by Lori Snow
“I don’t believe you.” He took a forbidding step forward but the madwoman seemed not to fear him. She only lowered her hand to the gold curls covering her mound.
“She had three little moles forming a triangle just below her left breast and that intriguing little pattern was mirrored right here in the inside of her thigh.” Syllba’s ice blue eyes opened to stare at him, to taunt him. “She loved my mouth on them. I found the tiny markings fascinating. Didn’t you?”
Donovan’s stomach clinched. His hands balled. He wanted to take the scrawny neck in front of him and twist. Isabeau’s innocent comments from this morning came back and hit him in the gut. He remembered them well. Isabeau had spent many an hour with Christian while his countess wiled away endless time in this very room.
Syllba had been his wife’s lover.
Who had they lashed to the bed? Had they taken turns or had they forced another innocent to partake in their vile sport?
Donavan had to be free of the room’s cloying perfume. All these years… How could he have been such a fool? But suddenly these revelations, as wretched as they were, explained so much.
“You will attend to all of your duties this evening,” he ordered coldly.
Jesu! His honor hung in tatters. He needed to think. He burned to defend it. Were it a man, he would issue his challenge. He had to have retribution. Marta wasn’t here to pay for her part in the duplicity, but her lover was. This day he would bring his vengeance down upon Marta’s lover.
C hapter 6
Although not expecting to see his lordship before the evening meal, Isabeau was aware the instant he returned to the bailey. When next she glimpsed him, he had reclaimed his mount and ridden out as if the devil himself held burning embers to his heels.
Had he and Porter found something terrible during the inspection? Shame weighted her heart like a millstone. Olivet had changed since her father’s time.
At breakfast, all had appeared well. But she had reminded him of his grief. Had he brooded over the memories she kindled? Had she caused his black mood? Had she angered him so he would tell Simon all, as punishment for her boldness?
She had only thought to share pleasant memories of the earl’s wife and child. Instead, she might have opened an abyss of loss. The man had so many visible scars; proof that some wounds were slow to heal. What of the ones unseen? How could she mend the tear in his soul? Why did she want to?
“Milady? Milady?”
Isabeau let go of her musings and turned to Marley. “Is there a problem in the kitchen?”
“Oh nay, milady.” The woman practically shook with anticipation. “I was just wonderin’ if my lord would be returnin’ at the regular time or should we put back the evenin’ meal?”
Isabeau shook her head. “I will check with one of his lieutenants. Until we know, let us just plan to begin serving at the regular time. I will make sure his lordship does not go hungry. Remember what Papa always said. ‘A full belly leads to happiness in the field or at the hearth.’ ”
“Aye, milady.” Marley smiled with nostalgia. “Lord Charles was a right one with the sayins. He once told me, ‘A saint was not but a sinner who had not been caught.’ ‘Course that was right after he had nipped a pie coolin’ on the sill for his supper that night.”
Isabeau produced a slight smile. After all of these months, Marley had spoken so casually of Isabeau’s father, it was apparent she had forgotten Simon’s decree. He was the existing and only Lord d’Olivet. Her smile drooped with the reminder of her half-brother. “Have you seen Lord Simon at all?”
“Lord Simon never visits the kitchens, as you know.” Marley gave her a pleased smile. Simon’s absences were welcomed by all.
“I will confer with the earl’s man. You continue with the preparations as usual. This is our liege. We must do ourselves proud,” Isabeau instructed absently.
She searched for Carstairs and a few answers. He and several men from both Bennington and Olivet had formed a circle in the outer bailey around two men engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Her first instinct was to put a stop to the battle but she quickly realized it was a friendly match. The spectators made varied wagers ranging from chores to pieces of gold.
Noticing Donovan’s horse—his reins held by an eager stable-boy--Isabeau searched the undulating ring for the earl and failed to pick him out of the crowd. Her gaze returned to the combatants as cheers rose for the victor. Just before the circle surged towards the winner with enthusiastic congratulations, she caught the glint of the sun on onyx black hair. Disheveled and sweating, the earl took the accolades with accustomed calm. He was gracious in his triumph—all the while assuring his defeated opponent of his skill.
Before being swallowed by the surging swarm of bodies, he chose that single moment to look up. Isabeau found herself caught in the swirling depths of his dark eyes.
She sucked in a breath, nearly choking on air, as their gazes locked.
Wordlessly, she backed away from the crowd and practically ran back to the safety of the bustling kitchens.
C hapter 7
Donovan stretched his tested muscles and then began to brush some of the dust from his tunic before searching out Porter once more. He needed more information from the man. When he ran from Syllba’s chambers like a child running from a bogie, he wanted only to put as much distance as possible between himself and the fetid bitch. That a woman had sent him running—even for a second—shamed him to the core.
His horse, still saddled, was a handy escape but, he hadn’t gotten far. Carstairs had been in the process of putting the Olivet men through their paces—testing their mettle—as a unit, as a man. Donovan had reined in his flight, slid from Nemesis and joined in the fray.
Fighting with the men went a long way towards fighting his demons.
But it wasn’t enough.
Her vile verbal poison could do him no harm. Marta rested in her grave. The only one who would have been hurt—other than Marta—was her son. He had preceded her in death by several weeks. Christian had been spared the knowledge of his mother’s depravity.
Syllba would not profit should she repeat her noxious tale. Simon’s wife would be vilified. Her own people would turn on her and her lord. Her chambers would no longer be her serpent’s nest but her prison.
He clenched his teeth. He had come close to making it her tomb. Never before had he wanted to kill—had such a blood-thirst—for a woman. She reveled in her taunts, proud of her conquest.
Marta was no longer here to accept her due, but what would he have done if she still lived? Would he have denounced her? Sent her back to her family in disgrace? Exposed her perversities to the church?
When all was said and done, Marta had been his wife, his countess—the mother of his son.
Mayhap fate had given him a blessing in not forcing him to make such a decision.
But that still left today.
It left him to with deal with Syllba.
And where the devil was the lord of manor?
What part did Simon d’Olivet play in this madness? Did he know of his wife’s proclivities? Did he condone them?
What of Lady Isabeau? What did she know? She had tried to run away. Was she as innocent as she appeared? Had he erred in forcing her return?
He wished Warren would hurry back with Malak. The lad had a talent for seeing more than expected. Perhaps he had seen or heard something during his stay before moving on to Montrose. People often said more than they should in front of him, which was strange considering how much the boy talked himself.
Donovan found Porter in a storeroom taking inventory of goods on hand and those needed.
“Porter.” His dry throat surprised Donovan. Just the dust from the battlefield.
“Aye, my lord?” Porter lowered his wax tablet and stylus as he whipped around to address his liege.
“Porter, we have some matters to discuss. The two of us will retire to the Baron’s counting room with a couple of mugs of the fresh ale and talk. I would
prefer it done with the master of the house but he seems to be as rare as the sun shining at a December matins. For the sake of the people of Olivet, you will be frank.”
The man straightened to his full height. “Aye, my lord.”
Their discussion was short, not too sweet and very fruitful. Although Porter had answered Donovan’s questions, the answers had raised many more questions. Simon’s portrait, blurred around the edges, began to clear. The baron was greedy, lazy, and venal. For some unknown reason, Simon harbored a fierce hatred for his father which had festered over the years. The man had none of the honor or pride of his sire.
By the time Donovan had as much information as he could stomach, the bells sounded for the evening meal. He straightened his appearance with the assistance of his squire before going down to the great hall.
As he descended the staircase, he watched Isabeau’s well-trained servers. He saw their expertise – she had little to do. Was she fearful that one of these servants would displease him? He hoped he had not caused her such distress.
As he mused about this, a tall blond man in expensive garb crossed the hall to sit in the master’s chair. The conversations of Olivet’s people dwindled to silence. Lord Simon’s arrogance was evident in the set of his shoulders, the wave of his hands. He sat at the head of the table giving no appearance of noticing the presence of the earl. Donovan disliked him straight away. What was he going to do with the man?
The earl crossed to the grand table. Simon arose slowly from the chair and made a grandiose gesture of acknowledgement, but the pointed delay in the homage paid to his liege rendered it a mockery. Resentment lit a dull fire in Simon’s pale blue eyes. Donavan revised his earlier estimate of the man as he approached Simon. He had the pride of his pere but it had warped to an imperious conceit that sought only his own aggrandizement.
“Olivet.” Donovan nodded curtly as he sat in Simon’s throne. “ ’Tis good that we finally meet. I was beginning to wonder if you were naught but the phantom of Olivet Manor; as insubstantial as a wisp of smoke.”
“Did you?” Simon showed all of his teeth with his smile. “I assure you, I am quite solid. Ask any of my people.”
Donovan carelessly shrugged one shoulder. “Oh, I have. Most illuminating.” He rather enjoyed watching as Simon’s smile tightened. “Do sit, Olivet. The meal is about to be served. I did expect to see your—lady wife by this time.”
Before Simon could reply, Donovan turned away, a direct insult to his host. “Lady Isabeau.”
At the sound of her name, she froze and Donovan wondered again at her tension. Was she so afraid of him? Then she turned from her task and he glimpsed a shimmer of quickly hidden alarm in her hazel eyes. Was it directed at him? How had he instilled such great fear in her? Then he remembered his assertion the he would not indefinitely conceal her attempted flight from the manor.
“Lady Isabeau,” he repeated gruffly as their gazes met. “Take your place at our trencher.”
She had taken but two steps before she glanced to his left and stumbled. Shifting his own gaze over his shoulder, for an instant he saw the same malevolence in Simon’s eyes that he’d seen in Syllba. The tense silence in the hall. Isabeau’s trepidation. Was the atmosphere here due to himself or Simon? Then he recalled Porter’s gruesome tale about the young girl raped by Kirney – and perhaps by Simon – and unwelcome suspicion – perhaps by Syllba. It smacked him that Simon ruled with deliberate cruelty, not mere lazy neglect.
Isabeau hesitated and Donovan stood to hold out a beckoning hand. “Isabeau.”
She visibly straightened and made her way to the chair beside Donovan. Her courage and her delicacy enthralled Donovan and awakened long-dormant emotions in his chest.
As Isabeau settled into her chair and he sat in the throne once again, the voices of Olivet began to take on a pleased hum. The sound didn’t compare with boisterousness of the morning’s meal but Donovan noticed the noise infuriated Simon. With a wave of his hand he signaled the nearby attendant to fill the goblets with wine.
Donovan made a small salute to Isabeau before lifting the goblet to his lips. The wine tasted bitter and he took only a tiny sip rather than a gusty gulp. He wondered briefly if the wine was of such poor quality or if he found the taste a reflection of his opinion of the lord and lady of the manor.
Another hush settled over the hall. Donovan heard the sibilant rustle of skirts. The fine hairs lifted on the back of his neck. He forced his eyes away from the pleasant sight of Isabeau’s sweet face with troubled eyes and looked towards the disturbance.
Isabeau also turned towards the grand stair and froze.
“Syllba.” Isabeau gasped whisper an astonishment whisper. “ ’Tis the first time she has ever descended to the hall.”
Donovan raised his eyebrows. “Ever?” His low undertone matched hers.
“Ever.” Isabeau nodded. “Not since she and Simon left her father’s manor when my father became ill.”
They weren’t the only ones to watch the lady of the manor as she paused on the third from the bottom stair, surveyed the hall and then began the smooth glide to the main table.
“She is so -- so elegant. She seems to float across the floor. She would never stumble or tip over a vessel of wine. I feel like a coltish dolt in comparison.” Isabeau sighed.
Donovan snorted and commented in a voice for her ears only. “Even the slither of a snake on the ground holds a degree of grace.”
He could feel Isabeau’s surprise as she turned away from her sister-in-law. Donovan studied Syllba. The tall woman’s gestures gave an air of fragility he knew was false. Her cold blue eyes and smile lent a smugness which boded ill for those in her sphere. When her gaze rested first on Donovan and then Isabeau, he knew he had to do something to get the young woman out of harm’s way.
That bitch would harm no one else.
When he had returned home to Bennington after months on the battlefield, discovering the deaths of his wife and son, he had thought only to escape the condolences of his people. He had devised the plan to inspect all of his holdings as a valid excuse not to remain within the walls, much has he had welcomed the battlefield for the same reason while Marta lived.
The trip should not have been complicated; leisurely visits while meeting with his knights and barons, conducting inspections, perhaps implementing a few training programs and farming techniques to bring prosperity to all of his people.
How had things gone so wrong?
He continued to watch Syllba’s slow progress. She had an audience and she played to it. How many of the Olivet people were seeing their mistress for the first time? Her golden hair was drawn up in a stylish gold wimple fashioned into two cones. Donovan thought Syllba’s headgear resembled a Billy goat, or—the devil. Most appropriate. Her face was blatantly painted with rouge and white powder.
She did look elegant in her close fitting gown, the blue of a robin’s egg. The drape revealed no evidence of the babes she had failed to deliver. He doubted her fecundity. Nothing could grow in her.
“Ah, Lady Olivet.” Donovan greeted her with no real welcome as he continued his scrutiny. “I had expected you to join us before this. However, it is obvious the manor can function without your guidance. You look quite fit and your adornments are without compare.”
She nodded graciously as she sat beside her husband, completely ignoring the hint of censure. Her jewels glittered under the candlelight of the chandeliers. She wore a fine gold and sapphire choker with matching broach that complimented the blue of her under-dress. A pearl and gold link chain trimmed her girdle.
Donovan discretely inspected the gem encrusted crucifix dangling from her waist. He had seen the beautiful piece years before and had read the detailed description of it more recently.
He turned back to Isabeau to gain her reaction and found her floundering under the study of an older serving woman. Isabeau’s delicate complexion paled even further as she gave an almost indiscernible shake of her head and then reached
for her goblet. Her shaking fingers bumped the vessel. If not for Donovan’s quick reflex, she would have been trying to mop up a puddle of the bitter brew.
He picked up a morsel of meat on his knife and offered it to Isabeau. She nervously accepted. The pink color that warmed her cheeks pleased him. After her tremulous smile of thanks, he found it easy to engage her in meaningless chatter which made the meal speed by. His total absorption with Lady Isabeau equated to an outright snub of his host and hostess but he would be the last person to cater to their sensibilities.
Donovan heard Isabeau’s sigh of relief when the tables were cleared of the main courses. The assortment of dried fruits and honeyed-nuts signaled the end of the long meal and he still had yet to determine his course of action.
Simon stood to leave the table before his guest and liege—a breech of good manners—but nudged a pewter bowl of nuts towards Donovan in an expected overture. “You must try these sweets. Isabeau turns quite a talented hand at them. They were a favorite of your boy.”
Isabeau sucked in her breath and Donovan saw all color leave her face.
“What is it, my lady?” he asked quietly.
She turned the fathoms of her green gaze in his direction. “I beg your forgiveness, my lord. I don’t know what to say. That he should pour salt into the wound I opened this morn?”
He felt his left eyebrow elevate. “What wound?”
“The reminder of your losses. I meant no harm when I spoke of Christian over our morning bread.” Her fingers fluttered on his forearm before she tucked both hands primly in her lap.
She pulled her lip between her teeth—presumably to conceal the trembling. The gesture simply focused his attention on her mouth.
Before he could do anything inappropriate—like smoothing his thumb along her worried lip, Donovan rolled his shoulders and turned to address Simon, only to find the man on the other side of the great hall. He narrowly stared at the blue tunic. Olivet was as slippery as his snake of a wife. Enough of this behavior! Had the man no thought of the discipline his liege could employ?