Dragon's Dower

by Catherine Archer

  “One day when I had been in the stables playing with him I became dirty.” She glanced at him and away. She was uncomfortable with the unreadable expression in his dark eyes. “My father had told me from the time I could listen that my appearance must always be equal to my position, to his position as earl of Dragonwick. When he saw me, he…” A tear slid down her cheek and she wiped it away quickly, going on in a stronger voice. “He killed Little Dragon. He informed me it was my duty to accept responsibility for this and learn from it, that I was never to let anything or anyone interfere in the performance of my duty. What was I to do, but heed him? He held the power of life or death in his two hands.”

  Now that cool, distant expression was back in her lavender eyes. “Is that what you wished to know, my lord?”

  But he had seen that tear, no matter that she had tried to hide it.

  He longed to take her into his arms but knew she would not welcome this. He had known Isabelle cared naught for intimacy when he had made her his wife in truth. He must accept her as she was. Yet he heard the regret in his voice as he said, “I know not what can be said of such a thing.”

  She shrugged. “There is no need to say anything at all. It was all a very long time ago. My father accomplished his purpose by what he did that day. He made me see that I must not allow myself to love anything that can be taken away. Which is, in essence, everything.”

  Simon stood watching her, this strange, proud, beautiful woman, finally understanding some of what lay behind that remote manner. At the same time he realized how deeply ran her inability to trust others. Perhaps it was too deeply ingrained for her to ever overcome it.

  As a wave of sadness washed over him, Simon told himself it was brought on by nothing more than sympathy. He desired this woman, aye, had shared a passion with her that was astounding. Passion seemed the one area where she could give in to her feelings. It was very little to base a marriage on, yet that was what he must try to do now that there was no longer a chance at annulment.

  Simon felt a sudden sense of loss he could not explain.

  Yet he forced himself to concentrate on Isabelle, to speak with compassion in spite of the fact that she would not welcome it. “I am so very sorry, Isabelle. Children should be loved and protected from such pain.”

  She stiffened. “Do you think so? Should they be protected so that life can teach them such things? Perhaps my father did me a kindness by showing me I must rely on myself and no other. Nothing in my life has shown me that he was wrong.”

  He stepped back. “Perhaps he did do you a kindness at that.” As he had thought, his sympathy had found no welcome. The shield around her heart would not be breached.

  Except by that child she was so determined to have. Something, some inner certainty told him the child would be the beneficiary of all the love Isabelle had inside her, the love that she only seemed to be able to show those who were in no position to hurt her. Such as the maid, Helwys.

  Again he felt an unexplainable moment of regret.

  He told himself it was brought on by the thought of the babe. The babe, if one did indeed come to them, might not be a son as Isabelle hoped, but a girl child. A girl child, a little one who would look like Isabelle, but who would love him and he would be able to love in return. The thought brought a warm glow to his heart. It did not quite disguise the strange emptiness he also felt, for their child would grow up in household where there was no love between mother and father.

  Simon bent to gather up his clothing, not wishing to think about how disturbed he was by his thoughts. He did not look at Isabelle. “We should return to the keep.”

  She answered evenly, “Aye.” He was aware of her dressing but forced himself to keep his gaze averted, though it was not easy when his fertile mind provided him with far too vivid images of the body he had come to know so well, and to want all the more for that knowing.

  Simon did his best to push them away.

  He had known how things would be when he had given in to his passion for this woman. If the desire she offered ended in being less than enough, it was his own doing.

  As they mounted their horses and headed toward the castle, Simon told himself he was only making more of this because of his frustration with being here beneath Kelsey’s thumb. If only he could speak with Christian or Jarrod. They would be able to tell him what was happening amongst the nobles. He was impatient to return to the lush rolling hills of Avington, which were so like the lands about Dragonwick.

  He felt a fierce stab of hatred as he thought of Isabelle’s father. The man was more despicable than he had even known. The tale Isabelle had told him had made him understand how very difficult it would ever be for her to trust or care for anyone.

  He wished she would trust him, allow him to take care of her, to show her, just a little, that not all men were so cruel and unfeeling. Perhaps once he and Isabelle were at Avington things might improve with her. Yet the ache in his chest told him her self-reliance and distrust had been too well learned.

  Over the course of that night and even into the next morn, Isabelle was unable to escape a sense of horror at herself. She had said things she had never thought to say to another human being, things that could be used to hurt her if Simon wished to. And thinking on all Simon had revealed to her only served to leave her even more uneasy in a way she could not understand.

  Isabelle did not want to feel uneasy. As she sat before her open window, feeling the crisp morning air on her cheeks, she sought desperately the sense of self-reliance that had sustained her.

  When a brisk knock sounded upon her door, she called out, “Come.” Chagrin raced through her as the thought that it might be Simon came into her mind.

  It swung open instantly. Sir Fredrick stood in the opening and for a brief moment Isabelle was aware of nothing but disappointment. Taking a deep breath she focused on the knight, realizing that far from his usual expression of watchful cunning he appeared distressed as she had never before seen him.

  She stepped toward him without conscious thought. “What has happened?”

  “It is your father, my lady. He is ill.”

  “Ill?” Just last eve he had been hearty and hale, had in fact been well enough to reiterate his intention that she was to get her husband back into her bed. Her face heated with guilt at knowing that Simon and she were in fact sharing a bed. And just how eagerly she was doing so.

  Her guilt turned to shock as Sir Fredrick spoke with barely leashed rage, “He has been poisoned.”

  “It is not possible.”

  “Aye, it is possible, with Warleigh living in our midst. I have taken the liberty of placing him under guard.”

  Isabelle had to turn away to keep him from seeing the intensity of her horrified response. Fredrick was her father’s eyes and ears. “Have you called upon the physician? Does he say it is poison?”

  The knight shook his head. “He has not yet arrived, but he will confirm my suspicion when he does.”

  Unwilling to make protestations of Simon’s innocence before Sir Fredrick, Isabelle moved to the door. She must see for herself. Her father’s chamber lay at the far end of the hallway where his window overlooked the castle gates.

  The large, surprisingly austere chamber was lit by candlelight alone, the shutters having been left closed. Two of the serving women hovered beside the enormous bed with its heavy brown-gold brocade hangings. One of them was holding a bucket into which her father was emptying the contents of his stomach. The other stood by with a basin and a cloth.

  Seeing her father in such a state gave Isabelle such a shock that it held her immobile for a long moment. As her father fell back with a groan of misery, the other woman took the clean cloth and wiped it across his pale, sweat-soaked face.

  Seeing his face sent a new sensation shooting through her—sympathy. This man, for all his coldness toward her, was her father and she loved him.

  Isabelle turned to face the knight, who had followed her. “How long has he been in this st
ate?”

  The man took a shaken breath. “For at least an hour, my lady.”

  “Why was I not told sooner?”

  He drew himself up. “It came upon him quite suddenly, Lady Isabelle. We were to go hunting. My lord rose early and broke his fast on some of the stew that had been left in the kitchens. We set off to the hunt and had to come back as this came upon him.” His gaze went to his master. “He has only seemed to worsen by the moment.”

  “Was my lord Warleigh present when my father ate?

  “Are you saying you doubt his guilt?”

  Isabelle took another deep calming breath, trying to think beyond her own horror at what could happen to Simon. She knew inside her that it would not have been he, but she had no proof. “I am saying that we can not be sure lest the doctor says it is indeed poison.” She glanced toward the bed. “I-it is so much a shock to see my father so ill that it is difficult to reason and we do not wish to be hasty. He has never been sick in my memory.” Though she was frightened of her father and leery of his cruelty his powerful presence had been a constant in her life.

  The knight scowled at her, his own face pale as he, too, looked toward the bed. In spite of all the aspects of his character that plagued her, his loyalty and care of his master was genuine.

  Isabelle spoke with as much force as she dared. “You will not act against Warleigh. He was put in my father’s care by the king himself. And he must be released immediately, does the physician find no sign of foul play.”

  He did not face her, but continued to watch his overlord. “We shall see what the doctor has to say.”

  Even as she realized that it was the best she could hope for, a soft groan of misery escaped the sick man. Feeling that she must try to do something, Isabelle moved toward the bed. The serving women stepped back to allow her room. “Father?”

  He peered up at her, eyes glazed with wretchedness, yet his tone was harsh, “I would not have you here, Isabelle.”

  Knowing that it was the pain speaking through him she answered gently, “I would care for you, Father.”

  His blue lips tightened. “I do not wish for you to stay, do not require your aid. The women can look after me. The physician…” He folded inward groaning as an obvious cramp took him. “Go.”

  Her stomach clenched at his rejection. Numbly Isabelle stood there.

  Sir Fredrick moved to toward the bed, glancing back at her to say, “He requires the chamber pot now, my lady.”

  That this was an indirect request for her to leave immediately was obvious. Isabelle spun around, taking herself away with all possible haste.

  Once in her own chamber again with the door closed firmly behind her, she sank down on the seat beside the empty hearth. The hurt of her father’s sending her away was still fresh, yet she was already beginning to understand why he had done so. Being one who readily and with alacrity exploited the weaknesses of others, including her, he would not wish to be seen in his present state of weakness.

  When Sir Fredrick came to tell the men to release Simon from the stable where he had been held since rising, he went directly to the hall. Simon saw it would be a waste of effort to question the knight with his resentful dark eyes.

  When Isabelle was not in the hall, he quickly realized she must be with her father. The strained and pale faces of the servants, the obvious fact that the food on the trestle tables was not being consumed, were evidence that word of the lord’s illness had spread through the keep.

  Seeing Jack, Simon approached him. The soldier spoke without being asked, “Lord Kelsey has fallen gravely ill.”

  “That much I know and that Sir Fredrick suspected it was poison and I had been involved. It surprises me not poison was suspected. Kelsey was healthy as any man could be when I saw him last eve.” Simon had seen the earl speaking to Isabelle at table, had been aware of the pointed glances cast his own way. It had been easy to imagine the gist of the conversation.

  Jack’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “The doctor is above now. He has not come from the sickroom since his arrival. It seems he has ruled out poison, though there is no word on what indeed is the problem.”

  Simon could not simply sit by and wonder what was going on. He rose and made his way to the upper floor. He knew where the lord’s chamber lay, though he had never had cause to venture inside. He knocked upon the door.

  It was opened by Sir Fredrick, who frowned as he saw Simon. “What is it you require, my lord?” The disdain in his voice was barely cloaked in a strained courtesy.

  Simon took a deep breath. “I would speak with my wife.”

  Sir Fredrick shrugged. “The lady Isabelle is not here, my lord.” A horrific groan sounded from inside the darkened chamber. “You are not wanted here.” He closed the door firmly in Simon’s face.

  Simon had no real concern for this. His true interest was for Isabelle.

  Yet as he moved down the hall to her chamber, he could not help but wonder why she would not be with her father when it seemed he was so gravely ill. In spite of the earl’s lack of worthiness she was strangely devoted to him.

  At the door of her room he did not hesitate but opened it. He sought his wife.

  Isabelle was seated beside the hearth, her back to him. She seemed very still, not looking around at his entrance. On closer examination he saw that she was holding a garment in her lap.

  He moved toward her. Simon saw with some confusion that she appeared to be repairing a section of embroidery on the sleeve of a gown. It seemed a strange thing to do with her father in such obvious dire straits.

  Perhaps she did not even know that he was ill.

  “Isabelle.”

  She spoke softly without raising her head. “Simon.”

  He knelt before her. “Isabelle. I do not know why they would not have informed you. Your father seems to be quite ill. The physician is with him.”

  Still she kept her attention on the sewing in her lap, answering just as quietly, no hint of emotion in her tone. “I have been made aware of my father’s condition.”

  He frowned. “Then what are you doing here?”

  At last she looked up and he saw the gleam of unshed tears in those lovely violet eyes. “He sent me away.” Her expression was haunted. “They believe you poisoned him. I…you did not? He is…but he is my father.”

  Simon did not look away. Though he might wish to resort to such methods he would never act so despicably. Now…He did not want to think about why it was so important to him that she believe him. For he knew it was related to his strange desire to protect this woman who did not want his protection. “No.”

  She closed her eyes. “I knew you had not. In spite of his finding the dragon brooch after he was fired upon in the wood, I knew you had not.”

  Dragon brooch. There were only two others who owned such a brooch. He gripped her shoulders tightly. “What are you talking about, Isabelle?”

  She looked up at him. “My father was nearly hit by an arrow some weeks ago. A brooch the exact replica of the one you wear to fasten your cloak was found at the scene. I told Father that it had not been you. Yours was still in your possession.”

  Simon knew who had fired upon Kelsey. It could only be Jarrod. He was only a few hours’ ride away at Avington. The incident had occurred weeks ago according to Isabelle. Obviously Jarrod had grown impatient with waiting for word of the noble’s intentions concerning Simon. Simon could understand his feelings. Yet he could not fathom why Jarrod would act with such slyness. It was unlike him. And if he was caught…

  Damn but he must find a way to get word to his friend that he must desist.

  Isabelle spoke, drawing him back to the present. “I knew you could not have behaved so despicably, spending the hours with me in the lodge, while secretly plotting.” She shook her head. “You are incapable of such slyness.”

  Simon was still for a long moment as her words sank in. Though she did not seem to be aware of how much she had given away and he would not call her attention to it,
lest he rend this fragile thread of trust, Simon was struck by hope. He felt a rise of something wondrous and tender that would not be held in. Though he knew that they had agreed to keep any hint of intimacy away from the keep he reached out and pulled her into his arms.

  Isabelle resisted for no more than a moment, melting into him. The gown she’d been mending fell beneath their knees in a silken carpet.

  With a trembling hand Simon reached up to cradle her head against his chest. She was so soft, so very appealing in her vulnerability, which was a result of having been rejected by her father. He realized that time after time she must have been denied the opportunity to give of the love that had now hidden itself away in her battered heart.

  For he knew that it was hidden away. Isabelle would drag the shattered edges of her self-possession back to her as she always did.

  And though he felt a sense of regret, Simon brushed it aside. He wanted nothing from her here. He would offer what comfort he could whilst she would accept it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Isabelle cared for nothing save her relief that Simon had not been involved in trying to harm her father. Hateful as her sire had been to her, she did not want him murdered.

  She sighed with relief as she rested her cheek against the hardness of Simon’s chest. In spite of Simon’s rock solid strength there was also a softness, a gentleness in him that was far more compelling than any effort to govern or control could ever be. She felt the heat of his breath on the side of her neck with a powerful thrill. The embraces they had shared at the cottage seemed to have done no more than fan her desire for this man. Breathing more quickly herself, she turned toward him, her gaze on his mouth.

  He moved closer, his breath now on her own lips.

  “My lady.”

  Isabelle gave a start as a woman’s voice dissolved the intimacy that had sprung up between them. She jerked away from Simon, turning around to see Helwys in the doorway.

  The maid’s approving gaze moved from her to Simon.

  Isabelle rose quickly. “What is it?” Though Helwys knew that the two of them were meeting the sheer need she felt for Simon was something she wanted no one to be aware of, not even the serving woman. She would not be left vulnerable to pity when Simon was gone.