by Tamara Leigh
“Now tell, Brother,” she said, “how did Lady Elianor do what she did? More, why?”
“The answer to the first is Agatha of Mawbry.”
Her eyes widened. “Agatha.”
He knew she was remembering the severe woman who had been put out of Castle Adderstone. Lest her thoughts moved on to Constance who had introduced the witch into their home all those years ago, he hastened to distract her with the answer to her other question. “As to why the lady did it…” He paused, recalling Elianor of Emberly’s offer of an explanation that he had ignored. But he knew. “’Tis the same as our families have always done—sabotaging one another. In this instance, the hope that what appeared to be defiance of the king’s decree would result in forfeiture of our lands.”
Quintin mulled this, then patted the mattress. “I wish to hear all of it.”
And she did—nearly all of it.
“Lady Quintin remains,” De Arell pronounced and leaned back in his chair.
Bayard stepped nearer and pressed his palms to the table between them. “Your purpose, De Arell?”
“That we have already discussed, Boursier.” He clasped his hands across his chest. “It has not changed, nor shall it, unless the king determines otherwise.”
Bayard knew the path the man led him down, but though the likelihood of such an occurrence barely existed, he said gruffly, “Speak.”
De Arell nodded at the chair his squire had placed opposite his own. “Seat yourself.”
“I shall stand.”
The man shrugged, as seemed his habit. “If Edward permits the delay in marrying my daughter, I shall return Lady Quintin to you—my new son-in-law.”
Aye, this path Bayard’s thoughts had traveled while he was in the tower room with his sister, but he did not believe the king would permit it any more than De Arell believed it.
“However,” he continued, “if he orders a legitimate marriage between you and Lady Elianor…” He allowed the remainder to dangle like a trap set for prey—on a path Bayard had not been down.
Even Quintin had not gone there between her pacing and fuming, for it was surely as unthinkable to her as it was to him that he would willingly take to wife the one who had levied such dishonor upon him. But it was possible Edward would remedy the ill by ordering such. After all, alliances he sought, and alliances he would have.
“Thus,” De Arell said, “if Edward determines the house of Boursier should join with the house of Verdun through you and Lady Elianor, your sister and I shall wed shortly.”
Bayard seethed over the possessive glitter in the man’s gaze. “For what do you think my lands will not be declared forfeit?”
De Arell leaned forward. “Consummation, which was once said to make a marriage—providing both parties consented.”
Consummation that had not been had despite it being professed the morning after the wedding when Bayard had given the sheet to be hung out. That he could not disavow, though it was now known that the woman with whom he had exchanged vows was a widow whose virgin’s blood had been shed long ago.
A light entered De Arell’s gaze. “I wager you have had Elianor of Emberly to bed.”
Bayard pressed his palms harder to the table to keep from lunging across it.
“You know Edward will conclude the same,” De Arell said. “And though ’tis true I would be satisfied to see you forfeit, I know you will not do so willingly—as I would not. Hence, Lady Elianor has handed me an opportunity I gladly accept. I shall suffer marriage to your sister providing my daughter does not suffer marriage to you.”
Bayard’s innards churned. His enemy had come to the only conclusion to be had outside of forfeiture. If the Boursiers had any chance of holding their lands, it began and ended with Elianor of Emberly. But that left Quintin with this man, the only hope of it that she had suffered little thus far. And once more he was nagged by the lack of retaliation against her. It revealed the man was not entirely without honor as was expected of one sprung from the loins of Ulric de Arell who, doubtless, remained ensconced abovestairs.
But perhaps the son merely exercised caution lest harm done to Quintin brought the king’s wrath down upon the De Arells…
Of course, one should not forget that Quintin was desirable, endowed with loveliness that, upon first acquaintance, disguised a heart not cast from the same mold as most women’s. She liked being a lady, liked the finery of such, but she also liked being in control.
Bayard almost smiled. Despite what Quintin had done to De Arell, the man could not know what awaited him. But he might soon learn.
He straightened. “If Edward does as you believe he shall, I wager you yourself will regret choosing my sister over forfeiture.”
De Arell’s brow lowered.
“I shall take my men with me when I depart,” Bayard said, “but I will depart only if Sir Victor remains behind to keep watch over my sister.”
“No harm will she suffer.”
“Let us be certain, hmm?”
After a moment, De Arell said, “Very well, he may remain.”
“One more thing.” Bayard loathed what he must ask of him. “As you bore witness to Elianor of Emberly’s deceit, I would have you add your words to those Father Crispin will compose to inform the king of what transpired that caused me to wed one other than your daughter.”
Griffin de Arell smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”
Of course it would—a chance to heap further humiliation upon his enemy.
“Now,” Bayard said, “I must speak with my wife.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The bath grew cold, the steam that had risen from it following the delivery of bucket after bucket of water having dissipated.
Kneeling alongside the tub, forearms on its rim, El dipped a hand in the water. Lukewarm. Even so, it would be lovely to sink into—if she dared. She did not.
Whether it was a moment from now or hours, Bayard was coming, and for nothing would she be caught unclothed and more vulnerable than she already was. Thus, using a towel wet in bath water, she had cleaned away all evidence of these past days, including the dried blood beneath the bandage she had removed from her thigh.
She lifted moist fingers to hair that would benefit from a good washing—or, at least, a good brushing. Instead, she had set it aright by raking fingers through the tangles.
When the sound of footsteps and voices slid beneath the door, she hastened to her feet and hoped it was not Bayard outside the chamber. That hope scattered when his voice came through.
She wished she could blame her quaking limbs on the cold, but fear was responsible. It would be hard for a woman to do worse to a man than what she had done to Bayard. He had been drugged, imprisoned, compelled to speak false vows to save lands that might now be forfeit, his sister had been taken prisoner, and he had been made a fool in front of his enemy. Had ever a man been so ruined so swiftly?
The door opened to reveal Bayard’s face that, unsurprisingly, evidenced anger. And most terrible it looked alongside his eyepatch.
He stepped inside, closed the door, and strode toward her.
She curled her toes in her slippers. She would not run. Would not give him the satisfaction, just as she had denied Murdoch the satisfaction of casting her in the role of pitiful prey.
Immediately, she regretted allowing her thoughts to go in that direction, especially under these circumstances that hearkened back to those with which she had lived night in and night out. Her long dead husband rising before her, a memory so vivid it was as if Murdoch’s head were set upon Bayard’s shoulders, she silently entreated, Hold, El! You held then, you can hold now.
But despite past experience, her knees softened so suddenly she had to catch hold of the tub’s rim to remain upright. Hearing her breath, she dropped her chin and tried to bring her white knuckled fingers into focus.
“Thomasin!”
She saw the toes of Bayard’s boots a moment before she felt his hand on her arm—several moments before she re
alized it was not her name he spoke. She would set him right on that as soon as she set herself right.
She forced her breath slowly in and out until her legs firmed up, opened and closed her eyes until the blurred edges sharpened.
Seeing Bayard’s long fingers around her forearm, she raised her chin and was grateful for the absence of compassion in his glowering face. It made it easier to gather anger about her.
Bayard stared into Elianor of Emberly’s pale face, the only color to be found that of her green eyes. Despite seething that had bred upon itself during the meeting with De Arell, her reaction to his entrance into the chamber had caused his fury to falter. As much as he longed to dismiss her weakness and trembling as a means of maneuvering him into exposing his back, fear had a feel and scent all its own. And it filled this room.
Though he had shown restraint these past days while he believed his captor-turned-captive was Thomasin de Arell, it seemed the impostor expected him to beat her. Fortunately for her, Bayard’s father had taught him to be a man, not a coward who demanded respect and obedience while landing fists to a woman and planting a foot upon her back.
Even when Constance had cuckolded him and she and Serle de Arell had sought to slay him, he had not lost control enough to do such a thing. Instead, his revenge was had in the flesh he had taken from De Arell and, later, annulment of his marriage and inducement of the Church to impose penance upon adulteress and adulterer by committing the first to a convent, the second to a pilgrimage. It had sufficed.
“Do not call me that,” Constance’s niece hissed. “I am not Thomasin!”
So she once more sought to hide fear behind anger.
“Habit only,” he bit. “I know well who you are, Elianor of Emberly, just as you know well to cower and tremble for what your conniving has wrought.” He would not bruise or break her, but there would be consequences.
“Cower and tremble?” she scorned. “I am not afeared of you!”
It was true she no longer cowered, but he could feel the tremble beneath his hand upon her. “No matter how many times you proclaim such,” he said, “it will be no smaller lie.”
She glared.
“Do you think because I have only one eye, I am blind? That I could not see you nearly collapsed when I entered? That I cannot feel the fear writhing beneath your skin? Were I to release you, methinks your knees would seek the floor.”
She tensed, and he thought she meant to prove him wrong by trying to free herself, but she said, “If my knees did seek the floor, it would be from fatigue and hunger since I have hardly slept or eaten these past days. That is all.”
Bayard knew he should let it be, but the woman pushed him beyond good sense. “That is not all,” he said and pulled her toward him.
She gasped and threw up a hand to ward off a blow.
“And there is your lie laid wide open,” he said and drew her stumbling after him to a chair to the right of the tub. “Sit!”
She glanced behind, back at him, slowly lowered herself.
Though Bayard had come abovestairs to discuss an entirely different matter, he said, “Tell me who did it.”
Her hands on either side of her gripped the seat’s edge hard as if in preparation to thrust upright. “’Tis the truth I have told,” she said. “Magnus had naught to do with it. Had he known what I intended, never would he have—”
“I speak of the one who beat you, Elianor.”
She swallowed so hard he was certain the sound of it could be heard from the other side of the room. But just as she denied fearing him, she denied this with a shake of her head. “I know not of what you speak.”
He clenched his hands to keep from slamming them to the chair arms. “No more lies. Who was it? The same who stalks your dreams—the one you vow to kill?”
She released her hold on the seat and crossed her arms over her chest. “Neither do you know of what you speak.”
If he did not, he was near to knowing. Deciding it was best to put distance between them, he pivoted, strode to the tub, and peered into its clear, unsullied depths from which no heat rose.
Though baths were a luxury one did not shrug off, Elianor of Emberly had let this one turn tepid—doubtless, rather than risk him happening upon her unclothed. Understandably, she would not place herself in a vulnerable position that could tempt a man, especially considering what she had revealed last eve.
In the most unholy manner I have been defiled, she had said.
Then he knew. She spoke true that she had not been beaten—not in the usual sense. But she had been abused. By her uncle? He did not think so, for she was too quick to defend and protect him. Her departed husband?
A memory of Murdoch Farrow, whom Bayard had encountered at a tourney years past and whom he had later learned Constance’s niece had wed, sprang upon him. A castellan upon a barony a day’s journey from Castle Adderstone who enjoyed his food to the detriment of the destrier that bore his weight, Farrow had preened and bragged and beat his mount after it stumbled during a joust. Afterward, during feasting in the great hall, his behavior had turned more foul. Doubtless, that loud, irascible miscreant had done things to Elianor that caused her to fear a man’s touch.
He turned toward her. “It was your husband who abused you.”
Color bloomed in her face, and her gaze sharpened with what seemed resentment. And hatred. For him? Farrow? If the latter, might his death be attributed to her? If he had defiled her, and Bayard did not think she lied in that, she had good cause to seek his demise. Had she sought it? The night Bayard had made her his captive and he had asked why she had not allowed Agatha to kill him, she had retorted that she had wished him to suffer longer—a slow death. Later, however, she had claimed she was no murderer. Considering the depth of her deception, he knew he ought to believe her capable of taking a life, but he could not accept it.
Still, he said, “Tell, Lady, how did Farrow die?”
El knew what he asked, and there was no reason not to answer. “The swine choked. Blessed day, that.” A hundred times she had wished such upon Murdoch, and half as many times she had repented of such evil thoughts. Regardless, she had been denied her freedom—until that last time.
She set her chin higher. “He did not always chew well ere swallowing. So, nay, I did not murder my husband.” She narrowed her lids. “Though it was not for lack of longing.”
His gaze pried at her as if to see into places she did not wish him to go. Lest he succeeded, she looked down and plucked at her skirts.
She felt him watching her, and when she finally lifted her chin, that which she glimpsed in his gaze caused her anger to churn. She had long suffered the pitying glances of women servants in Murdoch’s home, and yet few had tried to aid her for fear of Murdoch. Her only hope had been the occasional relief given by Agatha who passed powders to her—that and the possibility Murdoch would one day break his neck, his heart would give out, disease would grip his gut, he would choke…
Hating that Bayard knew her shame, loathing that memories of Murdoch had revealed her fear, she snapped, “Do not pity me!”
His jaw shifted. “I do not. I but wish to know so I might determine the wisdom of giving you my back.”
Then she had read his gaze wrong? He was concerned only for himself? Though she told herself she was pleased, it hurt. Especially as she, who knew never to pity a man—who had once pitied Murdoch and been cruelly repaid—had pitied Bayard for the humiliation and loss she had dealt him this day.
She pushed up out of the chair and took a step forward. “Then you have yet to determine the wisdom of trusting the woman responsible for your forfeiture? For heaping humiliation upon you? For causing your sister to be imprisoned?” She shook her head. “You are not very quick, Boursier.”
His nostrils flared, and she hated that she should feel his struggle. Indeed, she almost wished there were no struggle—that he would prove he was the same as Murdoch. It was so much easier to hate one’s enemy than to—
What?
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When he strode toward her, she held her feet firm to the rushes to keep from running.
He halted before her. “Trust you, I will not, Elianor of Emberly, but properly wed you, I shall.”
Her feet came unstuck as if the roots she had sent down through the floor were cut. She took a step back and came up against the chair. “Wed me? For what do you wish to do that?”
“It has naught to do with what I wish, all to do with Godsmere.”
“But ’tis too late. The day given to speak vows is past.”
“And yet our marriage could still be deemed valid, the speaking of vows but a formality that can be attended to this day.”
El shook her head. “Pray, explain yourself.”
“As our host, De Arell, has noted, consummation was once said to make a marriage—providing both parties consented. Thus, the king may bend on this.”
She gasped. “As well you know, there has been no consummation!”
His smile was tight. “The sheet was hung out that all might bear witness, and they did.”
She pressed a hand to the thigh that had provided evidence of consummation.
“Your blood, Elianor,” he said, “and that is enough.”
“Blood a widow does not shed!”
“Regardless, all of Castle Adderstone accept that we are husband and wife.”
“That does not mean the king will.”
“It does not, but if anything can save my lands, it is proof of consummation and the speaking of vows with Elianor of Emberly, and that last we shall do this day.”
How she loathed being trapped between him and the chair! Though he came no nearer, it felt as if he had set himself over her. And around her. As if she might never escape him. And she would not if she did what he demanded of her.
“And if I refuse to speak vows with you?”
“You will not.” It was said wearily. “Regardless of whether or not your uncle was aware of what you did, the Boursiers shall not be the only ones to forfeit. Indeed, though you made a fool of me, methinks King Edward will more likely forgive my trespass than your family’s.”