by Anne Stuart
It was a clash of wills. If she had any sense at all, any decorum, she would lower her eyes and docilely agree.
Instead she lifted her hand and gently touched his cheek. He flinched, trying to pull away, but she simply wrapped her hand in a lock of his thick, dark hair. “My name is Elspeth of Huntingdon. And you’re mine, Alistair. Remember the prophecy.”
He stared down at her in mute frustration. “I only wish I could forget.”
6
“You aren’t going to abandon me here?” Elspeth demanded when Alistair dragged her into a huge room and then started for the door.
He paused, staring at her. “Would you prefer my company? I have five minutes to spare. Get on the bed and lift your skirts.”
He watched the faint color rise to her cheeks, but she managed a steadfast expression. “There is no need to be crude, my lord.”
“There’s every need. I am ruler of this castle, lord of this domain, placed here by his highness, King John. I have power over everyone, your family included, and I can do anything I damned well please. I can be crude, I can be vicious, I can be completely murderous if it takes my fancy. Get on the bed.”
She had a temper, his bride. That much he’d discovered early on. She turned to look for something to throw at him.
He was at her side, catching her arm before she could heft the heavy candelabrum. His fingers wrapped around her wrist so tightly he numbed it, and she dropped the heavy metal with a cry of pain.
He released her instantly, squashing the flash of guilt as swiftly as it came upon him. “You will learn not to defy me,” he said. “Unless you relish pain.”
“I was never particularly obedient,” she said quietly, rubbing her aching wrist.
He took her hand and he could see that it required all her willpower not to flinch as be brought her wrist to his mouth, kissing the red marks his long fingers had left.
He felt the hot chill run through her, and she shuddered, closing her eyes for a brief moment. He stared at her, obsessed, wanting her with an intensity that made him forget everything, including his suspicions, his desperate need for power. He stared at her, and all he wanted was her, her gentleness, her temper, her stubbornness, her humor. The thought terrified him, he, who had never known fear.
“De Lancey,” he bellowed, his eyes not leaving her.
“My lord?” he said, appearing in the open doorway.
Alistair still looked at her, and his fingers were caressing her wrist, unable to help himself. He had no choice. He had to send her away while he still could. “You will take Lady Elspeth back to the convent.”
“No!” she cried, trying to pull away from him in sudden despair.
He didn’t let her go. “The marriage will be annulled. Inform the bishop.”
“No,” she said again.
“By your command,” De Lancey said, and there was no missing the satisfaction in his voice. “I warned you, cousin. She’ll weaken you, and there’s no way you can hold your power if a woman gets in your way…”
“Silence!” Alistair thundered, still staring down at Elspeth’s miserable face, his fingers caressing her. And then he threw her hand away from him and stormed from the room without a backward glance.
He didn’t stop until he reached the courtyard. The people were scurrying away from him, as always, and he told himself he was pleased to have such a reputation for harshness. Doubtless they thought him capable of witchcraft at the very least, and no one dared disobey him.
Except for the man who’d killed Jenna. The man who professed to be his devoted servant, his best friend, cousin. The man he’d left alone with his bride.
It had been a simple enough matter to find who’d spent the last night with Jenna. De Lancey was possessed of any number of useful qualities—brutality, charm, deviousness, and a certain slyness that stood him well in the place of intelligence. But he was also cursed with an overweening vanity, one that threatened to rival Alistair’s own, and he had failed to realize his cousin knew him far too well.
He wouldn’t dare harm Elspeth while Alistair was close by, Alistair knew that much. Gilles would wait until he got her away from Huntingdon Keep. But she would never make it back to the convent. Some accident would befall her, and De Lancey would return alone, sorrowful, smirking when he thought no one would notice. And if Alistair had any sense at all he would allow him to do so, turning a blind eye while De Lancey did the dirty work.
But Alistair’s cool common sense seemed to have evaporated. De Lancey had been a useful tool, but now his usefulness was at an end. He would send Elspeth away from him, someplace distant where he could swiftly forget about her. But first he would kill De Lancey. Before De Lancey killed him.
Elspeth didn’t move. Misery and despair formed a tight ball inside her heart, burning through her soul. He couldn’t dismiss her so readily, so abruptly. She couldn’t let him do it.
“We’ll leave within the hour,” De Lancey said gently.
She turned to look at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I won’t go.”
“Yes, you will, my lady.”
“He’ll change his mind,” she cried, certain of no such thing.
But De Lancey suddenly looked unsure. “It’s possible,” he said. “It could be made to happen.” For a moment the notion didn’t look the slightest bit pleasing to him, and then he put his usual affable smile on his handsome face. “We could make it happen, my lady,” he continued. “If you love him, I will do everything I can to help you.”
Through her misery her Elspeth still retained a trace of suspicion. “Why?”
“Why, because he’s my lord and my cousin. I want only what’s best for him,” De Lancey said smoothly. “But we’ll have to be circumspect. He’s ordered me to take you back to the convent, and we’ll have to make him think we’re leaving. He doesn’t like his will to he crossed.”
“So I’ve observed,” Elspeth said faintly.
“You’ll need to change for the journey. Act as if to accept his decree. I’ll send one of the serving women with clothes for you.”
“Not Helva,” she begged, remembering the woman’s sour old face.
“No,” said De Lancey, with commendable sadness, “Not Helva. She’s dead.”
A sudden icy fear trickled through Elspeth’s body. “What do you mean?”
“Someone cut her throat last night. She was found in the tower bedroom, hidden behind some furniture. Someone butchered her in a mindless fury.”
“Not Alistair,” she said fiercely.
“Of course not,” De Lancey agreed softly, his eyes full of pity for her obvious naiveté. “Are you certain you don’t want me to get you safely away from here? While you can still go?”
“Very certain.”
De Lancey nodded, a certain grimness around his fine mouth. “Meet me in the outer chapel. If anyone questions you, say you’re going to make confession so that you may reenter the convent absolved of any worldly sins.” There was a pregnant pause. “Were there any worldly sins, my lady?”
She looked at him with a haughty expression worthy of her husband. “What business is it of yours, my lord?”
“None, of course,” he said hastily. “Remember, we’ll meet in the chapel. No one will be there at this time of day. We can talk privately.”
She watched him leave as she pulled the loose dress up over her shoulders again. She didn’t trust him, never had. But he was her only hope against her husband’s sudden decree, and she was willing to use anything and anyone to keep from being dismissed like so much unwanted baggage. She wouldn’t be sent away from him, back to the living death of the convent. She wouldn’t leave him, and she’d accept help from the devil himself to accomplish that.
Gilles De Lancey was almost angelic in his beauty. She was mad not to trust him. Mad not to want to escape with his help when she had the chance.
The chapel was a thatched wooden structure outside the keep, unpleasantly adjacent to the pigsties and the kitchens. Most cas
tles the size of Huntingdon Keep had a chapel inside, but Alistair had turned it into a gaming room, relegating whatever religious observances he tolerated to the older church building.
Elspeth half-expected someone to stop her as she made her way across the littered courtyard less than an hour later, but if anyone watched her, they did so covertly.
No one had ever shown up with a change of clothes for her and Elspeth had grown tired of waiting. If worse came to worst and she returned to the Sisters of the Everlasting Martyr in the blood-red dress of a witch, it wouldn’t be her fault. She wouldn’t even care if Reverend Mother refused her admittance.
The chapel was deserted when she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. Dust motes floated in the air, and the smell of incense almost overpowered the smell from the kitchen pits. Almost. Elspeth glanced around her, but there was no sign of Friar Parkin, no sign of anyone at all. She knelt at the ornately carved altar, crossing herself, trying to concentrate on prayer. But all she could think of was her husband.
“There you are.” De Lancey’s voice seemed to come from directly above her, and it took all Elspeth’s self control not to jump. She forced herself to keep her head down, to continue the prayer that had only a fraction of her attention, before crossing herself again and looking upward.
“Where is Friar Parkin?” she asked, sitting back on her heels.
“You didn’t really want to see him, did you? I thought we were going to make plans for your future.”
There was something about the smug expression in his bright blue eyes, the faint swagger in his muscular body, that sent a chill of apprehension through Elspeth. “I had wanted to make my confession.”
“Make it to me, my lady. I’d delight to hear the details. You must have hidden talents, to turn Alistair into such a wreck. I’ve never tried a nun.”
Her back stiffened. “You said you would help me.”
“And so I will. I want you to come away with me, dear lady. Alistair doesn’t want you, but I do. I have no objections to taking his leavings—I’ve done so often enough. My home is small but snug, and I’m certain I can keep you well distracted. I’m considered a talented lover.”
The man was actually preening. Elspeth held her hands together tightly, afraid he might see she was trembling. There was something dark and evil in the ancient chapel, something she’d never felt before, and never in the presence of her supposedly wicked husband.
“I have no need for a lover,” she said calmly. “I wish only for my husband.”
“But he doesn’t wish for you.”
She tried not to flinch at his bald pronouncement. “I think he does. He just doesn’t want to admit it.”
De Lancey sauntered into the chapel, coming up close to her, and once again she noticed the long, jeweled dagger at his belt. “It makes no difference, dear lady,” he said. “He’s not going to have you. You weaken him, and he must be strong, merciless. I intend to see to it.”
She saw his move coming bare moments before he made it. The jeweled knife flashed out, but she had already ducked, rolling along the dust-laden floor, her blood-red dress wrapped around her.
She wasn’t fast enough. He leaped for her, and she felt the sudden stinging pain in her neck before she kicked him, hard, scrambling away on her hands and knees as he howled in rage. She made it only a few feet before she was brought up short, the ample material of the dress caught in the intricate carving of the altar.
“Little bitch,” Gilles panted, crawling after her. “I’ll cut your throat like I did those other whores. Everyone is terrified of the high and mighty sheriff of Huntingdon, but little do they know it’s me they’re frightened of. I’m the one who’s made a pact with the devil. I’m the one who will do what needs to be done. Including getting rid of you. I’m the real power here, the terror. And those fools don’t even begin to realize it.”
“Most edifying, cousin.” Alistair’s bored voice came from the back of the chapel. “You may be far more merciless than I am, but you lack one essential ingredient for success in this life.”
It took Gilles only a moment to recover from his shock. He scrambled to his feet, the knife still gripped in one hand, and Elspeth could see the bright red of her blood on the shiny blade. “And what’s that, my lord sheriff?” Gilles said mockingly. “A sense of humanity? Decency? Honor?”
“Heavens, no,” Alistair replied. “I’ve never been troubled much by those. What you lack, dear Gilles, is intelligence. Had you been blessed with it, you would have known that I haven’t trusted you for months. I was waiting for you to betray yourself. I knew you would sooner or later. I rather thought I’d catch you with that poor girl, but unfortunately, I was distracted by my bride. That will be remedied.”
“Cousin,” Gilles said, suddenly persuasive, “I’ve done it all for you. You rule by terror, yet you’ve been able to keep your conscience clean. I’ve done your dirty work for you, and been glad of the chance to serve you. You don’t want to be burdened with this wench, you said so yourself. A man of your discriminating tastes can’t be satisfied with a skinny nun, no matter how many forests she brings you. I was simply going to take care of the matter for you, as I’ve taken care of so many in the past. I’ve punished them all, for you. Helva, for letting the wench escape. You haven’t wanted to know the details, you’ve just wanted results. Turn your back, return to the keep, and forget about this afternoon. You’ll be a widower, wealthier by one of the finest forests in this part of England, and no one to trouble you.”
“As I said, Gilles,” Alistair remarked pleasantly, “you are most definitely a fool.”
Elspeth had been tugging at the dress, trying to rip it free, but for all that the material was ancient, it was still very strong. Her neck was wet, and she knew the dampness came from her own blood, but she refused to think about it, too intent on freeing herself, too intent on the confrontation between the man who looked like the devil and the man who was the devil.
She saw Gilles move, the knife slashing, and she screamed out a warning, but Alistair was out of range, disappearing into the darkness in the back of the small chapel.
Gilles laughed, a pleasant, benevolent chuckle. “So be it,” he said. “I’ll do you both, you know. People know the prophecy, cousin; I’ve made certain they’ve heard it. ‘Flame and fire destroy them both, death and rebirth, blood their troth.’ I only wanted to serve you. You and I shared so much. The same love of power, the same lack of weakness. I never would have been distracted by a woman. Perhaps I’m better off without you interfering.”
“How are you going to manage the flame, Gilles?” Alistair’s mocking voice floated forward.
“Oh, quite easily, dear cousin. I was already planning it for your lady wife. I will simply send you to your doom along with her. You can’t escape, you know. There’s no way out back there, and I’ll be waiting by the front. I’ll run you through—it won’t matter. No one will find your body until you’re too blackened and burned for people to know what actually killed you.”
“Don’t you think my people might notice if the chapel goes up in smoke in the middle of the day?” Alistair sounded as reasonable as Gilles did, as if they were discussing the proper deployment of troops, or where the best fishing was to be had. “I’ve tried my best to rid them of their foolish, sentimental religion, but I’m afraid I’ve failed. They do cling to the old ways, and would do anything to keep their shabby little chapel from burning. And who’s to say it won’t spread to the stables, and on to the kitchens?”
“There are other horses. Other kitchens. And I’m afraid there’s no one around to come to your assistance. They have orders—from you, I told them—to keep to their houses, no matter what. They’re too terrified of you to disobey. Even if they hear your wife’s screams for help, they won’t interfere.”
“You’re probably right, dear cousin,” Alistair reflected. “Then I expect it behooves me to save myself.”
“You can always try, dear Alistair,” Gilles said
gently as he slipped out the door, slamming it behind him.
In a flash Alistair hurtled out of the darkness, throwing himself against the door, but it was already barred. He pounded on it, his formidable voice raining curses and imprecations at De Lancey’s golden head, but the smoke was already seeping through the door, crackling noisily with the hungry sound of dry tinder.
“Damn!” Alistair said, whirling around and storming to the darkened end of the chapel.
“He said there was no exit there,” Elspeth called after him, still yanking at her dress.
“He’s an idiot,” Alistair shot back. “I’m not about to be a roasted pig for his delectation.” And he began slamming his body at a spot in the far wall.
The flames had spread rapidly, licking up the sides of the wall and edging toward the thatch. Elspeth gave one more mighty yank of the dress, and the material ripped. Instead of freedom, however, it brought the ancient altar down on her leg with a painful crash, trapping her even more securely.
The smoke was filling her lungs and her eyes, and she could no longer see. She could hear Alistair cursing, however, and the sound was oddly reassuring. Flames were filling the dust-dry building, blocking any possible exit. But Alistair would escape. It would be a small victory.
“Where the hell are you?” his voice snarled through the thick smoke.
“I’m trapped,” she said between fits of coughing. “You go ahead and save yourself.”
“For God’s sake,” he snapped, “get on your feet and get out of here.”
“I can’t.”
The thatch had caught, setting the entire ceiling ablaze. It wouldn’t be long, and Elspeth expected it would be painful, and she only hoped she wouldn’t scream. Despite Alistair’s protestations of cold-bloodedness, she didn’t think he’d want to hear her scream.
A shape loomed up out of the smoke with such suddenness she did scream. The heavy altar was shoved off her leg, and she was hauled to her feet, then up into her husband’s arms. “Hide your face against my chest,” he ordered, and started through the flames.