Beyond Reason

by Avril Borthiry

  “Just cold.” She forced another smile of her own. “I'm sure I shall rally once I've warmed up.”

  He muttered a curse under his breath and steered her into the tavern.

  “Stay here,” he said, settling her into the corner by the fire and summoning Mary to her side. “I'll be back in a moment.”

  Isobel shivered and held her hands out to the flames, wrinkling her nose at the thick atmosphere. Odours of damp clothes and unwashed bodies mingled with those of warm ale and kitchen offerings. A hum of conversation rose and fell around her as folk exchanged greetings and chat. The fire was a fine one, blazing bright, and Isobel revelled in the warmth of it.

  She glanced over her shoulder to see Robert talking to a serving girl. The wench made no bones about giving Robert the best possible view of her generous cleavage. If he noticed the maid's ample gifts he showed no sign of it, instead gesturing over to where Isobel sat.

  “The master 'as a fond eye for you, m'lady,” Mary said.

  Chills forgotten, Isobel looked at the maid with a sense of irritation. “I don't know where you get that idea, Mary, nor do I think it's your place to voice it. Least of all to me.”

  Mary chuckled and patted Isobel's hand. “I might be lackin' in the social graces my lovely, but I'm not blind.”

  “Nonsense. You've been listening to gossip.”

  “Nay.” Mary shook her head. “I pay no attention to gossip. Forms me own opinions, I do. 'Tis plain Lord Montgomery has a fondness for you. Too bad 'e's betrothed to another. Nothin' could ever come of – ”

  “That's enough,” Isobel snapped. “You'll speak no more of this to me or anyone else. Is that clear?”

  The maid shrugged and turned away. Isobel swallowed against a lump in her throat and focused her attention on the hypnotic dance of the flames. Immersed in speculation, she jumped when someone touched her arm. She turned to see strange man leering at her, and cringed at the smell of stale ale on his breath. The man grinned, his mouth displaying a mouth full of stained and crooked teeth.

  “G'day, m'lady.” He swayed and grabbed Isobel's arm to steady himself. “Such a sad sight ye are, a pretty little lass sittin' 'ere all lonely, like.”

  Isobel tried to tug her arm free. ”Release me, sir. I'm not– ”

  Something – or rather someone – yanked the man away from Isobel with such force that she let out a cry of alarm.

  “Take your hands off her, you bastard!” Robert's fist found the man's face, and the unmistakable crunch of bone made Isobel wince. The man crumpled to the ground, blood gushing from his nose. Robert hovered over him like a predator with its prey, his bloodied hand now drawing his sword from its scabbard. “I should kill you, you filthy–”

  Shaken by the fury she saw in Robert's eyes, Isobel stood and tugged at his sleeve. “Stop, my lord,” she cried. “Please, stop.”

  A large shape stepped between them and pulled Robert away from the man who lay semi-conscious on the floor.

  “Easy, my lord,” Bernard said. “The lady isn't injured and the man is past feeling.”

  “Release me,” Robert snarled, shaking his arms free of his friend's hold.

  “Readily.” Bernard gestured to the man who lay bleeding at their feet. “If you promise not to kill the poor sot. His nose is already beyond hope.”

  “No man touches my....” Robert slid his sword back into its sheath and took a deep breath, as if all at once aware of the numerous eyes upon him. “He should not have put his hands on the lady.”

  “God's blood, Montgomery.” A voice boomed across the room. “If this is how you defend a woman of no consequence, I'll have little fear for my daughter's safety.”

  A woman of no consequence?

  Puzzled by the remark, Isobel's eyes sought out the owner of the voice.

  Noble in stature, the man flicked her a nonchalant glance. Grey hair, matching a healthy growth of beard, tumbled in a mass to the man's shoulders. A fur-lined cloak of rich blue velvet draped his large frame. The fine sword at his hip rested in a flamboyant silver-edged scabbard. A wealthy man, without doubt. But who...?

  A young woman stepped to the man's side, her expression one of mild distaste as she took in the scene before her. Large brown eyes gazed out of an exquisite, heart-shaped face. Hair as dark as Robert's had been braided with undoubted expertise – not an errant wisp in sight. Edge with ermine, her red velvet cloak swept to the floor, gracing what, Isobel imagined, was a perfect figure. An odd rushing sound arose in her ears as understanding dawned and Mary's hand slid into hers.

  “Lord Willoughby.” Robert straightened and approached the man. “This is most unexpected.”

  “Indeed it is, and a pleasant coincidence, although I'd have preferred a more suitable setting for an introduction.” Willoughby cleared his throat and turned to the young woman beside him. “ Lord Montgomery, may I present your betrothed? This is my daughter, the Lady Joanna.”

  Something unseen slammed into Isobel. The force of it stole the breath from her lungs and the strength from her limbs. She watched as Robert lifted Joanna's hand to his lips. The girl inclined her head, studying her intended with obvious curiosity. Isobel couldn't help but compare herself to the woman who was to be Robert's wife.

  Joanna Willoughby was stunning. Beautiful.

  Perfect.

  The silence that had ensued during the scuffle ended, and chatter, once again, filled the inn's walls. Despite the intelligible drone of voices, Lord Willoughby's comment echoed over and over in Isobel's mind.

  A woman of no consequence.

  It felt like the wings had been ripped from her soul. She wanted to run, to escape the scene unfolding before her, but she knew her trembling legs would not permit her to do so.

  “Drink this.” Bernard's quiet voice broke into Isobel's torment. She blinked as a goblet appeared before her, the smell of mulled wine turning her stomach. She shook her head.

  “I can't,” she whispered. “I can't. Please, Bernard. Take me out of here, I beg of you.”

  His jaw stiffened as he offered his arm. Isobel grabbed it, swaying as she struggled to stay upright. Thankful for Bernard's support, she allowed him to lead her from the inn, lowering her gaze as she passed Robert and Joanna.

  A damp, grey world awaited them beyond the tavern door. Isobel resisted the urge to release Bernard's arm and run off into the mist. Where, though, would she go? As if sensing her thoughts, Bernard took her hand and steered her into the shelter of the stables. There he studied at her with an expression of unwelcome sympathy.

  “Isobel, try to– ”

  “What? Understand? I understand very well, Bernard. Please, just leave me alone.”

  Beyond solace, Isobel tugged her hand free of his and stumbled into the farthest corner, grateful for the solitude and the shadows. She collapsed against the wall, her chest aching from the knot of emotion beneath her ribs.

  God help me, I'm a fool. Such a fool.

  Her solitude didn't last long.

  “Where is she?”

  Isobel covered her face with her hands at the sound of Robert's voice.

  No, stay away. Please stay away.

  Bernard's response must have been a silent gesture, for the next sound was that of approaching footsteps – Robert's, no doubt. Her body stiffened as his strong arms lifted her from the wall and held her close.

  “Ah, sweetheart.” Robert breath warmed the skin on her neck. “I'm so sorry. I didn't know they'd be here. Please, Angel don't cry. Look at me, will you?”

  She did so, willing her tears away as she gazed up him. Shadows played across his face, softening the lines of worry in his expression. His hand slid down her spine and pulled her closer. She lifted her chin, ignoring the treasonous flutter of desire in her belly. “I'm not crying. I'm merely contemplating our future, or the lack of it.”

  His eyes narrowed. “We don't yet know what the future holds,” he said, “but I cannot imagine mine without you in it.”

  Isobel shook her head.
“How can I possibly compete with such a woman? She's...she's so beautiful.”

  To her surprise, he chuckled. “Compete? There's no contest, Isobel. You have me already. How can you doubt it after last night? Aye, Joanna is indeed a beauty, but such a mere mortal could never please me. It's a little red-haired angel I desire. The one I hold right now, in my arms.”

  “But you're not betrothed to me, you're betrothed to her.” How petty she sounded. She lowered her tone. “Forgive me, but I don't think I can do this, Robert. I don't have the strength for it.”

  He gave a long, drawn-out sigh, and stroked an errant curl from her face. “When that drunken idiot put his hands on you, I wanted to kill him. You are mine, Isobel. I love you more than you know and cannot conceive of losing you. If you need strength, take it from me. I have more than enough for us both.”

  She groaned and dropped her forehead against his chest. “But don't you see? I'm faced with an impossible choice. Do I become your mistress? Or slowly die of heartbreak while I watch you with another? Either way, I shall be in pain.”

  “Then you, and not Joanna, must become my wife.”

  Her gaze snapped back to his. “But you can't refuse a bride chosen for you by the king.”

  “It would not be wise to do so,” he agreed. “But don't despair. I have some thoughts on the matter.”

  From the doorway, Bernard coughed. Isobel tensed and tried to pull away, but Robert held her fast. “Wait,” he whispered. “I need to do this.”

  His mouth covered hers, his bold tongue demanding entry. She gave it, and melted against him. Desire pooled in her belly, stoked further by the feel of his arousal pressing against her. He lifted his head as the sound of voices drifted into the stable and Isobel stepped back against the wall.

  Robert frowned. “There's no need to hide yourself.”

  Inwardly, she cursed her lack of courage, but couldn't find it in herself to watch Robert bid his future wife farewell. “I know, but I... I'd rather wait until they're gone.”

  “As you wish, but know this, Isobel De Clancy.” His jaw tightened as he touched his fingers to her cheek. “You're the only woman of any consequence to me.”

  Chapter 10

  The irony did not go amiss with Robert as he studied his betrothed. Sat atop her pretty grey mare, Joanna was a picture of elegance even against a backdrop of miserable grey skies. She had all the attributes he, and most other men, would find desirable in a wife. No doubt her face would turn most men's heads, and she possessed curves that begged to be explored. The intricacies of Joanna's character, of course, were unknown to Robert, but the lass appeared to exude chastity and gentleness.

  All this and a generous dowry were his for the taking.

  Yet, as Robert met Joanna's gaze, nothing stirred in his heart or loins. Her beauty did not surpass the vision he beheld in his eyes. Guilt weighed on him somewhat. After all, the innocent maid had no idea that another woman had already captured his heart.

  Willoughby's voice pulled Robert from his musing to remind him of what the future, for the time being at least, held.

  “We'll see you at month's end, Montgomery.” The baron sat atop a sturdy black stallion that pawed the ground with impatient hooves. “I trust everything will be ready at that god-forsaken keep of yours?”

  “Indeed it will, my lord.” Robert smiled up at Joanna, his burden of guilt growing. “Until then, my lady?”

  Joanna inclined her head and fingered the crucifix that rested against her breast. Had he imagined the flicker of reluctance in her eyes? “Aye,” she replied. “Until then, my lord.”

  A measure of relief settled on Robert as the fog swallowed all traces of Willoughby's entourage. He nodded to Bernard and received a nod of acknowledgement in return – a silent signal to assemble the escort. They still had much to do that day.

  ~ ~ ~

  Robert eyed the loaded wagon with a sense of satisfaction. Around him, the knights of Glendennan were gathered, readying for the journey home. From a rough start, it had turned into a reasonable day. Even the weather had improved, although the air still had a chill to it, and the threat of more rain lingered.

  “Is there anything left in this miserable town?” Bernard muttered, eyeing the spoils piled up on the wagon.

  “Aye, unfortunately there is.” Robert grinned. “Next time we'll bring two wagons.”

  Bernard laughed, and shifted his gaze to the bleak skies. “We'd best be leaving soon if we're to be back before dark.”

  “Rally the men, then, and we'll leave right away.”

  “Will do.” Bernard gestured to where Isobel stood talking to Mary. “How is she?”

  Robert followed his gaze. “She's fine,” he replied, noting the pallor of Isobel's skin, the slight slump of her shoulders. She looked tired. Strained. Far from fine, in fact.

  He wandered over to where they stood, dismissing Mary to her place in the wagon before speaking to Isobel.

  “Ready to go, Angel?” he asked, wanting to gather her in his arms. “Would you prefer to ride back, or would you rather sit in the wagon with Mary?”

  Isobel smiled at him, although a shadow of sadness remained in her eyes. It had been there since the episode at the inn that morning.

  “Yes, I'm ready, my lord” she said, drawing her cloak around her. “And I'd rather ride with you than sit in the wagon.”

  “Are you cold?”

  “Perhaps a little. I'll warm up once we get moving, no doubt.”.

  “I intend to warm you thoroughly later.” Robert slipped off his cloak, smiling at the sweet flush of rose on Isobel's cheeks. “In the meantime, my love, put this on.”

  She shook her head. “Oh, no, Robert. There's no need – ”

  “I'll hear no argument.” He wrapped it around her. “Come, let's get you to your horse.”

  Twilight had settled on the group by the time they descended into the wooded valley south of Glendennan. Fatigue and the chilly air had subdued much of the conversation. Even Mary sat silent, nodding off against Harry's shoulder on the wagon, much to his obvious discomfort. The only sounds were those of hooves, harness and the rumble of wagon wheels.

  Isobel had spoken little for the entire ride. Unsettled by her mood, Robert glanced at her often, but she seemed lost in thought and rarely caught his gaze. At last, he sidled Argyle over to her as they entered the shadowed tangle of the woods.

  “Glendennan is just over the next rise, my lady.”

  “I confess I shall not be sorry to see it, my lord.” Brow furrowed, she glanced around. “What a dismal place. Will we be home before dark?”

  “Aye, I think so.” Troubled by her obvious unease, he leaned closer. “Have no fear, sweetheart. You're quite safe with – ” His voice halted as the air around them hissed with a sudden and familiar sound. A moment of utter disbelief dissolved into bone-chilling realization, for Robert knew the sound well. The last time he'd heard it had been on a French battlefield.

  Arrows.

  “Ambush,” he shouted, reaching for Isobel's reins.

  Startled, the little mare reared and pulled away. Isobel gasped and grabbed a handful of mane as the horse cavorted in fear. The air rang with the sound of broadswords being pulled from scabbards as the knights closed ranks.

  “I see them.” Bernard pulled his sword and pointed. “There! In the trees to the left. Shield yourselves.”

  Robert saw nothing but the fear on Isobel's face and the whiteness of her knuckles as she gripped the mane.

  “Hold on,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “Lean back in the saddle and hold on.”

  Yet he realized, even as he reached for her, that he could not prevent the inevitable. He saw panic in the horse's eyes and knew...

  Oh, Christ.

  With a buck that unseated Isobel further, the terrified mare surged through the ranks, veered off the path and bolted into the woods. Time stopped for Robert. All movement around him seemed to halt and the frantic shouts of his men faded to silence. The only soun
d was that of a heart, beating like a drum in his ears, and a man's desperate voice, calling Isobel's name.

  His heart. His voice.

  The scene played out like a nightmare – one where he couldn't move or speak. He could only watch as the gnarled limb of a tree struck Isobel's head with a vicious thud. The force of the impact lifted her into the air, where she seemed to hang for a moment as if held by an invisible hand. Then the hand opened and she fell, limp and silent, to the cold ground.

  In a flash, the world around him came alive again. Years of military training pulled his scattered emotions together and sharpened his senses. Cold fury thrust his anguish aside as he grabbed the hilt of his sword and pulled it from the scabbard. He assessed their predicament.

  The shields had served to deflect the fall of the arrows. None of the missiles as far as Robert could tell, had found a mark. Odd, he thought, given the close proximity of the archers. It had been a brief, senseless attack – amateurish and weak – lacking any apparent purpose. Yet untold damage had been done. His gaze returned to Isobel's crumpled figure, lying as still as stone on the forest floor.

  “Bernard,” Robert hissed, eyeing the trees for movement, even though it seemed the perpetrators had already scattered. “I'm going for Isobel. Find the bastards who did this. I want them alive.”

  Bernard raised his sword in salute. “Aye, my lord.”

  “I'm with you, my lord.” Lucas pulled his horse up beside them. Robert gave a nod and steered Argyle into the woods. Isobel still had not moved. He slid from the saddle and crouched at her side. She faced away from him, curled up like a sleeping child. He ran his hands over her body, seeking broken bones and finding none. A blessing, perhaps, but one that gave him little solace. Unseen injuries, he knew, often carried the most risk to life.

  With a whispered prayer and great gentleness, he turned Isobel onto her back. His breath caught.

  A vivid bruise already marked the skin on her forehead and around her eyes. Like a bloody mask, it stood out in stark contrast to the pallor of her cheeks. More worrying, though, was the soft blue line edging her lips. Robert saw no sign of her breath in the cold air.