Betrothed

by Lori Snow

  “What happened?”

  “She went into hysterics. I only hit her once—but she fell. Not far from here, in fact. No one ever suspected this was where she kept trysts. They thought she fell on one of her habitual strolls.”

  “You killed her? Too?” Isabeau knew immediately it had been the wrong thing to say. Where Simon had been lost in his recollections of past triumphs and failures, her words returned him to the present.

  He stared at her with renewed hatred, with new speculation. She read her death in his cold eyes. If she was going to act, she needed to do it now. She searched for a weapon. A stick, a rock would suffice. If she entered the cave with Simon, it would become her tomb.

  Isabeau struggled against his hold to no avail. Simon only twisted her hair tighter around his fingers. Her hip bumped something hard secured in his belt. Could it be another knife? Their father had given them each a set of three throwing knives. She grabbed Simon’s wrist, the one with the knife and held on for dear life. With her other hand she pushed at his chest. He was the stronger but she was more desperate. She was fighting for her life, and the life of Donovan’s child.

  She twisted her head, trying to get free from Simon’s hold. Frantically, she tried to keep Simon’s attention away from her hand as it sought his weapon. She curled her nails into his wrist and drew blood. The pain angered him and he stabbed. She dodged. Simon howled with frustration when she writhed away from his blade, but she was losing the battle. He was unaware when her fingers settled on the hilt at his waist.

  As she snaked the blade from the sheath, she felt the familiar balance of a throwing knife but she needed distance to throw; to gain the proper speed to drive her weapon home. Under perfect conditions, she had sent her knives inches into a wooden target. If she did not act within the next heartbeat Simon’s weapon would be at her throat. She reared back as much as she could and thrust the blade into his belly just above his belt.

  Simon roared in pain.

  But not mortal pain.

  Isabeau had lacked the strength to go deep. Her thrust had hit nothing vital. But, she had drawn blood, quite a bit by the slippery warmth spreading over her fingers. The blade slipped from her hand as he threw her down, dropping his hands to the knife still imbedded in his belly. He pulled the knife from his side and glared down at her.

  His wide pupils made his eyes black, and in their wildness, she saw her death.

  C hapter 40

  No harm will come to Isabeau.

  The promise Donovan offered as reassurance to Caitlin reverberated through his mind, a litany, a prayer. He used the words as a talisman as he followed the narrow tunnel, the dog at his side. No light guided his way but with his hand on Jaffey’s back he had no trouble determining when the stairs ended.

  He caught scent Isabeau’s sweet floral perfume over the mix of still musty air, the acrid smell of burning tapers and the odor of unwashed bodies. The tunnel had sheltered a recent intruder. Or was it intruders?

  Did Olivet work alone? How many would meet the point of Donovan’s sword by the end of this day? It mattered not to Donovan. Simon’s death would not be easy. For what he had done to Isabeau while she was under his guardianship—Donovan pictured cat-o-nine-tails. For daring to take what was his liege lord’s—Simon would lose his hands, one finger at a time.

  What would Simon do with her? Isabeau must be unharmed. Donovan could think of nothing else without madness. He would not let this fear feed the darkness of the tunnel.

  Isabeau had grown so quickly into his affection, that he had no thought of shielding his heart from her. He, who had fought countless battles, a shield on his left forearm, a broad-blade in his right hand, had no guard against a minute lady who had once tried to pass herself off as a boy. He had thought to offer her safety from her brother and sister-in-law’s depravity, a sanctuary from an unwanted suitor. He had used her and her inheritance as a weapon of his revenge.

  Donovan swore as he stumbled over the rough floor. Jaffey growled in response. He put his hand on the rough fur to calm the animal, keeping in close step behind the dog.

  His wife had asked nothing of him—except his tender feelings. As they stood together in the doorway after their wedding, Donovan knew she had wanted to ask for his love.

  Isabeau. She had been bold enough to bare her body for his use—and had been afraid to ask for what she truly craved. How had Donovan responded? The brave knight, feared champion of the king, had stood on the chapel steps with a frozen tongue in his mouth.

  With eyes straining through the darkness, Donovan’s mind grappled with his mistakes; his regrets. Isabeau, in the spirit of her generous heart, had not cried at the implied rejection in his silence. Instead, she sought to give him another gift. She planned to knock down the walls between earl and countess, blending her possessions with his. Never again would he traipse the castle corridors to spend his seed in his countess’ bed. Isabeau had successfully crawled into his heart.

  Donovan felt the grit beneath his feet as the slight decline turned steeper. Soon the slant would veer upwards. With a pat on Jaffey’s head, he brought both of them to a halt. Listening, he hoped to hear their prey’s progress, but heard nothing.

  He nudged Jaffey to resume their hunt. The occasional scrape of claw against stone, was the only sound he heard over his heartbeat. He sensed when the tunnel was about to widened into the naturally formed walls of the caves so prevalent to the area. A brush of fresh air touched his cheek. He squinted forward towards the faint wash of sunlight in the distance.

  When he could see no dancing shadows of his quarry, Donovan acknowledged Simon had made better progress than he hoped

  No harm will come to Isabeau.

  How had Simon known of this place? How had he known of the tunnel?

  He slowly became aware of the cave’s dimensions. With a ceiling tall enough for a man to stand full height, the cavity curved sufficiently to provide shelter from any kind of weather. Someone had taken the time to carve a small fire pit. Straw and rags lay strewn haphazardly about the floor and a bed pallet was spread out on the dark side of the pit. The ravaged carcass of a cooked bird and the used spit were propped against the rocks.

  From the signs of recent occupation, Simon must have followed them almost from the day Donovan had returned to Bennington. He could have been no more than a day behind. Tracks revealed only one man had paid frequent visits to the actual tunnel, but evidence of a second man marked the ground.

  With knowledge of the tunnel, this camp offered a handy place to spy on Castle Bennington, to sneak into the bailey; to have the run of the castle undetected.

  Donovan had not expected Simon to have skills to find such a place, nor the brains to be quite so successful in his deception. The blackheart had not even earned his spurs. Had Simon assistance from inside the castle? More than old Dame Granya? He could not see Granya making the trek from the castle to the camp. Someone was a traitorous snake.

  Donovan emerged from the cave into the sunlight braced for battle, Jaffey at his heel.

  The welcoming clearing flowed towards the mouth of a cave. A small brook trickled down the opposite side of the opening. Water swirled into a clear pool then continued on its way down the hill.

  Water, fire, fresh animals to poach, situated well off the normal footpath. It all added up to a perfect hidey-hole. The site claimed everything, including privacy.

  This is the same forest where Isabeau seduced me; the perfect place for a tryst.

  No one waited for him outside the cave. He detected no sounds of retreat. The dog’s ears were pointed, waiting only for the next command.

  Donovan silently cursed the air. How much time had elapsed before Caitlin gained enough courage to bring her fears to his attention?

  He looked for signs of horses. He had been a fool not to send specific instructions for Carstairs to prepare mounts. Would Carstairs think of the possible need on his own?

  Donovan surveyed the ground surrounding the tunnel entrance
. Simon, the rabid cur, had either been too hurried or too unskilled to cover the tracks of his escape.

  The footmarks on the ground told Donovan more than just his prey’s direction. He discovered the spot where Isabeau had landed on her knees, then been dragged to her feet.

  Simon will lose his feet—one toe at a time.

  Donovan saw where the pair headed. More than one trail entered the clearing but Simon’s faint track meandered, then met up with the main footpath, which eventually merged into the main road.

  A few hundred strides further along the uneven terrain revealed evidence that Isabeau had staged a small but unsuccessful rebellion before being subdued.

  Do not challenge him too hard, sweet Isabeau, Donovan silently commanded his wife. Do not make him hurt you before I arrive.

  For Olivet to take the-foolhardy action of kidnapping Isabeau meant he was beyond desperate. What could make such a coward brave death? Simon had signed his warrant the minute he laid hands on Donovan’s countess. The man had to know it.

  Donovan detected evidence of yet another struggle, broken branches, leaves crushed into the dirt.

  Aye. Simon was a dead man. His heart raced -- not with exertion -- but with the natural brew that formed in the blood of every warrior called to battle. The same heady euphoria he felt when deep inside Isabeau. He contemplated other things he would do with Isabeau—once he had her ensconced in their bedchamber.

  Their bedchamber.

  His senses buzzed. He heard the wind in the trees but no bird sounds. He saw the signs of his two-legged prey on the ground and on the bush. Still, his body anticipated taking his wife to bed.

  He felt warmth begin to melt the ice in the middle of his chest. He would not fail this all important quest. He would rescue Isabeau so they could share the ducal bedchamber. He was reluctant to close that door, otherwise dark thoughts flickered through his mind, thoughts of failure—thoughts of not reaching Simon before he harmed Isabeau.

  Donovan pushed on harder, his strides longer. Thoughts of punishing Simon fueled his determination. Thoughts of Isabeau fueled his strength.

  No harm will come to Isabeau.

  He scowled when Isabeau’s tracks changed. She began dragging her left foot. Was she doing her best to slow their progress or was she injured? Donovan prayed she only playacted and had not been hurt in the last tussle. He was glad they were on foot. He wanted to be closer to the ground, ready to take on Simon.

  Donovan was confident his men would be close behind them. He commanded the dog to continue his silent lead. They made excellent time and he knew they gained on their quarry. The realization gave him the incentive to move even faster. Isabeau needed his skill and speed. Jaffey, in his headstrong pursuit, found marks Donovan would have missed. And Isabeau’s shoe. Instead of continuing along the expected path, Isabeau had been dragged down a narrow and little used animal trail. Was she hurt? Or worse?

  After a few strides along the new path, Donovan released a held breath. Isabeau was on her feet again. She left enough disturbance in the brush to mark their direction.

  Good girl!

  This path hugged the contour of the hillside, to the left, the incline pitched up—steep and rough. On the right, the bank sloped down at an even more treacherous angle. Did it circle back towards the cave?

  Donovan again waved the signal for silent hunting. Donovan did not want Simon to hear their approach by either bark or tread. Jaffey gave him a scolding expression, reminding his master he need not repeat an order.

  Determined to reach Isabeau, Donovan nearly stumbled over a frozen Jaffey and into the sun-dappled glade.

  “Bitch.” The muffled curse came from inside the cave. Donovan’s inclination was to rush inside, but his warrior intuition held him back. He drew his sword.

  Commanding Jaffey to secure the perimeter, he stepped back to wait, concealing himself behind an old oak. Simon emerged from the dark mouth, moving towards the small pool. The disheveled man bore little resemblance to the fancy-dressed prig of Olivet. Garbed in the brown leather hide of a peddler, dirt and leaves clung to his knees and backside. Had Isabeau dragged him to the ground in her struggles?

  Donovan stealthily approached Simon’s flank. The bastard had knelt by the water and seemed too intent on his task to care that he might have an enemy at his back. “Olivet,” Donovan warned in a low voice.

  Simon jerked and spun on his haunches to face Donovan.

  A small blade was clutched in Simon’s hand, blood smearing the steel and the front of the man’s borrowed tunic. Fear pierced Donovan’s heart as surely as if Olivet had already used the dagger on him.

  “Bring me Isabeau, Olivet,” he demanded. “Where is she? What have you done to her?” Tightening the grip on his hilt, he tried to control his rage and his need to run his sword through Olivet’s black heart. Donovan’s hot-blooded revenge would do Isabeau no good.

  With feigned leisure, Simon looked down at his fist and then insolently back to his liege. Fear was surprisingly absent from the man’s face. Donovan could not understand the man’s reaction. Simon had to know he was going to die.

  Instead, a slow smile spread across Simon’s thin lips, a smile that gripped a fist around the knot in Donovan’s gut. He disguised his dread. Simon threw back his head and laughed. The sound resembled a wolf braying triumphantly over a fresh kill.

  “Where is my wife?” Donovan asked quietly. From Simon’s gleeful expression he had arrived too late to save her. For a second, he closed his eyes to shut out the pain. He could offer her one last service. He could take her home—bury her with the honor that was her due as his countess. There would be no other countess. Not even for an heir could he marry another. If there would be no child of her body then there would be no heirs.

  ”Your wife, my lord?” Simon punctuated his words with a jab of the bloody knife he pointed at Donovan. His face screwed up in an expression of contempt, he spit on the ground at Donovan’s feet. “Puh! The vaunted Bennington honor is a sham.” He practically danced in his madness as his words sang out over the short distance. “What honor? What honor? You have ruined me! You took my sister without the church’s sanction.”

  Donovan blinked against the accusation but he did not deny it. He could not dispute his lack of honor. Not after his behavior with Isabeau. He had announced his betrothal to Isabeau from no higher motive than revenge. He had failed to give her the one thing she requested. Isabeau had paid the ultimate price for his arrogance.

  His legs bent, his sword primed, Donovan braced for combat. It would be a short battle. He made no advance but waited for the dancing knave to close on him. Simon’s thrusts were hardly a threat from this distance.

  “Have nothing to say, do ya?” Simon laughed again. “I thought you would at least wait until your wedding night to deflower your bride. The honorable Earl of Bennington would want—demand another virgin bride.”

  “What is it you are raving, Olivet?” The turn of conversation confused Donovan. What could it matter to Olivet if he and Isabeau rushed the banns? He had wed her. Isabeau was his wife.

  “I thought I would have the time when you posted your banns. ‘Twould be time enough to get rid of you and still have a virgin prize.”

  “For God’s sake. She is your sister.” Disgust roiled through Donovan’s belly.

  “Herzog Kirney paid me good money for Isabeau. But he does not want damaged goods.” Simon’s brown eyes narrowed while another of those sly smiles slithered across his mouth. “He wants to do the damage, ya see. He likes to draw the first blood. He enjoys the screams, the fighting. He likes them tight and loud. He also likes to perform for an audience. Takes wagers on how long the virgin lasts before she faints.”

  Simon spread a bloody hand wide. “I was looking forward to watching that little bitch be tamed—to get her just punishment.”

  Beyond his shock at this beast, goaded, Donovan growled, “Isabeau is mine!” Then he regained control and added in a quiet voice, “She is no longer a
maid. She is my wife.” He was suddenly quite glad he had allowed Isabeau to seduce him by the creek. The guilt at rushing their wedding night magically lifted from his shoulders.

  “Do you think I do not know that? Now?” Simon waved the dagger wildly in the air. “You only wed her this morning. I had one last chance to provide the merchandise—to deliver Little Izzy to Kirney. She had run once, surely you would be easily convinced she had again run for the convent rather than be bedded by a scarred monster. Your so-called honor is only exceeded by your pride. I did not think you would chase her beyond the stone walls. How could you want another unwilling wife? With your reputation, you might have even returned her dowry.”

  “Isabeau did not run from me. She had nothing to fear of her wedding night.”

  Simon’s eyes narrowed at Donovan’s reminder.

  “No. She had none of a sheltered virgin’s fear of the unknown. She knew it all. She crowed about already carrying your brat in her belly.” The corner of Simon’s mouth curled. “She is not crowing now. Had you already plowed her belly before you stole her dowry? Debaucher. Thief. You have about as much honor as…”

  “You?”

  “This is all your fault.” Spittle sprayed from Simon’s mouth as he continued his tirade. “Why could you have not died on the battlefield? Why? My lord’s little slut bragged about how intimate you had been with her. Before you, she had had no idea of what happens between man and wife.”

  Donovan winced at the high pitched squawk coming from Simon’s mouth. The scent of blood and Simon’s rants began to make Jaffey restless. Donovan knew he needed to end this.

  “How could she even know of such things unless you had taken her like the whore she is?”

  “Is?” Donovan jumped on the word. “She lives?”

  “She is no longer of use to me. Kirney will not have her now.