Discussion was delayed even longer as they both gave into their passions.
Botolf nuzzled Saxan’s breasts lazily as the sexual satisfaction weighting his body drew him closer to sleep and teased her, “This morning you were most eager to get me modestly covered. Jealous, were you?”
“Aye,” she admitted with calm honesty. “I find that I no longer feel Christian enough to share, not when it means I must share you.”
Thinking of Cecil and how the man seemed to get close to every woman he softened toward, Botolf growled, “Neither do I.”
“Well then, being equally selfish, we should travel along quite smoothly.”
He laughed, but the flash of humor did not fully dispel his sudden fear. He would have to keep Saxan well protected, so well protected that Cecil could never draw near her. Instinct told Botolf that Cecil would try to reach Saxan just as it told him that, if Cecil succeeded in becoming Saxan’s lover, it would cut him far deeper than
anything else Cecil had done. Almost afraid of knowing why he should feel so, Botolf fought to clear his mind of all thought and heartily welcomed the sleep which enfolded him.
Ten
Humming softly to herself, Saxan idly collected flowers in the fields just beyond Regenford’s high walls. It was pleasant to feel free even if that freedom was tenuous. It was impossible to see the armed men who were ever around, but she knew they were still close at hand. She also knew that they were a necessity, but they often made her feel more of a prisoner than safe. It would be foolish, however, to think that Cecil had given up simply because there had been no attack in over three months. Cecil could well be waiting for them to relax their guard before he struck again.
Suddenly, she stopped and stared at the flowers she held. It seemed impossible that she had been married for over three months. The time had passed too quickly. She mentally counted the days since her wedding. It was, in truth, closer to four months.
They had been good months, she decided as she began to pick flowers again. Botolf was a most satisfactory husband. He did not treat her as chattel as so many other men did their wives. After the freedom her family had always allowed her, a strict, domineering husband would have proven a severe trial. She was certain that such attitudes had been the cause of so much trouble in Denu’s marriage at first.
She frowned, reluctantly contemplating Botolf’s feelings and her own. She knew now, almost without doubt, that she loved the man, yet she had no idea of his feelings for her. For all his sweet words when they made love, he never revealed how he felt. His words were all born of passion. She had hoped to have gained a great deal more by now.
“Foolishness, Saxan,” she scolded herself. “Do not mourn for what is elusive. Be grateful for what you have.”
Fine words, she concluded, but difficult to heed. She ached for her love to be returned, and no amount of common sense would change that. Although she would never belittle what she did have, she knew she would continually strive for Botolf’s love. If nothing else, it would allow her to release the words that constantly burned on the tip of her tongue, words of love that her pride kept choked back because Botolf gave her no sign that he returned her feelings.
She leaned against the trunk of a tree, her gaze fixed blindly upon the flowers she held. Love, she decided, was a troublesome thing. Hidden within its beauty were snares for the unwary and problems too numerous to count. Passion was easier, for it was hard to hide and needed no words to confirm its existence. It was also something men felt no qualms about revealing. Botolf made no effort to hide his. He had even given her warm looks in front of his men.
In an attempt to shake off her bout of self-pity, she reminded herself that Botolf both liked and trusted her. Those had been his own words. It was no small thing for a man to feel like that about a woman. He had also sworn to abide by his marriage vows and to do his utmost to maintain fidelity. Few men even tried.
Suddenly, even as she was aware of a noise and a shadow blocking out the warmth of the sun, Saxan found herself pulled into an embrace. The brief glimpse she got of her assailant told her that he was Botolf, but the kiss told her otherwise. Fighting the man was useless for he had her neatly pinned against a tree, but she remained unmoved by the act, standing still until it was over. Her blood ran cold when she finally got a good, clear look at her attacker. The likeness to her husband was chilling. Except for the small scar and the strangeness of the kiss, she would have thought that Botolf confronted her.
“So cool to your husband?”
The moment the man’s grip eased, Saxan twisted free of his hold and drew her dagger. “You are not Botolf.”
“Do I not look as he does?”
“Some,” she lied, for she found the likeness unsettling. “Botolf has no scar, Cecil.”
“Ah, so he has told you about me.” Cecil’s look twisted her heart with fear.
“It would be strange indeed if a man did not make mention of the one who tries to murder him.”
“I? I try to murder Botolf? We share a father’s blood.”
“Which you do not hesitate to try to spill. You will not be able to beguile me with smooth words.”
“The man is powerful and wealthy. He could have many enemies.”
“Aye, but ’tis you who sends men creeping through the shadows to strike at his back.”
Saxan frowned. Cecil was edging closer to her. She knew he was going to attempt to disarm her, and she feared he could succeed. Despite what she had been forced to do in the past to protect herself, the instinct to kill did not run in her veins. Even though he was a threat to the man she loved as well as to her, she knew she would hesitate. He looked too much like Botolf. Saxan feared that could steal the deadliness from any strike she made. It would feel too much like striking at Botolf. She opened her mouth to call for help, but Cecil lunged at her.
A soft cry of surprise and frustration escaped her as he caught hold of her, wrestling her to the ground. Just as she had feared, his resemblance to Botolf made her hesitate. Her blade struck flesh, but only the meaty part of his arm. The wound did not even weaken him. An instant later he had stolen the knife from her hold, pinning her firmly beneath him.
“Slut,” he hissed. “You have drawn blood.”
“Not the heart’s blood I sought.” She knew it was hopeless, but she still struggled to twist out from beneath him.
He slapped her. When she gasped in pain and shock, he stuffed a cloth into her mouth. “That should silence you. I cannot have you summoning those bungling fools my half-brother surrounds you with,” he muttered as he dragged her to her feet and back to the tree. “So, Botolf has wed himself a woman with a sting.”
So many angry words crowded into Saxan’s gagged mouth she nearly choked on them. Her fury kept her fear in control, although it was a struggle when he began to tie her to the tree. She tried not to think of what he could do to her while she was so helpless. Such thoughts would make her fear gain control of her. She glared at him, her expression holding every ounce of the helpless fury she felt. Saxan was chilled to the bone when he simply smiled. Her whole body tensed with disgust when he caressed her cheek.
“Botolf has chosen well this time. Oh, his last wife was a beauty, but not as lovely as you, Saxan Todd.” He began to unlace her gown. “Do not fight your bonds. You will only harm yourself. I was not invited to the wedding and have had no chance to judge the beauty of my brother’s bride.”
Saxan shuddered with revulsion when he touched her breast. She could see that her reaction enraged him; his face darkened and hardened. That look lessened his resemblance to Botolf. Cecil looked cold. There was a darkness reflected in his eyes that she was sure invaded his very soul. Increasingly, his touch felt unclean.
“Mayhap Botolf did not gain the prize it appears he did. Do you revile his touch, too?”
She knew her expression reflected her hatred as she shook her head. It did not surprise her when he struck her. Disappointment was a bitter taste in her mouth when his blow did not send her tumbling into unconsciousness. She was not certain that he would cease his assault if she were unconscious, but at least she would not have to be a witness to her own degradation.
“Foolish wench. You bring yourself only more pain.” Cecil grasped her breasts cruelly to underscore his threat, his anger growing when she made no sound, but continued to regard him coldly. “You are far too proud, I think.” He cut open her gown with his knife. “How proud will you be when your husband turns away from you?”
The very thought turned Saxan’s blood to ice in her veins, and her heart raced with a fear she struggled to keep hidden.
“He will you know,” Cecil continued. “Once he discovers that I have possessed his little wife, he will not warm your bed again. That is how he treated Alice. Our Botolf is most particular. And so unChristian. He is never willing to share. He tried to keep Alice from me, but she was too much the whore. He feared I would leave my seed growing within her and gain all I crave in tha
t way. I tried yet again with the woman he courted, but the slut lost the game to you. Mayhap,” he lowered his gaze to her slim abdomen, “ ’tis still the way to win this game.” He touched the cool tip of his dagger to her skin. “Unless he has seeded you himself already.”
Saxan felt her stomach quiver beneath the sharp steel. The struggle to hide her fear grew harder. As she faced possible disembowelment, she calculated when she had endured her last flux. Three months, she realized, two weeks after her wedding! She did not want to know that, did not want to realize that it would be more than her own life spilling out if Cecil used the dagger pricking at her skin.
“Mayhap a good swiving is not the right course to take.” He drew his knife across her skin, leaving a stinging cut that oozed blood. “Mayhap I should forestall Botolf’s attempts to clutter my path with heirs. One cut, Lady Saxan, and we can both see if Botolf’s seed has rooted here.”
Bile rose in her throat, gagging her, as she listened in horror to his cruel words. Her mind refused to let her deny the possibility that two lives teetered on the point of Cecil’s knife. What she had been blissfully unaware of before was now a certainty in her mind. Beneath that deadly, gleaming point lay Botolf’s unborn child. Even more horrifying was that Cecil could well be right when he said they would both see the truth. There was a chance she would live long enough to see him cut the child from her body.
“Lady Saxan?”
For an instant, Saxan was frozen with fear as the welcome voice of her bodyguard echoed through the wood. Cecil’s face twisted with fury. She was terrified that he would still slash her and slumped in a near swoon as he chose flight even as the guard stepped into view.
“M’lady!” The young guard rushed to her side and cut the ropes which bound her.
Even as she sank to her knees and yanked the gag from her mouth, the rest of her guardsmen appeared. She pointed in the direction Cecil had fled, crying out hoarsely, “ ’Twas Cecil. After him!”
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