by Lori Snow
“Was that necessary?” asked Syllba.
“What? The threat?” He turned to his wife and shrugged. She was the picture of feminine gentility in stark contrast to his recent plaything. He smiled as he recognized what lay beneath the cool façade. “Nay, not with that one, she will remember well enough. She thinks taking us is sin enough. I just like to watch her quiver with the threat.”
Unmindful of his nakedness, he strode to the small stand against the wall and poured a goblet of wine. He drank deep before refilling his vessel. Lifting the carafe, he silently offered her a drink.
She shook her head and then changed her mind. “Yes, pour me one. Mayhap it will drown the scent of sex.”
He laughed as he carried the full pewter goblets back to her. “You like the scent of sex well enough.”
“Not when I am not part of the tangle.” She pouted with a hint of the coquette.
“So why did you interrupt my tangle without climbing atop?” He narrowed his eyes as he watched her sip daintily at the wine.
She licked her lips and then drew the back of her hand across her mouth in the manner of a peasant boy. “We need to discuss your new plans.”
He raised his brow. “New plans?”
“Aye, for Bennington and your slut of a half-sister.” She nodded vigorously. “I know you have something diabolical brewing. You can not let the little bitch go unpunished. Because of her, Bennington has left us with nothing.”
Bennington! Bennington! Why did she have to keep repeating the name—the title that should have been mine?
He drained his goblet and threw it against the hearth. He bitterly regretted not having a convenient target. Syllba found too much enjoyment in both the meting and receiving of pain to be satisfying.
“The first earl should have been my sire, not Donovan’s.”
Syllba sipped her wine and made no indication she had heard Simon’s complaints many times before.
“My mother was betrothed to the first earl, but from the moment Donovan’s mother spread her legs and interfered with my mother’s nuptials, Donovan has been a thorn in my side. He has taken everything from me—from my title to my power.” Simon strode back and forth across the chamber, his manhood drooping like his thoughts. “My grandfather told me all. The old earl was desperate for an heir to his new title and that little incubus he married instead of my mother offered up Donovan, a son.
“My mother had to settle for Lord Charles, only a baron. My father was nothing to an earl.”
“I know, husband.” Syllba crooned sympathetically. “Here you were, so close to reclaiming everything that had been stolen. If Marta had not died—well, things would be different. But all is not lost. I know, even now, you are chewing on ways to exact your revenge.”
Simon stopped his pacing long enough to stare at Syllba’s ingenuous smile. Never would he admit to her he had all but admitted defeat.
“Of course, I have been considering my next stratagem.”
“It must be swift. Bennington must die.”
“Aye,” Simon agreed.
“If it is done before they are wed, then Kirney will still have his virgin.”
“But would Isabeau not have more value as a widowed countess?”
Syllba cocked her head to the side much as a vulture contemplates carrion. “Do you not think you would risk the king’s interference if she were a countess? You are guaranteed your fee if you present Kirney with a virgin. You can also reclaim all of the keepsakes the bitch stole from Olivet.” A stringent note entered her cajoling. “She needs to be stripped bare of the lot.”
“What would be your suggestion?” he asked cagily.
She practically danced on her little slippered feet. “Get him away from his castle. Keep him away from her and out of her bed. He will be vulnerable outside the walls.”
“How?” In spite of himself, he was intrigued. Beneath her blue gown, her nipples beaded with her excitement. Her eagerness boded ill for someone.
“If you were to take—oh, I do not know—Arneau, and create a distraction. One devastating enough to lure the earl from his stronghold—he would not be prepared for an attack on his person. Once he has -- been disposed of -- you can resume your lawful guardianship of your father’s get.”
The singsong of her voice was in direct contrast to the wickedness of her plan.
“Are you sure Arneau is the right man?” he asked doubtfully.
Syllba drew a sharp fingernail down the center of his bare chest leaving a line without drawing blood. He shivered at the pleasant sting.
“I think he will do whatever you demand with no hesitation—no question.”
“And the disaster?” Simon grew warm with anticipation.
“Pick a farm—any farm—at least a half day’s ride from Bennington and burn it to the ground. All will think a mythical band of outlaws are the culprits. When the earl falls, none will think to look for a single man.”
“There will be no witnesses to dispute the sign.” Simon gripped his hardening cock and tugged.
“No witnesses.” Syllba whispered her agreement.
“Bend over the table and lift your skirts, wife,” he demanded.
“Oh, husband,” she cooed. “How forceful you are.”
“We’ll use the whips later,” he promised.
Syllba gripped the edge of the table and grunted as he jammed into her with no preliminaries but their talk of violence. She never refused him no matter his mood—no matter the place. Even when he had thought to rip through her non-existent maidenhead on their wedding night, she had been ready, if not willing. The reaction to her lack of virginity had surprised both of them. He had plowed her raw those first weeks and they had both fed off her pain.
She had been the one to introduce whips and toys and then finally the females to their play. How many sluts had she placed in a compromising position, allowing Simon to discover the indiscretion and take advantage?
They both enjoyed the game—the hunt—the power.
A woman would do anything rather than be labeled a rouncivale—a lover of women. When one controlled the woman, one controlled her house—her man.
Simon was sure he controlled his woman—just to prove it, he growled in her ear. “Come, now.”
She shuddered beneath him as she cried out her completion. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the table edge.
Yes—he controlled his woman.
C hapter 15
Isabeau’s first glimpse of Bennington Castle took her breath away. Even through rain and mist, she could see the outline of massive stone walls. Crenellated parapets edged the gray horizon like the teeth of a beast.
Would she be pulverized within its jowls?
She shivered as a rivulet of water trickled down her spine. She knew they still had a great distance yet to travel but she longed for the warmth of a bright fire. Even the gray mountain of rocks and all the challenges within would be welcome after the torrent the heavens had bequeathed upon their heads.
Carrie shivered beside her and Isabeau watched her with concern as she vainly tried to find a comfortable position in the wagon. Neither of them dared issue a complaint at the near breakneck pace. If anything, she thought, Carrie would join her in wishing for more speed. They were both anxious to get to their new home.
Even with the late start, Donovan decided to press on to Bennington rather than stop at Sir William’s manor. He had told her this when they stopped for a brief mid-day meal, assuring her that if they maintained the same pace, they would make Bennington before sundown.
The weather had been an unforeseen complication. When the rain began to pelt the traveling party, Carstairs dropped back to inform her they had already passed Sir William’s manor. The earl was willing to find lodging should she wish, but otherwise they would stay on the road to Bennington.
Isabeau took a moment to check on Carrie before assuring Carstairs they were content to follow Donovan’s wishes. So, they continued the journey with the swaying wago
n pounding their bottoms and the rain pounding their heads. Soon they were soaked to the skin and Isabeau began to count each tree they passed.
When she had first climbed onto the wagon with Carrie, Isabeau put her mind to work keeping the younger girl occupied with something other than her pain. Isabeau started with a campaign of constant one-sided conversation. She talked until her voice began to crack. Fortunately their stop for the mid-day meal was near large creek. The cool water was welcome.
Once they climbed back into the wagon, Isabeau decided to push for more than single word answers from Carrie. She needed a longer respite from doing all of the talking. “Do you think you will wish to visit your mama and papa?” she asked curiously.
“No.” Carrie’s clipped out her response.
“Why not?” Isabeau could not keep her surprise out of her voice. “I remember your family as being quite affectionate.”
Carrie only shrugged. Then gritted her teeth at the pain.
“There has to be a reason,” Isabeau pressed.
She watched as Carrie’s lips thinned rebelliously. She watched and waited. Isabeau had acquired a talent for waiting while living in her half-brother’s household. Eventually, Carrie’s shoulders slumped in defeat. The young girl shuddered.
“Some—sometime ago, I—I went back to Mama’s cottage.” She tried to straighten some pride into her shoulders but Isabeau detected the painful wince. “I did not want to go back to the manor. Papa—Papa boxed my ears and pushed me out the door. He—he said I were not to return. I had been given an opportunity and t’was not his fault if I fell in a pit. I was his get no longer.”
“I am sorry. I had no idea.” Isabeau instinctively reached out to pat Carrie’s arm in commiseration.
Carrie shrugged again but Isabeau could clearly see the distress in the old eyes on the young face.
“What is your name?”
“Beggin’ your pardon, milady?” Puzzlement diluted the hurt, which was Isabeau’s objective.
“I was wondering if Carrie is your given name or a diminutive.”
“I was named for an aunt of my mother’s—Caitlin. Roddie—my brother—could not get his tongue around it.”
Isabeau let a smile spread across her face in the hope the expression would distract Carrie from her bittersweet memories. She leaned forward conspiratorially, adding a sparkle of bewilderment to the dull blue eyes.
“From now on, I suggest my companion should use her given name.”
“Milady?”
“You will be starting a fresh life at Bennington, just as I will be. I think as my friend and companion, you should begin using your given name along with collecting new memories.”
“My lady’s companion?” Carrie sucked in her breath as she tried to comprehend her sudden change in station in life.
“You are not the only one who is going to a new home full of strangers. I would appreciate having a friendly familiar face close by. Do you think being my friend would be too much of a chore?”
“Oh, no, milady,” Carrie—Caitlin answered breathily.
Isabeau leaned back against a chest and felt the grin spread across her face. Already, she could see the girl shedding the beaten down quality. For the next several hours, Isabeau kept Caitlin occupied, reviewing the duties required of a new chatelaine and her companion. Both of them would have their hands full. Isabeau had not quite finished with her litany when the heavens opened up.
With the advent of rain, Isabeau found she must now concentrate on preventing her teeth from chattering. She wondered how many of her plans Caitlin actually heard over the wheel’s rumble and clomping horses’ hooves.
Settling back, wedging herself awkwardly between two chests, Isabeau closed her eyes and tried to picture their arrival at the Castle. She would be a bedraggled mess when she met Bennington’s denizens, hardly a fitting introduction for Donovan’s bride, their future countess. They would surely find her lacking.
Isabeau jerked when Carrie shook her arm. She opened her eyes to see the gate of Bennington looming over them. They rattled over the suspended wooden bridge and started through the arch tunneling the granite barricade protecting the castle. As they emerged from the passageway, she could see protected torches in the distance bracketing the grand door. Just the outer bailey could house two manors the size of Olivet.
She heard shouts excitedly announcing the early return of the master as figures raced to prepare the way. A fierce butterfly danced in her belly when she heard a loud reference to the earl’s betrothed.
Isabeau pulled up to sit atop the nearest chest. Defying the rain, she proudly straightened her spine as she sat on her perch. She might be a drowned rat but she would be a dignified drowned rat.
Donovan suddenly appeared through the rain—a great hulking figure astride his black stallion. He paced the wagon as it entered the inner bailey and approached the ornate main door. Carstairs rode sentinel on the other side. When the procession drew to a halt, Donovan bounded from his saddle and strode to the wagon. Without a word, he simply raised his hands. Isabeau had barely found her footing when he gripped her waist. She had just enough time to brace her hands on his shoulders before he swung her to the ground.
His cloak and tunic were as saturated as her garments but he seemed oblivious to the discomfort. Beneath her palms she could feel his solid strength as he easily bore her weight. Her toes danced lightly on the packed road as he settled her securely on her feet. She could not prevent the shiver when he withdrew his large warm hands from her middle.
“Welcome to your new home, my lady.” His deep voice competed with a sudden roll of thunder but she had no trouble hearing him. His tones reverberated through her being like those of a bass woodwind.
He stepped back and offered his arm in courtly fashion. She inhaled deeply and released her breath slowly through pursed lips as she placed her palm and forearm atop his left arm, leaving his sword arm free. She walked at his side with as much decorum as she could while ignoring the slurping of the mud as it sucked at her slippers.
On the edge of her vision, she was vaguely aware that Carstairs had treated Carrie to the same care and courtesy.
Several people awaited introductions to the newcomers. Wisely, they were inside the massive door. Curling her hand tightly over his gauntlet, Isabeau prepared for the initial onslaught.
“I’ll never remember every name,” she whispered to her betrothed in a panic as she saw the line winding through the great hall.
Donovan briefly patted her hand. “I have been away for months at a time and find I have to relearn names and faces myself. Do not try to soak it in just now. Give it time.”
“Did you have to mention the word ‘soak?’ ” she groaned. “The word has weighed over my head for the last several hours.”
A low rumble reverberated Donovan’s chest and she felt it beneath her arm. When she looked up, she discovered the vibration was a form of laughter.
As she looked at the men and women staring at them, she realized a variety of reactions colored their faces; a few were openly pleased that Donovan had found reason for humor. One older woman, pinched of brow and puckered of lip did not bother to hide her irritation.
Donovan drew Isabeau to the head of the line and nodded to an older man. “Eldred, I would like you to meet my betrothed, Lady Isabeau d’ —soon to be of Bennington. Isabeau, this is my trusted steward Eldred. Beside him is Father Matthias, Maisie, our head housekeeper and Glenys our chief cook.”
The four of them were copious in their welcome and Isabeau smiled back brightly. She knew she would be working closely with these four as she settled into her new position. “Thank you for being so gracious in your reception. I know you had no warning of my arrival.” She turned towards where Carstairs stood behind them.
“I would also like to introduce my friend and companion, Maid Caitlin. She agreed to join me in my move to Bennington.” Isabeau held out her free hand and beckoned the girl forward. After a minute hesitation, Caitlin sh
yly stepped forward and dipped a deep curtsy. Apparently, the respectful gesture won their approval for as a group the quartet offered genuine greetings.
“Do you think Maid Caitlin could be assigned the chambers next to those you plan to give me? Both of us are rather shy and would appreciate a close proximity until we gain our balance.”
Maisie gave her an odd look, glanced down the line before turning back and grinned brightly. “ 'Twould be no trouble, milady. 'Twon’t take but a moment to ready the countess’s chambers and those adjacent. I’ll put the maids on it this moment. Why, we’ll warm you poor things up with a fire and bath ‘fore a horse can flick a fly.”
“Jesu!” Donovan interjected, his cheeks were a dull red over the day’s growth of beard. “I gave no thought to your comfort. You need to get warm and dry.”
“You are just as drenched as I, my lord.” Isabeau, with difficulty, hid her grin at his obvious discomfiture. She turned with a smile that included both Maisie and her betrothed. “Why do you not continue with your introductions until our hearths are set? I am sure Maisie has already begun preparations for your comfort, my lord,” she squeezed the man’s arm reassuringly. “Am I correct, Maisie?”
“You be correct, milady,” Maisie said proudly. “I put the earl’s water to boil when his banner was sighted.”
“Thank you, Maisie. Shall we continue, my lord?” Isabeau let out a quiet sigh of relief before gently pulling Donovan along the line. Dunstan, the tall man-at-arms and Lee—she lost track of his title—both had smiles for her.
She was not so lucky with the old woman standing stiffly next to Lee. Isabeau could feel the animosity lingering around the woman like a morning’s haze. She wondered that others did not see the resentment as well. She looked at those on either side of the woman and thought perhaps they did. A tension gripped them that was absent in their own introductions.
“Isabeau, I believe you mentioned having once met Dame Granya.” Donovan reminded evenly.