Betrothed

by Lori Snow

  She watched in fascination as each dog assumed a post. “How did you do that? They were rambunctious for me but they were determined to find you.”

  “Training and practice. They are on guard now. Should an intruder approach, we’ll be well warned.”

  After appraising the ground around them, Isabeau decided on their picnic spot, and began laying out their provisions. He couldn’t resist the urge to tease her as he observed the quantity. “Did you not say you brought only enough food for two? I would venture to say you could feed my entire barracks.” He laughed when she blushed.

  “I thought to take the opportunity for us to speak in private.” She was looking down but handed him a meat pie.

  He made an exaggerated survey of the brook and small glen. “You have succeeded in privacy. Of what do you wish to speak?”

  “I would avoid causing you more displeasure.”

  He swallowed the hearty bite of pie. “Are you asking what makes me angry, so that you will not do them?”

  “That is one concern.” She nodded.

  “When have you brought me displeasure?”

  Isabeau licked her lips. “I spoke of… Of your losses, and the next time we met, your kindness to me was gone. I apologize for intruding on your grief. I only meant to bring you comfort.”

  He stretched out his hand to caress her jaw with the back of his fingers. “I assure you. My mood had naught to do with you. You have brought only balm to my bruised spirit. I would we wed on the morrow.”

  She had arched her back into his touch like a kitten but she hissed in air at his question. “Shhhh! Tomorrow is too soon.”

  “I know that I rushed you away from your home with no time to prepare for a wedding, but everything you need you will find at Bennington.”

  She waved her right hand in the air and Donovan was thankful that a goblet was not close at hand. “I have all that I need. T’is not that.”

  “Then why?” He didn’t stifle his impatience.

  “I do not yet carry your babe.”

  “It matters not. Your belly will swell with my seed as God wills it.”

  “But what if I cannot? That is why… I will not have you trapped.”

  “You said this before. Do you have a plan?”

  “Aye.” Pink splashes colored Isabeau’s cheeks as she closed her eyes. She took a breath before re-opening them and looking directly into his gaze. “ ‘Tis why I followed you.”

  She took another deep breath but he was the one not prepared for her rush of words.

  “I wished privacy when I set about to seduce you.”

  He could hear Carstairs’ mocking voice whispering over his shoulder. Put us out of your misery. Give the girl what she wants.

  C hapter 32

  Isabeau stared at her betrothed, not sure who appeared more shocked—Donovan because of her bold behavior or herself because she had actually found the courage to make the demand.

  “Undo the ribbons on your bodice.” He spoke in no more than a husky whisper. He brushed just his forefinger along the curve of her breasts. Beneath the linen of her tunic, her nipples hardened. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment but this was what she had asked for. Donovan had already seen her body. She had nothing left to hide.

  She searched his face but couldn’t interpret his expression or the light that burned in the depths of his blue eyes. What did it mean? Did he think her a trollop?

  Isabeau inhaled a ragged breath as she lifted a trembling hand to the top bow. “You wish -- now?”

  “Aye. Is that not your idea?”

  She nodded. She couldn’t help searching the trees.

  “As you said, we have the privacy and I wish to see you in the warmth of the sunlight… Unless you have no wish to join with me,” he said with a coldness that formed gooseflesh on her arms.

  “I have but one thing to ask of you, my lord.” She could feel heat spread up her throat to her cheeks. She resumed undoing the fastening of her bodice down to her girdle. Her trembling fingers held the garment together. She curved her shoulders, not yet quite ready to reveal her nakedness.

  “There is no need of such formality between us. My given name is Donovan. I have asked you to use it, especially when I am deep inside you.” A grim smile curved his mouth.

  Was he teasing her?

  If possible, her color deepened and he laughed. The sound had a rusty quality. “I never thought to ever laugh when speaking of the marriage bed. What magic do you yield?”

  Perhaps he was teasing.

  “What boon do you ask of me?”

  She swallowed and noticed him staring at her throat. Did he watch the flutter of her heating blood in her there?

  “That night the shadows and…” She licked her dry lips as she searched for words. “The shadows and your sorcery blinded me. I wish to see you in the light as well.”

  “You want to see me?”

  Isabeau could only nod.

  “Marta closed her eyes whenever I visited her chamber. She could not countenance the evidence of my battles. She would have preferred to refuse me.”

  Though his face remained stoic, she felt the pain of his wife’s rejection. She reached out as if with a touch would ease the hurt. He sat back on his heals before her fingers reached his jaw.

  His gaze intent, he watched her as he silently removed his belt and lay it aside. He loosened the leather thong crisscrossing his neck opening. She had not realized she held her breath until he crossed his arms to tug his tunic over his head.

  “Your courage humbles me, my lady.”

  “My courage?”

  “Aye.” His crooked smile didn’t reach his eyes. “How much more difficult it must have been for you—to bare your body before a man—a stranger at that—for the first time.”

  Then something changed in the depths of his eyes. A dark storm was beginning to brew beneath the surface.

  He smoothed the blanket she had spread for the picnic then fanned his shed tunic before letting it flutter to the blanket. Fascinated with this action, she was caught unprepared when his hand curved around her ankle.

  “Now, my sweetling, let me see.” Donovan gently pulled her closer atop his draped tunic. “The moss does not have the comfort of my bed, but I would not have you bruised on any rocks.” He pushed a stray tendril behind her ear, trailing his fingers tantalizingly down her jaw. He rested his warm palm at the throat.

  “Are you comfortable?”

  A shiver of anticipation gripped her but she could only nod.

  “I ask again. Do you not want to wait for Father Matthias’ blessing?”

  For her answer, she slowly opened her chemise to reveal the valley between her breasts. The intense light of desire in his eyes gave her the courage to let the linen spread wider. When she hesitated, the growl emanating from his throat caused her to inhale quickly.

  His bare chest distracted her. She soon became engrossed in the inventory of his every tendon and muscle, his every battle scar. Her eyes followed the line of every white mark, every pink pucker that marred his skin. “Your chest…” She licked her lips before her teeth captured the tip of her tongue.

  “I am not as pretty as you.”

  She let loose of her bodice with her right hand as she reached out to stroke the mat of midnight hair on his chest, tracing a scar along his collar bone then moved to another much closer. The beat of his heart purred beneath her fingers, touching off an answering rhythm in her own breast. The white tissue of old scars knotted his skin. When he winced at her touch, she pulled away as if burned by fire.

  “You have so many scars.” Tears burned her eyes.

  “Do you find my body monstrous?”

  “Nay.”

  “But you weep?”

  “For your pain. I see your scars—evidence of too many wounds. Who tended them? It frightens me that you seem to have a wish to die on the battlefield—a wish that causes you to fail to guard yourself. What can entice you stay in this world?”

  “You.” A
t his brusque answer, she lifted her eyes to his dark blue gaze.

  “I am yours.”

  He bent over her supine form and rested his lips on hers. His fingers began the tracery of her shoulder and moved quickly to her breasts, circling first one nipple then the other. His mouth repeated the same exploration of her lips, coaxing her mouth open so that his tongue could forge into her. The intimate kiss pulled at her core, tempting her to enter the duel.

  Before she was prepared, his mouth ceased the kiss. When she would have protested the desertion, he initiated the exploration of her neck, moving quickly to her exposed cleavage.

  Then he was suckling her breast. Isabeau’s raised her hands instinctively frame his face.

  “Is this the first time your nipples have ever been kissed by the sun?” Even as he spoke, they watched her nipples bead tighter. He tugged the bodice from beneath her and tossed it on the ground next to her straw bag.

  She tried to savor the touch of her betrothed. To enjoy his tasting of her. To inhale his unique masculine scent—a combination of leather, soap and pure Donovan. To listen to the music of his passionate murmurs.

  Her litany did no good. She was too conscious of the building storm within her own body. The way her lungs fought to drag in air. The way her heart thundered in her ears.

  They were alone—in the middle of the forest. No one could hear her sing out her joy at his touch. She had no need for silence as she had in his chamber. She whimpered when his mouth left her breast. Somehow, her skirts were raised and he had divested himself of his clothing.

  She saw all of him. His man parts were unexpected but she was not frightened. Should she touch him? She raised her hand, but before she knew, he lay beside her, stroking her thigh.

  Raking her fingers through the mat of silky chest hair, she found his nipples, tickling them with her tongue, making him groan. Did it feel the same as when he suckled her? Would his hair below feel silky, too?

  “Your woman’s heat overpowers the wild blossoms framing your head.”

  She blushed. Who would have thought her warrior would be a poet.

  “You are more beautiful than I can say, spread out as you are before me.”

  She arched her back, offering her breasts, tight with desire, taunting his mouth with their hardened tips. He cupped her breast and gently squeezed. Her skin was so sensitive the merest friction caused her nerves to twang. Isabeau rolled her head.

  “Your silky skin is softer than the imported silk I plan to give you as a bridal gift.”

  He pushed his leg between hers, and raised his hand to touch her as he had that night in his room. A wanting built inside her as he stroked; then his fingers were inside and the wanting built.

  She wiggled against him, rubbing her body against his. She tried to think; tried to remember Blanche’s instructions. She tried to lie still—‘twas essential to hold Donovan’s seed in her body—to give his essence time to find purchase in her womb. Her nails bit into his shoulders. She would not scar him further but failed to loosen her hold.

  It was impossible. She writhed, their bodies a sea of pricking neediness where they touched. In a heartbeat, mayhap two, she would be lost. Desire drew his features taut. Fiery passion blazed in the midnight blue of his eyes.

  Mon Dieu. She attempted to recite a prayer but her Latin was gone. She tried to remember her duty but failed when he entered at last.

  A tiny pain. Then suddenly she went flying, shattering silently. She pulled his head down to her face, thoroughly pinned by his weight. Her hips arched towards Donovan. Her motion reinforced his vigor and he thrust again and again, deeper and deeper with such force, that he lifted her from their bed of moss.

  Donovan gave her his life-affirming seed. She screamed aloud at last and he was her echo. The combined sound caused one of the hounds to begin to bay. She thought Donavan gave the command for silence before he collapsed atop of her.

  C hapter 33

  Simon was still breathing hard. It had been a near thing in the woods. He could not believe his damned luck. To have Donovan close to stumbling over him was bad enough but then to fail to hit the earl’s heart? Simon knew he had hit the earl, but it was not a mortal blow. The wound barely slowed the bastard down before he turned the hunter.

  Two factors had played to Simon’s favor—the baying of the hounds and the close proximity of Simon’s hidden tunnel entrance. He’d been headed there when he discovered the earl in the woods. Too great an opportunity to miss. But he had missed. Safe now in the dark tunnel, he lit a taper and began his ascent.

  He stealthily opened the panel into the earl’s bed chamber. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the brighter light. As much as he disliked the dark, he had blown out his taper as soon as he reached the top of the passage stairs. The last thing he intended to do was giveaway his advantage by shining a light through a crack.

  Once he could see clearly, he took in the details of his surroundings. The large chamber would suit well when he moved into Bennington. He liked the idea of luxuriating in the giant four-posted bed perched on the dais. The bed offered plenty of room for debauchery and posts strong enough to anchor the most rebellious of wenches. He easily pictured them sprawled and weeping. He did like to hear them scream…

  Shaking the pleasant images from his mind, he fingered the velvet bed-curtains on his way to the corridor. The smooth texture brought a heartbeat’s sensual pleasure to Simon. He prided himself on being a very tactile man. He would have plenty of time to indulge his appetites on the morrow. Patting the pouch hanging from his belt, he forcibly reminded himself there was a job needed doing before he could claim what was his.

  One more night in the damned cave and he would ride through the front gates of Bennington. All would be in chaos. The people would need a ready leader. Isabeau would need a strong hand… Right across her impudent mouth, no doubt.

  Granya had already told him his half-sister had made few friends in the castle. The servants grumbled when she dared give orders. Some had whispered concerns about Donovan’s inappropriate intention to wed without mourning countess Marta. Isabeau should be more than ready to leave Bennington’s walls. Kirney would have already planned a welcome for his virgin bride that Isabeau would not soon forget.

  A smile, laced with cruelty, curled Simon’s mouth. He was tempted to offer the return of a portion of the bride-price for the opportunity of witnessing Herzog Kirney breaking in his lady. Izzy and her bitch of a mother had cost Simon much.

  His smile only faded when a thought flittered through his mind. What if he failed to produce Izzy for Kirney’s pleasure? Not much had been left of the last poor soul to fail Kirney— or of his get.

  Simon shrugged off his fears. He would not fail; could not fail. Not this time. Aye, he had been close to success before. A few more months and Marta would have produced the next heir to Bennington. All would have been well had she not tried his temper. Getting rid of d’Allyonshire’s brat had been simple enough. Life was often hard on the young and the weak. But the babe quickening in Marta’s belly—well, he would have been a sturdy fellow—had his mother lived to birth him.

  Simon made the corridor before Granya came upon him. He knew she hoped to catch out his secret egress but the bitch could not be trusted. ‘Twas why he traveled the passage well before the ringing of the sext bells. Even now, her bitter braying could expose his stratagems.

  “My Lord Simon.” The wrinkled hag almost curtsied in her satisfaction at their meeting, though Simon noticed her eyes kept darting over his shoulder as if to discover his secrets. “You are early.”

  “Nay, I am months too late in securing justice for the wrongs done to our countess. I believe the day has come to bring recompense for Marta and those who remained faithful beyond her death.”

  The old woman preened under Simon’s false promise of reward. But, so she would not recognize the pretense in his words, he would distract the woman.

  “You promised to guide me through the castle and inner bai
ley this day.”

  “Aye, Milord.” Her capped head bobbed up and down like a boat on rough tides. “Where do you wish to start?”

  “Where is Isabeau’s chamber?”

  The old woman’s tiny eyes glittered with malice. “This way.” She turned on her heel so fast she almost cracked Simon’s man-parts with her cane. “She and that chit she claims as lady’s companion use Marta’s rooms just down this corridor.”

  “And she has had no visitors?”

  “Visitors?” She craned her neck to look over her shoulder at Simon. For an old woman, she certainly seemed spry.

  “The earl has still not climbed into her bed?”

  The witch cackled. “ ’Tis a certain. There be some reluctance on that score, if I don’t miss my guess. Why only yesterday, the earl turned his back on her during the mid-day meal.”

  Granya tapped on the nearest door. When no voice answered, she pushed into the chamber. “Lady Isabeau brought a large dowry. Did she perchance take what wasn’t hers?”

  Simon turned a narrow eyed look on the old besom. “Most certainly.”

  Glee brightened the wrinkled face. “What did she take? I’d be glad to help search.”

  He suppressed his grin. Isabeau had certainly made an enemy in this bitch. “It can wait. Now, why not suggest some convenient hiding places large enough for a man or two.”

  Feigning interest in her list, Simon waited until she mentioned the wine and ale stores. “What is that? The ale stores? Sounds promising. ”

  “Just come this way, your lordship.”

  The woman moved fast, but then she only tapped the floor with her cane every third or fourth step. As they descended a back stair to the ground floor, she didn’t use the stick at all. Simon realized she was accustomed to sneaking about the place. He wondered if she was a practiced thief or just practiced at escaping work.