by Tamara Leigh
That last thought settling amid the haze of too much drink, Michael stilled and considered it more closely. Indeed...
Beatrix stared at the wall and strained to catch the sound of movement. Though the man’s fingers had ceased their thrumming, and there was only the soft pop and hiss of embers that were all that remained of the brazier’s fire, she knew Sir Simon’s kin was there as he had been for the past quarter hour. Once more reminded that she was alone with the brother of a man who had tried to ravish her, and that he was likely no different, she suppressed a shudder. Why had he come in the middling of night? And what was she to do?
He strode so suddenly around the end of the bed that there was no time for her to close her eyes. Wearing a mantle as red as new-spilled blood, a tunic as black as a moonless night, he slowly smiled. “Lady Beatrix awakens.” He angled his head, causing his dark hair to skim his shoulder. “Or mayhap she has been awake some time now.”
Waiting for him to leave, devising a way to deter him if he tried to do to her what his brother had done. But the only thing near enough with which to defend herself was the pewter goblet on the bedside table.
“I am Michael D’Arci of Castle Soaring. You know the name, my lady?”
Too well as well he knew.
“Have you no tongue?”
Aye, but the bridge between it and her mind was in poor disrepair. If a reply was forthcoming, it would surely come too late.
He pressed hands to the mattress, leaned forward, and narrowed his lids over pale gray eyes so like his brother’s and yet somehow different. “Mayhap you are simply frightened?”
As he wished her to be.
“Or perhaps you are as witless as I have been told.”
Anger built the bridge to her tongue. “I am not witless!”
“Ah, she speaks. What else does she do?” He bent so near she could almost taste the wine on his breath. Though he did not appear unsteady, she sensed he had imbibed heavily, a dangerous thing for an angry man to do—especially dangerous for her.
His eyebrows rose. “She assists her sister in escaping the king’s edict”—
Had Gaenor escaped? Though Beatrix had asked after her sister when Lavonne last visited her chamber, the man who was to have been Gaenor’s husband had not answered.
—”puts daggers to men as easily as to a trencher of meat, and survives a fall that should have seen her dead.”
A tremble, as much born of anger as fear, moved through Beatrix. Struggling to keep her breath even, she reminded herself of the goblet. If he tried to defile her, she would bring it down upon his head. If she could get it to hand. If she could harm another.
“You wish to know the reason I tended your injury?” Michael D’Arci continued. “Why I did not allow you to die as is your due?”
She did not need to be told. Her words might be slow to form, but she knew he sought revenge.
“Justice,” he said.
Revenge by a lesser name was still revenge, especially where unwarranted.
“Though you may be clever, I vow you will be judged and found wanting.”
In the past, she had been called clever. Would she ever again—lacking D’Arci’s taint of sarcasm?
When she gave no reply, he said, “Could you, you would kill again, hmm?”
Again, her tongue loosened. “Most assuredly I would defend my person against any who seeks to violate me.” Was that her voice? Strong and even without break or searching? Whence did it come?
“You speak of ravishment?” D’Arci bit.
Though she longed to look away, she kept her gaze on his face, noting his full mouth, straight nose, broad cheekbones, and heavily lashed gray eyes—so like his brother’s she strained to hold back the panic that would have her scurry for cover.
Of a sudden, he cursed, his unholy use of the Lord’s name making her flinch. “Is that what you will tell the sheriff? That you murdered my brother because he ravished you?”
Beatrix blinked. Though ravishment had surely been Simon D’Arci’s intent, it seemed the Wulfrith dagger had stopped him. Determined to correct Michael D’Arci—to assure him she was fairly certain his brother had failed to commit the heinous act—she searched for words. However, his darkening face once more tangled her tongue. Could the devil assume human form, he would surely be pleased to do so in the image of Michael D’Arci.
But for all her fear, hope slipped in. Of that day at the ravine, he surely knew only what Baron Lavonne had shared. What if she told him the truth, even if most of the truth she could only surmise?
“I did not...” She swallowed. “I tell you true, I...”
“Did not murder him?”
“I could never murder. I but d-d-defen—”
“Defended yourself?”
How she detested his impatience! “’Twas surely hap—”
“Happenstance?”
That word she had not lacked. “Aye, happenstance.”
“You do not know for certain?”
“I do. I just cannot...remember it all.”
“What fool do you think me, Lady Beatrix?” he growled.
“I am not a m-murderer.”
“You expect me to believe that the young man I knew well was a ravisher, and you who I know not at all are no murderer? I should have let you bleed to death.”
Anger streaked Beatrix’s breast, and her next words sprang free as if she were quick of tongue. “Your brother would have!”
D’Arci drew a sharp breath, then splayed a hand across her throat. “You lie, witch, and I shall see you dead for it.”
Though certain he meant to strangle her, his fingers did not tighten. Still, her own fear denied her breath. Was he playing with her? First torment, then death?
She glanced at the goblet. Providing she did not alert him, she could reach it. Providing he had imbibed as much wine as his breath told, she could escape him.
He slid his hand further up her neck. “When you stand before the sheriff”—
She was not to die this night?
—“I will savor your fear.”
She swallowed hard against his palm and reached. “Nay, you will not, Michael D’Arci,” she said and swept the goblet to hand.
As he jerked his head around, she slammed the vessel against his temple. For a breathless moment, he was still, and then he collapsed atop her.
Staring at his head on her chest and the trickle of blood coursing his brow, she quaked in remembrance of his brother who had similarly fallen across her.
Had she killed Michael D’Arci?
Nay, he breathed, but that did not mean she had not damaged him terribly. She, better than most, knew what could result from a blow to the head. Recalling her return to consciousness in the ravine when she had seen crimson on her gloved fingers, she began to shake. That day, her young life had come as near to ending as one could come without actually dying.
She squeezed her eyes closed, but when she opened them, the crimson remained. This time it bled from Michael D’Arci.
Knowing he might soon regain consciousness, she wriggled out from beneath him and dropped to her knees alongside the bed. Now how was she to escape?
Think. Think hard, Beatrice. She shook her head. Then pray hard, for I cannot do this without help.
Though she knew she risked much, she delayed her escape to call upon the Lord. And when she said, “Amen,” she knew what must be done. As her only covering was the chemise the chamber maid had delivered the day she awakened at Broehne Castle, and the baron had taken her bloodied gown and mantle for evidence, she would have to impose on Michael D’Arci.
She slid a hand under him and released the brooch that clasped the red mantle at his throat. Blessedly, the lining was black, which would allow her to merge with the night. She turned the inside of the garment out and dragged it over her shoulders. As she secured it with the brooch, she saw the dagger and purse on D’Arci’s belt. Asking God’s forgiveness, she appropriated both and retrieved her psalter. Not until she reached
the door did she realize she lacked footwear, but there was nothing for it as D’Arci’s bulky boots would only hinder her.
She eased the door open and peered into the dim corridor. Unlike the first sennight since her awakening, there was no guard present. Obviously, Baron Lavonne had grown confident she would not—or could not—escape. Now if she could make it through the hall, into the bailey, and out the postern gate.
Though she had known the latter would be difficult, if not impossible, since so much of a castle’s defenses depended on the gate being well disguised, she quickly located it and slipped through.
Not until she was outside the castle walls, driving one leg in front of the other beneath a cold sliver moon, was the hue raised. Entering the wood she had so longed for, she paused and pressed a hand to her throbbing head.
Which way? She peered through the darkness and, clutching her psalter in an attempt to pry free the icy fingers of panic, made her decision. The only way that mattered was away from Broehne, though not so far she could not watch for her family who would surely come for her.
A good plan, for Lavonne and D’Arci would never expect her to remain on the barony of Abingdale.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tamara Leigh holds a Masters Degree in Speech and Language Pathology. In 1993, she signed a 4-book contract with Bantam Books. Her first medieval romance, Warrior Bride, was released in 1994, followed by Virgin Bride, Pagan Bride, and Saxon Bride. Tamara continued to write for the general market, publishing three more novels with HarperCollins and Dorchester and earning awards and spots on national bestseller lists.
In 2006, Tamara’s first inspirational contemporary romance, Stealing Adda, was released. In 2008, Perfecting Kate was optioned for a movie and Splitting Harriet won an ACFW “Book of the Year” award. Both books were released as audiobooks. In 2009, Faking Grace was nominated for ACFW “Book of the Year” and RITA awards. In 2010, Leaving Carolina was featured in Target stores’ “Emerging Authors: New, Notable, Red-Hot Reads” section. In 2011, Tamara wrapped up her “Southern Discomfort” series with the release of Restless in Carolina.
When not in the middle of being a wife, mother, and cookbook fiend, Tamara continues to write. Recently, she returned to the historical romance genre with the release of Dreamspell, a medieval time travel romance. With The Unveiling and The Yielding, the first and second books in her new Age of Faith series, she once more invites readers to join her in the world of the middle ages.
Tamara lives near Nashville, Tennessee with her husband and sons, a Doberman that bares its teeth not only to threaten the UPS man but to smile, and a Shih Tzu with a Napoleon complex and something of an eating disorder.
WEBSITE:
www.tamaraleigh.com
www.thekitchennovelist.com
EMAIL:
[email protected]
GOOD OLD SNAIL MAIL:
Tamara Leigh, P.O. Box 1298
Goodlettsville, TN 37070