Betrothed

by Lori Snow

  “Olivet!” Donovan called loudly but apparently not loud enough -- at least not for his host. Everyone stilled but Simon kept walking towards the staircase.

  “Olivet!” Donovan roared.

  Finally, the man stopped and slowly—insolently -- rotated on the balls of his feet.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Aye, Olivet.” Donovan stood and held out a hand to Isabeau. “I will see you and Lady Isabeau in your accounting room directly.”

  Dumfounded, Donovan watched Simon turn as if to continue on his previous course. “Now!”

  With the smallest acknowledgement, Simon slowly pivoted in the correct direction and Donovan could have sworn he heard snickers coming from people remaining on the main floor.

  Simon suddenly speeded up his exit. The haste with which Simon now covered the ground amused Donovan. Did he hope to hide something from his liege’s view?

  He turned to Isabeau and asked in a low undertone. “Would you care to join us, my lady or would you rather visit with your sister-in-law?”

  Isabeau glanced from Simon to Syllba and back to Donovan. A wry smile curved her pink lips. “If truth be told, I’d rather lime the jakes.” She placed her trembling palm to his.

  His hand enveloped hers, but somehow fit perfectly. She stood and bravely followed where he led. Even with her shoulders straight and chin high, he towered over her. He felt like a great hulking beast next to her petite form. Though her garments lacked the extravagance of her sister-in-law’s, an aura of femininity surrounded her. How had he ever mistaken her for a boy? She was all that was woman.

  Donovan wasn’t clear why he was including her but he didn’t feel comfortable leaving her behind with Syllba. He didn’t know what his course of action was to be so he wasn’t sure how to reassure her. He just knew he was going to see to her safety. Simon would not use her as whipping boy when Donovan was through with him.

  Donoban was much more comfortable in the heat of battle.

  He gave a quick nod to Carstairs before entering the corridor leading to what should be the hub of a well-cared-for estate. Two of his lieutenants would take their places outside the closed door. No one would go in or out unless Donovan deemed it so.

  During his earlier meeting with Porter, Donovan had noticed a fire had not burned in the hearth in months. Even though Porter did much of the tallying the accounts in this room, a fire was not prepared for his ease—another example of Simon caring naught, unless it had to do with his own personal comfort. He found Simon already sat in the chair behind the worktable as if he used the room every day. Donovan doubted if the man knew where even half of the documents concerning the operation of the manor were located.

  Donovan released his hold on Isabeau to close the big wood and iron door behind them. He paced to the window, letting Simon keep his seat. He took in the limited view of the inner bailey before turning back to the room; staring at Simon just long enough to make the other man fidget.

  His hands gripped behind his back, Donovan addressed Simon as if he were addressing a legion of troops. “I had planned to make an extensive inspection of all my properties; to take the time to introduce and reacquaint myself to my people. My agenda has undergone a major alteration. I will be returning to Bennington on the morrow.” He kept his haze on Simon but he felt Lady Isabeau’s surprise match his own when he added, “Your sister will be a part of my entourage.”

  But in what capacity? For what reason? To be safe from her brother’s retribution?

  Simon stood so quickly he knocked the chair to the floor. “No, I won’t allow it!”

  “You won’t allow it?” Donovan arched an eyebrow. Had the man no sense? He’d already, before men of both Olivet and Bennington, almost defied the man he should honor with his allegiance.

  Simon changed his defiant stance to one a bit more submissive. “I wish my dear sister to remain here,” he protested.

  As Donovan continued to stare at him, Simon finally offered an explanation. “I have negotiated nuptials between Isabeau and Lord Kirney.” He held out his hands, as if there were nothing to be done about the situation.

  “No,” Isabeau gasped, conveying anguish and revulsion. As hushed as the cry, the single word captured Donovan’s full attention. Candlelight danced in her glistening eyes. Her posture unmoving, her stance poised as a hart’s caught in the stare of a wolf—wanting to flee but unable to move.

  Does she see me as a predator hungry for her soft throat?

  Yet, he could see her questions and fears mingling with a possible glimmer of hope.

  Do I have and answers for her?

  She fisted her hands at her sides until her knuckles turned white. Then she took a deep breath and stretched out her fingers. She reached out to him as he pivoted back towards Simon.

  “And I suppose the terms are—generous?” Donovan asked. He made the questions seem casual, but Isabeau must have sensed a deeper meaning because she moved closer.

  “My lord?” Simon queried, straightening his posture only minutely.

  Donovan nailed Simon with a penetrating stare. “What are the specific terms you have worked so hard to negotiate?” Simon must have finally realized the gravity of his surly behavior. He swallowed visibly before attempting to mask his trepidation with an ingratiating smile. The smirk immediately warned Donovan that the other man was scheming. Simon waved a casual hand towards his sister. “My father provided an acceptable dowry for Isabeau. Along with her bloodlines, the baron is quite happy with the arrangement.”

  Donovan leaned forward to within an arms length of Simon.

  “And her dowry includes—what? Jewelry? Gold? Land?”

  Simon’s light blue eyes took on a calculating gleam. “Gold.”

  Only gold?

  What game did the man play?

  “You didn’t think to bring the matter to my attention? Perhaps I, or the king, have other plans for your sister. I assume no contracts have been signed? ” Donovan made the words more statement than question.

  Simon answered slowly, as if debating his chances. “Nay, my lord.”

  “ ’Tis most fortunate for you, Olivet.” Donovan nodded in curt approval. “That two barons should fail to secure the permission of their liege lord for this transaction is a grave matter.” He intended his voice carry the tone of a bailiff declaring the sentence before the executioner.

  Isabeau took two steps forward. She put a beseeching hand on Donovan’s forearm. Her eyes pleaded for mercy, her voice held a faint croak though she kept a delicate dignity. “Please. Not Lord Kirney. He—hurt the daughter of our gamekeeper. She’s only twelve and he—he—They won’t tell me what he did to her and she can no longer speak to tell of it.”

  Donovan rested his hand atop hers. He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze of silent assurance. As if Isabeau had not interrupted, he turned to Simon to continue his questioning. “What happened to Lady Eveana’s jewels?”

  Obviously, neither of the siblings had expected this turn of questions. Isabeau stiffened. “What has my mother to do with this?”

  Simon merely stared through his lashes as if hiding his calculations.

  “Well?” Donovan prompted.

  “The jewels of my father’s—second wife were pretty but of little value. He sold them several years ago.”

  Donovan took a deep breath and let it out slowly and loudly. “Olivet, would it surprise you to know that your father sent my Bennington steward a copy of his last will? The document was interesting reading; quite specific about the disposal and disposition of certain items. Were these items mentioned in the negotiations with Kirney?”

  “Towards the end, my father was not in full control of his wits. He was weak in mind and body.”

  “How could you say that?” Isabeau practically stomped her slippered foot in her outrage, her voice thick with tears and anger. “Papa was totally aware of everything—even on his deathbed. The pain gripped him like the talons of a dragon yet he refused the opiate tincture the healer pre
pared. He didn’t wish his faculties fogged.”

  “Didn’t he?” Donovan wondered aloud. “Why would he be so determined? Did he think you would not abide by his wishes?” He stared hard at Simon. “Again, Olivet, I ask you. What of the items that are to go to Lady Isabeau?”

  Isabeau sucked in a breath. “What items?”

  Donovan flattened his lips in a parody of a smile. He wondered if Simon would choose to be truthful or brazen out his perfidy. He also wondered if he should warn the man to choose wisely because his very lifestyle—if not his life—depended upon it.

  Simon licked his lips and hitched up his chin. His posture still carried the weight of insolence as he sidled over to the tapestry covering the wall next to the hearth. He swung the thick cloth to one side and tugged a stone from the corner made by the wall and hearth. Pulling a dusty but well-filled leather bag from the nook, Simon turned to place his bounty on the table.

  For a long moment, silence held court as Donovan absorbed Isabeau’s astonishment and Simon’s resentment. Not until Simon began to fidget did Donovan cross to the wooden door—a strong barricade against intruders searching for treasures. He pulled it open and beckoned two of the waiting men into the room.

  Donovan waved at the table. “Porter and Carstairs -- my man-at-arms -- have been charged with the responsibility of collecting and securing Lady Isabeau’s dowry.” He paused to slide a flattened roll of parchment from his belt and handed it over to his lieutenant.

  Turning to Simon, he continued, “This document includes all items mentioned in your father’s will as well as—certain—penalties. I wish it ready within the hour, Porter. Carstairs. I believe you might find some of those items in the possession of Lady Syllba.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Porter’s voice quivered.

  “Yes, my lord.” Carstairs’ voice was slick with amusement. Apparently, he hadn’t been overly impressed with Lady d’Olivet.

  “But, my lord?” Isabeau cried out as he stepped to the door.

  Donovan turned back to her. “What is it, my lady?”

  “You are taking all my dowry? What I have done—am I to be so harshly judged? Will I have nothing to offer?” Her tilted head prevented the welling tears from trickling down her pale cheeks.

  “You mistake my orders.” Donovan gave his head one shake. “The dowry will be put to the use for which it is intended. As a settlement to your bridegroom.”

  She licked her lips and swallowed. “Who? Please? Pray not Lord Kirney?”

  For a moment, Donovan paused. She needed an answer. Everyone needed an answer. He looked at Carstairs who had glance up from perusing the parchment. His lieutenant had earned a just reward for his loyalty. He was of marriageable age and it was time for him to settle down with a wife and property. Donovan was sure Carstairs would refuse neither Lady Isabeau nor her dowry. She would be safe—away from her brother, Syllba and Kirney—in Carstairs’ keeping.

  It was a solution.

  “Nay,” Donovan shook his head again. “Your lord brother is about to sign your nuptial contract to me. In the hour before we leave for Bennington, we will exchange the vows of betrothal in front of Olivet’s priest. The Bennington priest will hear our marriage vows. We will wed in d'Allyonshire chapel as tradition dictates.”

  He was as astonished as the rest that the words that had slipped so easily from his mouth. Where had they come from? The last thing he wanted was another unwilling wife.

  What had he done?

  Before Isabeau could offer up a protest, he strode to the door. He turned one last time to encompass all in his fierce glance. “With the lengthening days, we will have plenty of time to get some distance from this place. I’ll not spend another night under this roof.”

  C hapter 8

  The room rang with the finality of the earl’s proclamation and the echo of the slamming of the door behind him.

  Isabeau stared at it as if turned to stone. Her unshed tears burned dry in her eyes. The weight in her chest reminded her to breathe.

  She was betrothed?

  To the Earl of Bennington?

  Her head felt light. Snowflakes peppered her vision.

  She was betrothed to the Earl of Bennington.

  May the saints have mercy! She had no business being a countess. There had to be a mistake. His lord was only jesting.

  “My lady?”

  She turned from the door at Carstairs’ quiet inquiry.

  “Yes?”

  “You have less than an hour to prepare for our journey,” he reminded her gently.

  Isabeau shook her head. “He couldn’t have meant it. Surely, it is just a joke?”

  Carstairs smiled. “You will find the earl means exactly what he says. He will be the first one to tell you he has no sense of humor. Now, you had best begin to pack your chests. You will need a bit more than you carried yesterday.”

  “Oh, heavens,” Isabeau started for the door. “What am I to do?”

  “Pack.” Carstairs answered succinctly.

  Isabeau rushed from the counting room and raced to her chamber. She had so much to do and so little time. It was good she had few belongings; very little left to put in her single chest. Perhaps after she had given Marley and Blanche instructions on the care of Olivet in her absence, she would have time to secure a couple of her father’s books? Simon wouldn’t miss them. They would be precious mementos of happier days.

  Perhaps she should consult the earl?

  She paused in throwing her brushes on top of the gowns already packed. Perhaps she should speak to the earl before going any further with her preparations. He may have changed his mind. She may have misunderstood him.

  She was half way through the door when Blanche barreled into her. The older woman was solidly constructed and Isabeau bounced back several feet before catching her balance.

  “Oh, milady.” Tears of happiness streamed down the worn face as she pulled Isabeau into a fierce hug. “You are going to be a countess. Your Lord Papa would be so pleased. How many evenings did we sit in front of a blazing fire in the great hall listening to Lord Charles regale us with tales of the young Donovan d’Allyonshire?”

  Holding Isabeau’s shoulders, Blanched pulled back and searched her face. “And you tried to run away.”

  Isabeau gasped. “How did you know?”

  Blanche laughed. “I’ve known you since you were a babe. I could see the stirrin’s of a plot in your eyes weeks ago. And think I didn’t miss you yesterday?”

  “Simon doesn’t…” Isabeau’s instinctive panic was silenced by a Blanche’s callused hand on her mouth.

  “You’ve no need to worry about that one again,” Blanche cackled joyfully. “My lord will see to that. You are going to be a countess.”

  “A countess?” Isabeau backed away on weak knees and gratefully sank onto her hard bed. “How can I be a countess?”

  “Tetch-tetch.” Blanche scowled fiercely as she leapt to Isabeau’s defense. “What’s this? Any man—to the king hisself—would be proud to have you as his bride.”

  “How can I be a countess?” Isabeau repeated her cry almost a wale. “How can I be a countess when I don’t even know how to be a wife?”

  “Oh,” Blanche blinked owlishly a couple of times before comprehension set in. “OH. I see.”

  The older woman closed and latched the door before sitting beside Isabeau on the bed. She decisively patted the back of Isabeau’s hand with her work-worn one. “You would have been too young before your momma died for her to—and your papa wouldn’t have explained—well, I’ll do my best, child.”

  The quick lessons in marital duties and responsibilities left Isabeau’s cheeks burning with embarrassment and with more questions than before. When she tried to ask one, Blanche patted her hand again with a little more force than before and shook her head vigorously enough to shift her mop-cap.

  “It is your husband’s place to answer your questions as he sees fit. Just follow where he leads. The earl will have a care.”
<
br />   She reached up and smoothed Isabeau’s hair. “Now, we need to get moving. I’ll finish here. The earl said you were to take any keepsakes you wish. ‘Twill be a while before you will be returning to Olivet.”

  “He said that?”

  “Aye.”

  “Oh, Blanche, I wish you were going with us.”

  “Now, hush. You know I like the size of my nest as it is. I can cluck all I wish and a half day’s ride is as far as I want to be from my grandbabies.”

  Isabeau gave the sturdy woman’s shoulders an affectionate squeeze. “Thank you for so much. I hope you have dozens more grandbabies the next time I see you.”

  “Go on with you. Go pick out some of your papa’s books while you still have the time.”

  Isabeau laughed as she left the room. The housekeeper knew her all too well. She raced to her father’s gallery. She wanted her mother’s portrait and a miniature she had commissioned of her father for his birthday. The gallery also housed the library.

  She was in the process of picking out several volumes when she heard the swishing of silk against silk. She looked up to see Syllba glide into the room and quietly close the door.

  “Syllba.” Isabeau greeted her sister-in-law guardedly. Even after sharing the same home for months, they had rarely been alone with each other. What was she to say to the woman? “I thought you had returned to your chambers. The evening meal must have been taxing on your strength. I would have come to you before leaving. I wish to thank you for allowing me to remain in Olivet since my father’s death.”

  Syllba’s cheeks blazed red against a pale complexion. With such vivid color, the woman had no need of the cosmetics she had worn to the great hall. She sashayed towards the nearest bookcase and ran a long nail along a leather spine. Isabeau hoped she hid the wince against the fear that Syllba’s nail would slice the binding.

  “You do love your books, don’t you, Little Izzy?” Syllba crooned. “I thought I would find you here when Bennington declared to all and sundry that he was taking you to wife and you were free to take any tokens you wished. ‘She’ll go right for the books,’ I thought. And see, I was right. You are so predictable.”