Betrothed

by Lori Snow

  “’Tis not a matter for joking,” Donovan grumbled.

  Shaking his head, Carstairs apologized. “Nay, forgive me the ill-placed wit. What do you want of me?”

  “I need your promise to protect Isabeau above all.”

  Carstairs scowled in confusion as he searched Donovan’s expression.

  “If something should befall me, Isabeau will be vulnerable. I have spoken to Father Matthias. We will wed at prime on the morrow. I would have done the business this eve but the priest will be attending to the burial of Granya.”

  “Burying her so soon?”

  “I thought it a good idea to get the witch in the ground as quickly as possible. Isabeau had several disagreeable encounters with Granya. We were witness to one such duel. While Isabeau was triumphant -- as was right -- I saw the speculation in many eyes today.”

  “Speculation?”

  “That Isabeau may have done more than find the old woman’s body.”

  Carstairs placed the knife upright on his palm, moving his hand horizontally to steady the blade. The weapon fell and he caught it with his other hand. "Could Isabeau have done this? Not that it matters. There is no great loss”

  “No great loss?” Donovan eyed his friend and confident with interest.

  Carstairs shrugged nonchalantly, handing back the throwing knife. “Few will grieve the old woman’s waspish tongue.”

  “Isabeau did not dispose of the woman.” Donovan took a deep breath. He had no need to divulge all details, but he would not have Carstairs, with his indelible wit, think ill of Isabeau. “Her ladyship was with me. She had only just stepped away when she found the body. However, someone helped the woman’s fall down the stairs.”

  “How so?” Curiosity brightened Carstairs’ eyes, yet seriousness smoothed away his grin.

  “Isabeau noticed the absence of the cane but I do not think she noticed what else was missing?”

  “The blood on the stairs,” Carstairs nodded, considering. “I see your point. You think the blood is on the cane?”

  “Aye.”

  “Do you think your knife thrower has anything to do with the old lady?”

  “I would rather be looking for one villain than two,” Donovan quipped.

  Carstairs laughed. “We have one thing for which to thank the bastard… He has reincarnated your sense of humor.”

  For a moment, Donovan could only stare at his lieutenant then he let out his own guffaw. “You can lay that miracle at the feet of another.”

  “Lady Isabeau.” Carstairs’ lips curved crookedly. “A lady of many talents, indeed. Now, what do you want of me.”

  “Suppose this assassin succeeds. As I have said, I intend to protect Isabeau with my name soon,” Donovan began. “If she gets with child—and I pray this event happens posthaste -- you are to protect my holdings for her and my child. If she is without issue, mongrels will come out of the woodwork hoping for a piece of what is left after the king takes his helping. Spirit Isabeau away—do whatever it takes to keep her safe, but under no circumstances are you to let her to fall back into Olivet’s grasp.”

  “Anything?”

  Donovan nodded briskly.

  “Even to wed her?”

  Donovan felt his air leave, as if he had taken a blow from a broadsword. His hands curled into fists ready to strike out. Carstairs did not know when to end his wagging tongue. He sucked in a breath and released it slowly. He had to remind himself that Isabeau’s safety should be of primary concern but… But the thought of another man touching her—sharing her bed.

  Donovan curled his lips, baring his teeth as he answered. “Make no mistake. I will do all in my power to remain Isabeau’s one and only husband for the next thirty years, but should God choose otherwise, you are to do all to keep her safe—even to wed her.”

  The subdued evening meal, went smoothly. Donovan kept his ears pricked for whispers regarding Isabeau and Granya. He heard nothing and prayed that it was only the recent deaths casting shadows, not suspicions.

  Isabeau seemed distracted. Her glance occasionally drifted towards his arm, the fresh bandage now covered by the sleeve of a clean tunic. Did she suspect they had a murderous rogue in their midst?

  After the meal, he would have asked her to join him in his solar but she was nowhere about. Caitlin informed him her ladyship had retired to her chamber but offered to fetch her if that was his wish. Donovan shook his head. Isabeau needed time to recover, given their earlier activities. Her body was gloriously new to lovemaking and he would have her vigor replenished for their wedding night on the morrow.

  “Let her ladyship rest now, but help her dress in one of her fine gowns—perhaps the green—before prime on the morn. Someone will fetch the two of you then.”

  Turning, he found Eldred, his steward, at his elbow.

  “My lord, I was wondering when you might be wanting to go over the accounts? With you bein’ away at the king’s charge, it has been several quarters since the last review. I mention it only in that everyone is anxious to return to routine with their lord in residence. I—as well as your scribe—be at the ready.”

  Donovan sighed. His accounts were not the stuff of scintillating reading but perhaps they would serve to take his mind off where he would be sleeping on the morrow.

  Isabeau…

  She had swayed Glenys into offering Sam mercy instead of the hangman’s gibbet.

  The old cook had spoke with Sam upon his arrival from the abbey. The young man had been a farmer before a fickle earl had awarded the land Sam worked to a relative. Now Sam would tend Zeke’s fields and provide a home for Glenys when she left the castle’s service.

  Isabeau…

  The accounts were as boring as he expected but the work did pass the time till Donovan retired. He welcomed his bed this night.

  Isabeau…

  Few sconces lit the hallway. He would tell Eldred to keep the passages well lighted. Economy was good, but he wanted no accidents because of sparing a penny.

  Isabeau…

  As he neared his chamber, his squire, at the ready, came from his own sleeping space. Donovan shook his head. He realized he was too tired for the boy’s routine. Donovan just wanted to shed his clothes and throw himself on the bed. He could manage.

  Isabeau…

  What he really desired more than sleep was solitude. Life in the castle afforded little time alone.

  “Go to your sleep. I have no need of your assistance tonight.”

  When he entered his chamber he breathed a sigh. The room was dim with only two tapers lit. Kindling was laid in the hearth but no fire blazed. The weather was warm enough to do without but he remembered an evening not so long ago when he had instructed Isabeau to light a fire. His manly rod hardened immediately, almost to the point of pain. His body, without his instruction, readied for his bride on only a memory. He could almost smell her perfume mixed with her scent.

  A bed curtain swayed on the other side of the bed. He was not alone. Donovan drew a knife from his belt. Would the recent mysteries be solved this night. He was confident of victory in face to face conflict.

  “Who dares to go there?” he called out, his command holding as much steel as his hand.

  The curtain fluttered again and Isabeau’s face emerged from the shadows.

  “Isabeau! Jesu!” He sheathed his blade. “What are you doing here, Isabeau?”

  Her lips curved into a mischievous smile. He stared at her mouth. More than mischievous, he thought. Seductive.

  “I wish to give you the stars in the night sky,” she said in a husky voice as she came to stand before him. He noticed a slight difference in the line of her figure as she approached.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, his own throat going dry as he searched the depths of her emerald and gold eyes.

  “I have brought you your carafe of wine.” She waved her hand in the vague direction of the table by the bed. Her voice took on a slight quiver as she placed her palm over her heart. “And per your wish e
arlier this day, to offer my body with plenty of wrappings so as to whet your hunger.”

  “Jesu,” he repeated with awe. He needed nothing to whet his hunger.

  She dropped her hands to her sides and stepped closer. With the up-tilt of her chin and the tentative thrust of her breast, she offered easy access to the bowed laces of her girdle.

  Donovan was not a foolish man. He needed no more prompting. His hands went to work on her lacings in a thrice, praying he would not rend the fabrics between his fingers and the silken touch of Isabeau’s milk white skin. He dispensed with her girdle and outer tunic before he understood the reason for the change in Isabeau’s shape.

  He did not know with laugh or curse. She had taken his word to heart and given him many layers to build his anticipation.

  “Are you wearing every dress you own?”

  He could see embarrassment burning her cheeks as she mumbled. “No. None of the more elegant.”

  He dispensed with another layer.

  “Only a couple of gowns easier to put on—I could hardly ask Caitlin to help me without explaining,” she confessed.

  He added more clothes to the growing pile on the floor. He could not help but stare.

  Then he chose to laugh. The guffaw came from deep in his belly and he only just stopped from clutching his arm to his waist and bending over in merriment.

  If he was not mistaken, she still wore at least two more shifts.

  When he raised his gaze back to her oval face, he saw she was worrying her lips with her teeth and tears gathered in her eyes. He had not meant to overset her. How could she not know the joy she gave him? He framed her beloved face in his big hands and lowered his mouth to hers.

  In that kiss, he coaxed—he led—he seduced.

  She bent—she responded—she surrendered.

  When he lifted his head and looked down, her eyes sparkled with more than tears. He narrowed his own gaze.

  “I am d’Allyonshire,” he declared in a low growl. “I can afford a few linen shifts for my bride.” He suited his actions to his words and ripped away the final two layers.

  Later he thought he heard the bells ringing matins. He could not be sure over the roaring of his blood. Both of them—blessedly naked—lay in the middle of the ducal bed. He was flat on his back, staring at the velvet canopy, Isabeau curled tightly against his side—her head pillowed on his shoulder. Her fingertips danced a pattern over his thumping heart.

  He could barely breathe, yet she had the energy to move her hand?

  Her skin glistened in the pale wick-light. The sheen of perspiration gave evidence of her recent -- exertions. Donovan tilted his head enough to look at her face. Her lashes shielded her eyes but he could tell she was awake.

  He wondered if her tender body ached. He had meant to be gentle with her but lust had quickly battered down any thoughts of chivalry toward the end. Her fingers continued to meander over his chest, twirling the hair there. If she would go a bit lower… Just the thought stirred his manhood.

  Damn, but his willing bride might be the death of him, much sooner than on a battlefield. He covered her exploring hand with his palm, debating whether keep it at rest or move it on to more southern territories.

  “I do not understand.” Isabeau’s chin rubbed his pectoral as she bent her neck to look up at him.

  “What can you not understand?” He was actually surprised he had the breath to speak.

  “How could Marta find pleasure in a woman? I certainly enjoy all of your manly parts and I never considered the possibilities before your tutelage. How did you discover this? Did she tell you?”

  With Isabeau secure in his arms, the scent of her womanly welcome still wafting through the air, the bite to Donovan’s pride did not seem so deep.

  “I had the news from her lover’s mouth.” Speaking of Marta’s cuckolding held only irritation.

  “Her lover?” Isabeau would have sat up in astonishment if Donovan did not keep her in the curl of his arm. “Who would be so bold as to…?” Her voice trailed off the edge of the bed.

  “Syllba.” He supplied the answer though even in the heavy shadows he could read her conclusion in her expressive eyes.

  “Does Simon know?”

  “No doubt.” He was not going to add to her distress.

  “Why has he not sought the church to cast off their vows?”

  “I imagine the situation suites his purposes.” Donovan ended the subject by sitting up on the bed carrying her with him. “I think it is time for you to put on at least one of your gowns and traipse back to your bed.”

  “Why bother?” she mewled in protest as he pulled her from the bed. “We will be wed in a few days.”

  He shook his head as he lifted her for a kiss. “As to that…”

  She squirmed until he put her feet back on the floor. He recognized a ploy to stop his words but he allowed it. She would not wriggle out of saying vows a few hours hence. He could afford to let her play her games.

  Pulling from his hold she rushed to the bedside table and poured wine from the carafe.

  “I brought your wine. You should at least take a small drink for my troubles,” She pouted as she turned to face him with the proffered goblet’s bowl cupped in her dainty hands.

  He shook his head.

  “Mayhap I should take the drink?” Her mouth curved in that smile he had learned led to things carnal. “Then you can sip the ambrosia from my lips.”

  He was about to suggest she anoint her body when she downed a hefty gulp. Her expressive features screwed into a grimace of distaste.

  “This is your special cache? How can you abide the stuff?” She extended the cup to him, clearly not about to take another drop.

  Donovan thought her teasing and reached for the goblet to take his own sip. Even as his hand touched the cup, it slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor. She doubled over, her arms clutching her belly, groaning in agony.

  Without stopping to think, Donovan grabbed the chamber pot. He dropped to the floor, pulled Isabeau into his arms for better leverage and stuck two fingers down her throat. She rewarded him with by gagging and then vomiting into the chamber pot. He repeated the process twice more until only dry-heaves racked her fragile body.

  He lost track of how long they rested, there in the middle of the floor. He rocked her, a gentle sway, to offer comfort. Her face absent of any color, her body still quivered with reaction while his own burned with fear and rage.

  He had almost lost her.

  He reached for the abandoned goblet and lifted it to his nose. Even in the flickering light he could see the sediment sticking to the empty cup.

  Treachery. He was quite calm in his determination.

  Without speaking, he put the cup down and then lifted Isabeau into his arms. Her weight was as nothing as he stood and carried her up the dais to his bed. He settled her easily enough among the bedcovers. The wrench came when he had to force himself to pull his arms away from her.

  He stood, staring down at her stark white face and could not resist pushing a sweaty tendril from her temple.

  “How do you feel?”

  She took several deep breaths before answering, “Battered.”

  Donovan turned away after one more look and then crossed to the pitcher and basin on the table along the wall. He poured water, dropped the cake of lavender soap into the pan, then brought it and a washing cloth back to the bed. She did not even have the spirit to protest his ministrations as he began to wipe down her body with the scented water. He started at her brow and continued to her feet before beginning the process a second time.

  In a detached part of his mind, he wondered at his ability to stroke her every part, to map her every contour, all without the burning lust of moments ago. He cooled the cloth with the water before returning it back to the valley between her breasts. As he smoothed it closer to her navel, he looked up to catch her watching his face with intent.

  “How is your belly, now?” he asked as he spread his fin
gers to rest lightly on that part of her. He felt a little quiver beneath his touch. “Do you need the chamber pot?”

  “Nay.” She shook her head, and then looked as if she regretted the movement.

  “Can you sit up?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good.” He dropped the cloth into the water with a small splash then moved the basin to the table. Climbing down from the dais, he went to her pile of discarded clothes and retrieved a tattered shift. He noted only one tear down the center. It would do to cover her modesty. When he returned to her side, he helped her to sit. Then he slipped her arms in the sleeves, the rend to her back.

  “We will wed at prime.” His words came out even with no inflection. He was proud of that bit of control. “I have already spoken to Father Matthias.”

  “When?” Her protest was weak.

  “If I have to carry you to the chapel, we will wed at prime,” he stated, his eyes narrowed at the thought she might dare protest again.

  “But it is too soon. I might not be carrying your heir.”

  “I am tired of this plaint.” He put his palm over her belly in a blatant possessive manner. He read her understanding in her wide gaze. “Did Syllba not puke her guts when she attempted to carry her many babes?”

  She nodded, a guarded expression on her face. “But you made me vomit.”

  “I only thought the wine had overset my babe.” He lied smoothly and without a twinge of remorse. When she opened her mouth, he shook his head. One hand on her shoulder, he gently pushed her back among the bolsters, covered her with blankets, and spoke firmly, repeating his promise. “If I have to carry you… Now, rest.”

  After a thorough glance, assuring himself she was indeed safe, he began to dress. The size of his chamber had never seemed so great as when he crossed to the door, leaving Isabeau alone, undefended. In the corridor he let his fist hit the stone before he rousted his squire.

  “Without waking the entire castle,” Donovan ordered the young man in low tones, “Wake Lady Isabeau’s companion, Maid Caitlin. Inform her that her mistress needs her in my chambers. Then find Sir Carstairs; he’s probably tupping a serving maid. Have him bring two of my best men back here.”