Betrothed

by Lori Snow

  He traced his other hand down her white throat into the valley between her breasts. The temptation to dance a pattern over ripe woman was too strong to resist. He wondered if desire or embarrassment caused her cheeks to glow as her nipples hardened.

  “Ease, ease,” he crooned, as to a fractious colt. “Together we will find joy.”

  “What would you have me do, my lord?”

  He lifted her braid and toyed with the ribbon, pulling it free. His fingers untangled the long strands. “I have wanted to bury my hands here since I watched the fire turn it to waves of gold at Olivet.”

  Isabeau leaned forward. Donovan pulled the silky locks over her sensitive breasts.

  He settled his lips on her shoulders and whispered. “I want to see all of you.” The chemise slid from her shoulders. Her white skin glowed in the firelight. He saluted each of her breasts with a kiss.

  As she sighed, he worked the shift over her hips and down her legs. Gently, he stroked down her belly to her woman’s place. He pulled his head back so he could watch her face. Her hazel gaze darted to where he touched her.

  He watched emotions flicker over her expressive face as he petted her curls. The heat of arousal tinted her skin. Fear, curiosity and surprise colored her cheeks.

  He held her motionless as he lowered his mouth to hers. He teased, tempted. The tip of his tongue demanded entrance. She opened her mouth as he had taught her.

  She went up in flames under his continued stroking, mapping her contours. His hand cupped her warm curls. She pushed against his probing fingers.

  Contrary to Dame Granya’s predictions, he would not require Isabeau drugged, then dragged to his bed. No one would need force her to come to his chamber, to do his bidding.

  Her whimpers were growing in strength. He stretched beside her; his body straining for relief. Moisture slicked his fingers. He found no surcease in her writhing against his trapped erection.

  “Donovan,” she moaned, “I feel so strange. What is happening to me?”

  He stroked the hard nubbin again and she exploded in his arms.

  Donovan breathed hard, trying to control his raging body. His pleasure could wait until the morrow—after they wed.

  He has so much to teach her. He would enjoy the teaching and die a happy man.

  C hapter 23

  Donovan had sent her back to her own room in the deepest hours of the night. She had wanted to stay with him. Her bed felt cold adding to her restlessness. His declaration kept tumbling in her mind. They would marry on the morrow.

  Her tossing and turning wrapped the bed coverings into a knot. In a fit of frustration. She dragged off her nightdress and threw it over the foot of the bed. When Caitlin entered her room the next morning, Isabeau completely ignored the pointed looks from the girl as she retrieved the mistreated clothing.

  Though the idea of facing her betrothed after their night together burned her cheeks with embarrassment, Isabeau was determined. He had to understand the wedding bells would not ring until…

  Suddenly there were loud shouts and running in the halls. Isabeau turned towards the door. “Caitlin, is there something amiss?”

  “I know not.”

  “Quickly, Caitlin, help me dress.” She needed to speak with Donovan. Please God, he had not announced their wedding.

  Tying the last of the dress tapes, Isabeau rushed towards the great hall. Sounds were getting louder. People milled about.

  Dorcus, loaded down with a mound of cloth, bustled passed.

  “What has happened, Dorcus? Are we under attack?”

  “The earl is going ahuntin’.”

  “Hunting? Now?”

  “Aye, milady.” Dorcus nodded so vigorously. “Bandits have attacked one of the farmsteads. My lord is going to hunt the rabid curs and put them down.”

  Isabeau’s sucked in her breath. Donovan was leaving? Without saying good-bye? “Where is his lordship?”

  “Outer bailey, milady,” The maid answered excitedly. “Been organizing the men and horses since he got word. ‘Spect he be ready to leave anytime.”

  “Thank you.” The words barely slipped from her lips before Isabeau was on her way.

  Everyone in the bailey moved. They ran from place to place, some empty-handed, others weighted down with their burdens. Her gaze immediately fell on the one person standing in place though he swung his arms as he pointed from one portion of the castle to another.

  Donovan directed the activity with an assurance that calmed those around him, Isabeau thought proudly. Chaos was not welcome in his domain.

  Careful to keep from under foot, she crossed the bailey to be at his side. She waited until he paused between issuing instructions to one of his men before speaking.

  “What can I do?”

  He turned and she felt cocooned in his gaze while at the same time safe and exposed. His blue gaze sparkled with the mischief she remembered in Christian’s eyes. He reached out to touch her face then dropped his hand.

  “Not here. Not now,” he muttered.

  “I can help,” she asserted, though disappointed at his withdrawal of his caress.

  “Keep the women busy while we are gone. Especially Glenys. It was her grandson’s cottage that burned.”

  “Oh, dear heavens. What of her grandson?”

  “The news was brought by the daughter of the neighboring farmer. He sent her out to get help while he and his sons offered up their aid. I will know more when I get there. I do not know how long I will be gone but I have not forgotten,” he said in an undertone not meant for any one’s ears but hers.

  “About what?”

  This time when he reached out, he stroked her cheek with the back of his forefinger. “We will wed upon my return.”

  “You will take care?” She ignored his comment though her cheeks burned. “You will avoid taking another blade?”

  “Aye, I have reason enough to return to you, less any more holes.”

  “Thank you, Donovan. I had best see to Glenys.” She leaned in to give the part of his wrist exposed from his sleeve a quick kiss. “And Donovan, we will wed when I carry your babe here.”

  She touched her fingers to her belly before bouncing out of his reach and called out as she ran to the kitchens. “All the more reason to deal swiftly with the bandits and return home.”

  Simon stumbled from the cave to relieve himself in the bushes. The horses nickered a welcome.

  He surveyed the clearing as his eyes adjusted to the change in light and shadows. His lip curled in disgust. He kicked at a tuft of grass. How he hated being here. But his whole future depended on the coming days.

  Adjusting his braes after relieving himself, Simon circumvented the cold muddy fire pit; fastidiously he avoided any muck or offal. He lifted his arm to sniff his clothes. By the saints, he reeked of damp and mildew.

  The opening in the wooded hillside was wide enough for the shoulders of three men and high enough so Simon did not have to stoop. The rock and green scrub camouflaged the entrance. Unless he knew of its existence, a casual traveler on the main path would not see nature’s shelter. Simon was not a casual traveler. He moved carefully back into the cave where he and Arneau had spent the night.

  Nothing about the place had changed except for more mud at the entrance. This late in the spring, it was dry inside, but decorated with probably the same dirt and cobwebs as the last time he had been here. Against the back wall lay a bed of pine braches covered with a Bennington fur throw.

  As a love nest the cave lacked certain amenities, but he had enjoyed bedding Allyonshire’s countess in these filthy surroundings. Marta had shriveled, being here during their trysts but that simply added to his enjoyment. It was just like the slut to spoil his fun by dying.

  Luck had not been going his way lately. Everything had proceeded well until five days ago and now he was saddled with Kirney’s threats. Damn, Izzy, and damn Allyonshire to the fires of hell.

  Somebody was going to die and he would enjoy making it happen. T
his was his time, now.

  Take this cave Marta had led him to. He turned slowly in the dark, cramped hole. It was near enough to Bennington that if the wind was right he could hear voices and smell the castle fires. It was the most closely guarded of Bennington’s secrets, but Marta had been quick to betray. He found a certain satisfaction as he remembered Marta picking her way through the dark, spider-infested tunnel; lifting her skirts from grasping tendrils of tree roots. But she came to his arms because he could expose her worst fear.

  Marta had hated this hole even more than he -- though he supposed she had more reason.

  She had detested their meetings but she dared not refuse any demand he made—no matter how base, no matter how common. So much hovered in the balance, should Simon decide to air the countess’s proclivities. Yet, the greater threat seemed to be Simon’s ability to deprive her of Syllba ‘s companionship

  He missed his bed. He was not accustomed to sleeping on the ground. Even the inn would have had a better mattress than the pallet. He would have spent the night at the inn but after planting his little seed of destruction, he thought it too dangerous to stay. He and Arneau had pushed on to the cave to await developments.

  Sounds of activity from the castle were growing louder. He turned towards the entrance.

  His big toe connected with a sharp rock. He cursed Donovan with every limping step he took. Allyonshire would pay for Simon’s deprivations.

  Growing sunlight filtered in. It made a taper unnecessary to navigate the small room. A snore and a snort broke the silence. Arneau had no problem sleeping on the rough ground. Simon searched the bundles piled inside the cave. He pulled out a skin of wine, then crossed to the curled servant. Arneau grunted when Simon kicked him in the ribs.

  “Get up, varlet!” Simon kicked him again. “Something is happening.”

  Arneau rolled over and raised his head. He gave his lord an evil smile. Simon ignored it. The man was only a servant and not of the brightest. Of course. He feared his master. He did wonder why Syllba suggested Arneau for this undertaking, but one cur was as good as another.

  “Fool, get up,” he said again. “They are stirring. Find out what is happening.”

  Still half asleep, Arneau staggered out of the cave.

  While his servant reconnoitered, Simon hunkered down and took a long swig of the wine. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve as he swallowed. He devoured most of a loaf of bread as he waited.

  “My lord!” Arneau gave a quick bow from the doorway. “They are gathering horses at the castle. My guess is they are readying to ride out.”

  “What? Already?” When he and Arneau had recruited the three thieves at the inn he had not expected results so quickly. The fools had believed his tale and acted on it immediately. Gold was always the best spur to action. Simon understood greed.

  Taking another pull on the wine bladder Simon nearly emptied it before rising to his feet. “Get ready to ride out.” He felt for the knife at his belt. All those hours of practice with Little Izzy could finally pay off. “Be sure to bring your weapons.”

  Arneau eyed to remnants of Simon’s breakfast. The servant had not eaten but he followed orders; leaving to saddle their horses.

  If all fell into place, this was Simon’s chance to dispose of the two large thorns in his side.

  He wanted this business over. He needed to provide Kirney with his merchandise. If – no, when -- he delivered, his reward would be very large. Beyond that, when he brought about d’Allyonshire’s demise, Simon had been promised Bennington; a stronger, richer fortress than Olivet would ever be. Kirney stood with the barons who secretly did not support the king. That made any friend of the king Kirney’s enemy. D’Allyonshire was a staunch king’s man.

  Hidden in the tree line, Simon and Arneau watched the earl and his armed entourage gallop out the gate. “Follow them. Do not allow yourself to be seen,” Simon ordered, still watching the retreating riders. “Should the opportunity arise, you are welcome to do away with the earl.”

  He turned to the servant beside him and spoke simply. “Anyone who brings down d’Allyonshire will be well rewarded. Gold… Land...” Simon waved a hand as if he had much to give. “Do you understand?”

  “Aye, my lord. I am simply to dispatch this great knight while he is surrounded by his best fighting men? If it is possible, of course,” Arneau added quickly and gave Simon his subservient smile. “In any case I am to return to the cave and report?”

  Simon stared at his man. Surely the fool was not being sarcastic? He would not dare! “Get ye gone before you lose your quarry.”

  Arneau touched his forelock and went off.

  Returning to the cave, Simon finished the wine and moving farther from the entrance, found the secret opening Marta had shown him. She had told him the tunnel entered the castle via the wine cellar and also led to Donovan’s chamber. If luck were with him, he might find Little Izzy alone and kidnap her. That would solve all his problems.

  Even now, he was amazed the secret passage into Bennington Castle remained undiscovered. He stepped into the narrow opening. He had gone only a few steps into the tunnel before he realized he had brought neither torch nor taper. Vacillating only a moment about returning to the cave for light, he decided to venture forward. The cowardly Marta had made the trip countless times with no mishaps. What dangers could there be? Besides, once in the castle, he would help himself to tapers from the earl’s own supply.

  His progress was slow as he shuffled the dirty incline. He kept a hand to the wall as he made his way into the bowels of the earth. When the path leveled, he tried to visualize his position under the fortress.

  Had he breached the stone walls? Was he, even now, within the bailey? Within the castle walls?

  How much farther before he reached the stone stairs hidden inside the massive castle?

  Minutes later, he loosed a cascade of blasphemes as his foot collided with a stone step. Recalling that he must be quiet, he sat on the steps as he assessed his injuries and laid the blame squarely at Allyonshire’s door. He must have made contact with the edge of every tread. Simon enjoyed dispensing pain but he disliked enduring it.

  Shaking off the dirt and spider webs, he resumed his invasion of the castle, carefully climbing through the midnight darkness. Every time he snagged his fingers on a protruding stone he cursed Allyonshire; every time he stubbed his toe, he silently heaped foul insults on Isabeau.

  Vowing again to secure a supply of tapers to secrete at the outer end of the passage, his foot slipped on crumbling stone. Scurrying sounds echoed his curses and his lips curled with disgust. Rats?

  Stumbling in the darkness, his reaching hand felt nothing. The wall ended. Finally, he had reached the fork in the tunnel Marta had described. Simon continued in the same direction he had been traveling.

  How many steps to the exit? Had Marta ever said? On which side of the door was the release mechanism? Simon nearly fell again when he ran into the wooden door.

  He held his breath as he listened through the panel separating him from the cellar room.

  He waited—and waited. To him, it seemed like eons but at last he decided he had tarried long enough. He traced the doorframe for the catch and added a splinter in his finger to his list of grievances. He found the latch.

  Quietly, Simon eased the door open. Assured he was alone, he slipped through the narrow opening and entered Bennington.

  Even with the earl in residence, the cellar appeared little visited. No personal items or tools lay carelessly about. The only indication of recent visitors was the carafe and goblet on the table.

  Did the carafe hold the earl’s wine? Simon still thirsted. He strode to the table, lifted the carafe and sniffed appreciatively. His curiosity over the quality of Donovan’s cellar would be satisfied much sooner than expected. He tipped the carafe and poured a generous portion down his throat.

  The taste was almost worth the trip underground. Almost.

  Finishing off the carafe tempted him bu
t he decided it could wait until his return. He needed to make good use of his time. Find candles for the tunnel. Where did Isabeau sleep? The castle would be disorganized due to the Allyonshire’s sudden exit, giving him opportunity to explore.

  Excitement at his daring fueled Simon’s blood as he ventured into a corridor. Nothing could stop him. The castle welcomed him as if he were already its master.

  He was well away from the wine cellar, well away from his secret avenue of escape when his fanciful self-boasts crumbled to dust. After carefully peeking before stepping around the corner, he came face to face with a wrinkled old bat emerging from a doorway. She carried a cane as gnarled as her hand. She appeared as startled as he.

  “Lord Olivet.”

  The old woman’s crackling voice grated and he wondered how she knew his identity. Through narrowed eyes he watched her as he searched his memory. Ah, yes. She had been with Marta on her first visit to Olivet. The old busy-body had clung to Marta like moss on a rock. Syllba had persuaded Marta to shed the bitch on future visits.

  Then, the woman had been a nuisance—a stumbling block to their plans, but now—perhaps her loyalty to Marta could be a tool. Then he had dismissed her as a servant well passed usefulness, but he still remembered her distain for the frequently absent earl. She had even voiced a rather gleeful suggestion that Donovan might not survive the king’s battlefields.

  “Welcome, milord.” She lowered her cane to the floor as she respectfully bobbed her head. “I was not made aware of your arrival. I suppose it is the reason for all of the excitement.”

  “Nay,” he denied quietly. Damn, what was the bitch’s name? She had a nominal title. “Dame Jenna…”

  “Granya,” she corrected automatically.

  “Beg pardon, Dame Granya.” Simon apologized prettily, turning on his gift of charm. “Tis not my presence which warrants such distraction.”

  “Then you are not here for the wedding?”