Love Never Lies

by Rachel Donnelly

  Poor fool.

  Fortin thinks me as meek as my sister. He thinks I’d never attempt to flee. She wished she could see his face when he came to Lara’s cottage to gloat and found her missing.

  ***

  The hall burst to overflowing with Lord Beaufort and Alec’s men crammed within. Even removed at the high table, the noise battered Alec’s ears, threatening to breach his good sense. ‘Twas time to quit dicing and seek his pallet. They rode in the morn to take Highburn. Much strength would be needed to carry him through the upcoming siege.

  “God’s breath! You are the luckiest knave that ever walked.” Beaufort stared agog at the dice Alec tossed on the table. “I’ll rub your helm on the morrow.”

  Alec chuckled. “Don’t rub it too hard, I pray. It’s likely to split.”

  “’Tis not the ale I wager, but Hilda’s shrill cries still ringing in your head.” Laughter clung to Beaufort’s words. “I warned you not to bed the wench.”

  “Yea, but you failed to tell me she would howl like a cat and scrape her nails down my back.” Alec winced, remembering the sharp weapons. The scars had not yet healed. “That’ll teach me to listen to you the next time I need sate my lust.”

  “Listen to me? That’s rich!” Beaufort threw back his head and laughed. “I warned you away.”

  “Yea, in a tone that implied you were trying to keep some precious treasure for yourself.”

  “I can’t be blamed for your strange tastes,” Beaufort said, his lips twitching as he struggled to keep the smile from his face. “You’d hump a gong farmer’s daughter if she but threw up her skirts.”

  Alec flung him a look of mock reproach. “My tastes are liberal, but I’ve never sunk that low. I’ve bedded a milkmaid or two, but none that scratched my back raw or screeched their pleasure so loud they left me deaf.”

  Beaufort leaned forward in his chair. “Then ‘tis best you left the Lady Isabeau in your baker’s care. After stealing her dowry, ‘tis likely she’d tear up more than your back.”

  “Better there, than lounging at my hearth.”

  “Ohhhh?” Beaufort lifted one golden brow. “According to William she’s wondrously fair. He speaks her name with reverence. Once started on the subject, you can’t shut him up.”

  “Yea, she’s changed so much, I wouldn’t have known her for the leggy sapling I met flitting about Agnew’s hall.” His tone turned harsh despite all efforts to control his rancor. “But her blood’s the same. The mere sight of her twists my guts.”

  “And stirs your blood.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Hmm, but that’s really what’s eating at you isn’t it,” Beaufort prodded.

  “No!!!”

  “Then ‘tis well you’ve put her from you.” Beaufort sent him a considering look. “Though I’m not certain leaving her with the widow was such a wise choice. ‘Tis a hard existence for one not accustomed to heavy work. You can’t collect the ransom if she’s dead.”

  Alec gave a derisive snort. “When I rode by the widow’s cottage ere I left, she didn’t appear overly taxed.” A hint of annoyance crept into his voice, remembering how happy she looked until she spotted him. How she flicked him a heated look, then strode back inside the cottage, shielding Lara’s babe against her body as though he might eat the lad. By the time he rode away, he felt more a trespasser than lord of the land. “’Twill take more than a little hard work to kill that one.”

  A young page appeared on the other side of the high table scuffling his feet. “Beggin’ your pardon, my lord. But Aldwin bade me fetch you on a matter of importance.”

  “That paunchy loafer doth try my patience to the core.” Beaufort let forth a low growl. “He acts more lord than servant of this keep.”

  Alec rose to his feet. “I’ll leave you to confer with your steward then.” The hour grew late. He had no patience for domestic affairs. There would be plenty of that to contend with when Highburn fell into his hands. For now, he was thankful to seek his pallet and lose himself in sleep.

  He crossed the hall to the stone stairs, waving off raucous calls from his men.

  Once aloft he wasted no time finding the bedchamber allotted to him. He pushed opened the door to find a candle burning and a fire crackling in the grate. At last—blissful solitude. His eyes began to droop before he drew back the pelts on the bed.

  But it seemed as though his head had barely hit the pillow when he heard a pounding at the door.

  What now?

  He muttered an oath and reached for his braies at the end of the bed.

  Likely Will was scrapping again.

  God’s teeth! When would he learn, he was not skilled enough to take on someone twice his size? If he had to sit up with Will all night again, when the lad recovered, by the Lord, he’d beat some sense into him once and for all.

  ***

  Isabeau hugged her arms around her waist, wishing she hadn’t relinquished her mantle to the rotund steward. She did her best to keep her teeth from chattering as she followed Lord Beaufort from the dampness of the entrance alcove, but she could not control the tremor rattling through her limbs.

  Something about him seemed oddly familiar, but then many noblemen visited her uncle’s hall. Her mind was likely playing tricks on her. She was dead tired—all but asleep on her feet.

  He gave no sign that he knew her, and seemed very sympathetic to her plight.

  Isabeau kept her thoughts focused on the promise of a nice warm bed. But ‘twas difficult to maintain one’s dignity with a wet crown of braids weighing down her head and her blue kirtle clinging to her like a second skin.

  As it turned out, Kirkford Castle was much further from the village than she thought. ‘Twas well past dark by the time she trudged up the long winding road to the gates. But not before the heavens opened to slash cold rain down upon her. All she yearned for now was a soft pallet and a cup of sweet wine to warm her blood again.

  A staggering hush fell over the hall as they entered.

  Isabeau kept her eyes on Lord Beaufort’s back, praying he would lead her directly to the stairs.

  A string of low whispers followed her steps.

  But at that moment, she was too relieved to find sanctuary and too weary to care. Her feet hurt—nay, they did not just hurt, they were on fire, and the linen of her chemise chafed against her skin like wet sand.

  When Beaufort came to an unexpected stop, she lifted her gaze to look past him. What she beheld made her breath catch in her throat.

  Her blood froze.

  There, on the last step of the stone stairs, stood her captor, Fortin.

  Her mind went blank.

  Then, self-preservation took hold. Her heart began to beat at a furious rate. She turned on her heel to run, only to find Lord Beaufort blocking her path. At twice her size and only an arm’s length away, there was no getting past him. With nowhere to flee, she stood her ground, flashing him an accusing glare. “You tricked me!”

  “And for that I’m truly sorry.” His grave tone was at odds with the twinkle in his hazel eyes. “But as you can see, my friend would not have been very happy if I’d let you leave.”

  She muttered an oath then spun back around. But her anger soon fled.

  The scowl on Fortin’s face as he strode toward her confirmed Beaufort’s words. “Come,” he said clasping her firmly by the arm.

  Chapter Three

  “Nay!” She attempted to jerk from his grasp. “I’ll not go anywhere with you.”

  He didn’t answer, but instead began towing her toward the stairs. She struggled and squirmed attempting to twist away, but this only caused him to tighten his grip. Not that there was anywhere to go if she did pry him loose. The hall was full to overflowing with his and Beaufort’s men.

  Halfway up the stairs he stopped, pinning her shoulders against the cold, stone wall with both hands, his voice low and menacing. “Would you prefer I carried you up the stairs?”

  Tears stung her eyes from bashing her shins
on the flags, which could have been avoided had she gone meekly, but who could go anywhere meekly with a man who hated the very sight of you? Despite this, she managed to keep the quaver of fear from her voice. “Nay! I would prefer that I’d never met you—that you were never born. But never would I wish for you to touch me again!”

  “You’ll have more to worry about than me touching you, if you don’t come with me right now.”

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “’Tis not I, but the army of men below in the hall you should fear. Now that they’ve seen what lies beneath that fine cloth, they’ll surely trample each other to get to you.”

  Isabeau gazed down at the blue kirtle plastered to her like a wet rag, realizing why the hall had gone as quiet as a chapel when Beaufort drew her forth. Without her mantle every angle and curve of her body lay exposed to their greedy gaze.

  “Come.” Fortin gave a tug to her arm, giving no time for her hot cheeks to cool. “The hour grows late, and in case it has escaped your notice, I’m not happy at being wrenched from my bed.”

  The grim set of his mouth warned her against further defiance.

  When he pulled her away from the wall, she allowed him to lead her the rest of the way up the stairs. He continued to haul her along the drafty, dim-lit corridor until they reached the third oak door.

  Once inside, he released her.

  She wasted no time whirling away from him to seek the warmth of the fire. But she was careful not to take her eyes off him. Her heart boomed in her ears like a blacksmith’s anvil. What would he do with her now—lock her in chains? She could not bear confinement. In fact, she feared it more than the dark shadows of the woods. She savored the company of others. Solitude, with too much time to think, had always been her enemy.

  “You’ll sleep here tonight,” he said, striding to the end of the bed to retrieve his hauberk and sword. “Don’t look so hopeful.” His tone turned wry. “There’ll be a guard posted beyond the door.”

  “Where would I go?” She bit out each word distinctly, wishing she had more than words to fling at him. “You’ve taken all of my clothes. I’m soaked to the skin.”

  “If you had any sense, you wouldn’t have ventured forth in such a storm in the first place,” he said in a flat tone, lacking any shred of sympathy. “‘Tis likely you’ll catch your death of cold.”

  Isabeau choked down a hysterical laugh, holding her shaking hands over the fire. “A little late to pretend concern for my welfare, don’t you think?”

  “You’re nothing to me. ‘Tis the ransom I care about.”

  The coldness in his voice, and her own disappointment at failing to escape, made her words bitter as she turned to level her gaze on him. “Would that I were nothing—‘twould be easier to disappear. But I am something to many people, just as the ones you love and hold tight to your heart. So if you wish to collect your ransom, ‘twould be wise if you did not manhandle me again.” She turned her back on him with a dismissive toss of her head, to continue rubbing warmth into her stiff hands.

  He gave a short humorless laugh. “Your uncle doesn’t wield the same power as he did in the past. And as I understand it, your parents have no great wealth, only land. They have no means to come to your rescue.”

  Isabeau’s chest tightened. ’Twas true. She certainly didn’t need him to tell her that. Barak had rubbed her face in it for most of her life. But her family had love, and that was worth more than coffers of silver. “You forget my betrothed,” she said, turning to meet Fortin’s blue gaze. “You must admit, together he and my uncle make a formidable foe.”

  A strange expression chased across his face. His tone softened. “Mayhap you should leave your betrothed to issue his own threats, my lady, as you are in no position to do so.”

  His bold confidence chafed, adding greater injury to her already wounded pride. The words left her mouth before she could check them. “Yea, I’ll leave it to him to thrust his sword through your cold villainous heart!”

  He lifted a brow, the hint of a smile curving his lips as he turned to go.

  She watched him stride to the door, wishing she had a sword of her own right then.

  But as the door closed behind him, she knew she would never use it.

  Her weary shoulders eased of tension when he had gone. But his presence lingered well after his leave-taking—the jumble of pelts tossed haphazardly atop the bed, the scent of ale and leather, all spoke of him.

  Isabeau rebelled at coming in close contact with anything he touched, lest his anger and hatred rub off, but she had little choice. She needed rest. She was so exhausted, she could not think.

  After unbraiding her hair, she shed her wet clothes and laid them across the bench by the fire, then scrambled beneath the pelts and closed her eyes, one hand clasping the smooth cool surface of the ruby amulet.

  But this night ‘twas not thoughts of her betrothed that flashed through her brain, keeping sleep at bay—‘twas the face of her captor, Fortin.

  ***

  “William!” Isabeau pounded against the oak door of the bedchamber with her fists. “I want to see Fortin! Do you hear me? I wish to speak with him at once!” For three long days she had been shut up in this room, with naught to do but feed the fire and pace the flags. If she did not see daylight soon, she would go mad.

  Each time William came to bring her food or more wood, she questioned him about her uncle. But he had no word of the ransom. His only answer was to shrug and say vaguely, that Fortin would tell her when he returned.

  But the hall was not as quiet as it had been these past two nights. Many hours ago, the faint sound of laughter and merriment had begun to seep beneath her door.

  Fortin must be down there.

  He must have returned. Why else was William absent, if not to see to that wayward knight’s needs. Why else, when up until now William had been so vigilant regarding her care, sneaking delicacies, like dried apples and spiced walnuts onto her tray, under the rim of her plate.

  Yet today, nothing.

  She had not eaten since morn. The gnawing hunger in her belly added to her distress. Was she to forego her supper because that pampered knave needed his squire at his elbow to cut his meat and fill his every cup?

  She raised her fist to pound again, but the sound of the key scraping in the iron lock stilled her hand.

  So.

  He had finally come.

  Wait until she got her hands on him.

  But when the door swung opened, ‘twas not William on the other side but Fortin.

  Isabeau took at step back.

  ‘Twas not so much his great height or the wide span of his shoulders that made her heart leap, ‘twas the smile curling his lips, revealing his straight white teeth. If the sight of her made him happy, something was amiss.

  He smelled of fresh air and sunshine—something she had craved for days. The blue of his eyes made her yearn for the sky and the wind, but more than that, the glitter in their depths made her want to know what he was up to.

  She folded her arms under her bosom, wishing she had taken the time to braid her hair that morn. The way his eyes licked over her with insolent freedom, shredded her dignity to bits—making her go weak at the knees.

  “Good eventide, my lady. I trust you’re enjoying your stay with us.” ‘Twas more of a taunt than a question.

  She wrinkled her nose at the smell of ale on his breath. “I hope you’ve not left your celebration to ask me that, my lord, or I’m afraid you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

  He arched one brow and grinned. “Ah, so you don’t like it here? Mayhap you should have stayed with the widow, where I left you, instead of attempting to escape.”

  “’Tis true,” she conceded, ignoring his mocking tone. “I have no wish to debate the issue. But if you have word from my Uncle, I should like to hear it.”

  He folded both arms across his broad chest. “What makes you think that?”

  Isabeau’s heart sank. She had assumed his light-hearted
mood was a result of her ransom—that he had come to tell her he would let her go. “Is that not why you’re celebrating?”

  “I have no word of the ransom. But, the siege to return the lands King Stephen bestowed on me and your Uncle’s vassal failed to give up, is well underway.”

  This didn’t shock her, as the barons squabbled over territory frequently. ‘Twas likely her Uncle’s vassal had good reason not to relinquish his claim. The King’s word would not change that, since his army was less powerful than many of the barons under him. “Why are you here then?” She failed to keep the bitterness from her voice, but from the lift of his brow, he didn’t fail to detect it. “Do your men not require your presence, if you’re waging a siege?”

  A wolfish smile spread over his lips. “I feared you missed me. Beaufort agreed to take first watch.”

  The predatory gleam in his eyes made her tremble, but Isabeau kept her tone calm, refusing to rise to his taunt. “Yea, I’ve missed you, but only in so much as to know the state of your suit for my ransom.”

  “The exchange will be made in time,” he said with a shrug. “But until then, I’ve decided you should make yourself useful.”

  Her heart gave a thud.

  She didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Twas likely he thought to punish her for trying to escape. Her mind raced with the possibilities, but there was nothing she could do to prevent it; she was at his mercy. There was no one to come to her rescue should she decide to resist.

  She stared back at him mutely, with what she hoped was a bland expression on her face.

  What would it be—the kitchens, the bathhouse, or some other lowly fate. Nay, ‘twas not likely the bathhouse, for fear she might geld one of his men.

  The Garderobe mayhap?

  She cringed at the thought.

  Whatever it was, the satisfied look on his face warned her ‘twould not prove pleasant.

  Chapter Four