Betrothed

by Lori Snow

  “As you wish.” Carstairs gave a small bow directed at Isabeau. “’Tis glad I am that you are safe, my lady. The entire castle would have grieved your loss.”

  Isabeau gave a small nod.

  Donovan turned to follow Eldred and Smithy to the castle. He refused all offers to carry Isabeau. He intended she remain where she was, secure in his arms.

  The return trip to Castle Bennington was as brief as predicted. While they followed no discernable trail, the way was less circuitous than the path Simon had followed. A parade trailed behind him even as he followed Felix through the postern gate, into the baileys and then into the castle proper. The honor guard thinned only when he crossed the threshold of his own bedchamber.

  When he would have deposited Isabeau on the raised bed, Glenys and Maisie barred the way with their feet spread and hands planted on hips.

  “Now, my lord,” Maisie crooned in a maternal melody. “You just put my lady in the chair. We will see to her from here.”

  “Aye,” chimed in Glenys. “’Tis fittin’ that we women, and of course the healer, tend to my lady. We be that glad she has been returned to us.”

  Donovan gave in but not before dropping another kiss on Isabeau’s temple. For a moment, he worried that she did not look as pleased as her ladies at her rescue. They urged him to the corridor with gentle force. The door summarily closed behind him.

  He tried to keep his mind occupied. He tried to keep his hands busy. No matter what he did, he could not keep his thoughts from Isabeau. What were the women doing to her? What were they saying? How had Isabeau been hurt? Had Simon done the unspeakable?

  Questions raced through his mind with very few answers. Unable to take the unknown a second longer, Donovan dared to breach his chamber. At his knock, a maid opened the door and then women, and Hemrick began to file one by one, out of the room. “Merlina, the healer, would speak with you, my lord,” Maisie whispered as she passed him.

  Merlina, the healer? Ah yes, the herb woman who lives nearby. Donovan tried to see over the—well, he could hardly call her an old crone—healer, into his bedchamber but a skinny shoulder barred the way. She scrutinized him through narrowed suspicious eyes. “Need I speak to you of matters pertaining to the marital bed, young man?”

  Donovan felt his face warm with embarrassment. “Lady Isabeau spoke to you?”

  “Aye,” the young woman chuckled, showing white teeth. “She was most concerned she had lost your babe. And her not even wed long enough to be bedded.”

  When was the last time anyone had dared to scold him as they would a child? Carstairs’ needling did not count. “I exaggerated the facts of conception to hasten our marriage vows.” Why was he explaining? He was the earl.

  “Then there is no need to explain to you it be much too soon to know if her link with the moon has been broken.”

  “Nay.” Donovan shook his head a bit sheepishly.

  “Nice trick, my lord.” The healer chuckled again, though she was not done with her lesson. “Mind you, she could be with child. The fall has not caused her to start her woman’s bleeding but I can make no promises. You must take care when you—well, with the bridal bed. I do not suppose I need guide you.” She winked and nudged his side with her elbow. “You seem to have acquired some recent practice.”

  He wanted to push the woman from the room and rush to Isabeau’s side. Instead, he asked, “Olivet did no lasting damage?”

  The naughty grin left the wrinkle-free face. “The little chick, she will feel the topple down the hill in the morn, but her heart—I urge ya to go slow. Try not to batter down the ramparts. She fears you will not forgive her the sins of her brother.”

  “Half-brother,” Donovan corrected absently. “I have to see her.”

  The healer moved aside. “Allow her more time in the warm bath. I added my special salts to ease the aches. I will examine her again on the morrow unless you need me before. She dismissed the ladies—even young Caitlin—so you will need to attend her. Glenys said she would send a tray. I will have her add enough for you.”

  As she made to leave the chamber, Donovan urgently gripped her arm. “Mistress, not a word is to be repeated. My bride is an honorable lady. I will not have her dishonored by idle chatter about our wedding night or the deeds of Olivet.”

  “No fear, my lord. The countess’s honor rivals your own.” The woman nodded her veiled head in understanding before closing the thick wooden door behind her. Thank goodness someone had seen to repair it – and quickly, too.

  He flipped the latch to prevent any well-meaning disturbances. Whoever brought the tray would have to knock before entering. He leaned his back against the door.

  She was safe—his wife. They were finally alone. She would have the privacy to tell him what she needed to tell him. Pray, they both had the courage to deal with the telling.

  The large wooden tub sat near the hearth where a steady fire burned on this late spring day. A steaming pot hung off the flames, ready to warm Isabeau’s bath. Her head rested on the rim with a folded cloth cushioning her neck. Her back to him, he could see her arms lined the lipped edge.

  Did Isabeau know he was here? Was she aware of his presence—of his love?

  As he drew closer, he saw her lashes resting on her ivory cheeks. Her eyes closed; her breathing slow and deep. Had she fallen asleep? He held his own breath as he watched the water lick at her bare breasts. She bent her elbow and dangled her fingers in the water. He remembered to grab a cloth before taking the kettle off the hook.

  Her eyes opened as he added the steaming water to the other end of the tub. She sucked in her breath as she sat straight. Her abrupt movement caused waves of water to lap at the rim. He noticed her spine was as stiff as that first night when she had waited in his chair.

  “Is the water too hot?”

  “Donovan?” The green in her hazel eyes glittered with grief as she made to get out of the tub.

  “Stay,” he instructed. He put a hand on her slick shoulder and eased her back to a sitting position. “The healer gave me orders.”

  She pulled her legs up and hugged her knees to her bare breasts.

  “No, I’ll get out. We must talk.” Her reedy voice gave portent to the words. He had seen the same expression on the faces he met on the battlefields, men resigned to meet death at his hands.

  What did she have to tell him, to put such dread in her tender heart?

  C hapter 43

  Isabeau forced herself to open her eyes and look directly at Donovan. She vowed not to be a coward. She would give him the truth and accept his judgment. The water sloshed as she struggled to her feet. He wrapped a drying cloth around her as he lifted her from the tub.

  While thankful for the brief covering, she would need more when she stripped her soul. She scrambled for the bed-robe draped over a chest. Careful to keep her back to him, she dropped the drying cloth to the floor as she slid her arms into the voluminous saffron garment. The fabric clung to her damp skin.

  “I have something I must tell you.” Staring blindly at the chest, she sensed him move towards her and turned to keep him at her back as she knotted the sash.

  “Isabeau?” His deep voice should have soothed but only widened the chasm between her love for him and what she knew.

  She gripped the fingers of one hand in the other and squeezed. The pain failed to penetrate her guilt. She flinched when his big hand cupped her shoulder.

  “Would you, at least, look at me?”

  Tears burned her eyes but she nodded. She took two side-steps and the warmth of his touch fell away. Immediately, she missed the connection. She returned to the hearth rug before she faced him.

  “Simon…” The words blocked her throat.

  “Your brother was an evil man but you are not responsible for his actions.”

  “I wish I could believe that.” Isabeau stared into Donovan’s dark eyes. He took a step towards her but she held up her hands, palms out, to halt him. He stopped with the width of the hearth d
ividing them.

  “The healer thinks you blame yourself for what Simon has done.”

  “I am of the same blood. How could I not?”

  “What of Sir Charles? Your father was a good man, an honorable man. Is he also to blame for what Simon did? After all, he sired him.”

  She whimpered in sorrow, her emotions raw. Her beloved father had not grown ill until after Simon and Syllba arrived at Olivet. After learning what her half-brother was capable of—from his own lips—how could she not suspect his culpability in their father’s death?

  Donovan stretched out his arm towards her. “What of young Sam? He had no knowledge of what his companions did. Should I have sent him to the gibbet without other considerations? I believe you counseled Glenys on forgiveness. Were you wrong?”

  Isabeau swiped her fingers across her burning eyes. Her knees shook and she edged towards a stool. She dropped to the seat as her legs gave way. “The words were easy when I was ignorant of Simon’s actions. Now, I feel unclean.”

  “Does it help to know that I cast no blame on your shoulders?”

  “You do not know what he did.” She winced at the stringent note in her plaint.

  “I know much. I know Olivet was the mysterious baron who set the ruffians on Glenys’ family.”

  “I do not understand.” But she was afraid she did and hugged her arms around her chest. Isabeau watched Donovan carefully. While confident he would not physically strike her, she braced for another emotional blow.

  “Young Sam helped bring the bas -- the body from the forest. He recognized Simon as the baron who claimed he was robbed. What he hoped to gain from the machination is anyone’s guess.” Donovan shrugged.

  Mayhap the answers could not change what had already come to pass.

  “Perhaps he thought the deed would be enough to lure me away from the castle?” Donovan added after a moment. “Now, we know he had easy access here when my chamber was unoccupied.”

  “Simon poisoned your wine.” Isabeau forced the words out in a rush. “I think he murdered Granya.”

  “Aye,” Donovan agreed. “Either she caught him in the deed or she was his accomplice.”

  “That is not the worst of it.” Isabeau put her palm over her mouth. The gesture might have been to keep back either the bile churning in her belly or the vile words that needed to be spoken. She took several breaths, lowered her hand and straightened her shoulders. “Simon was mad. He claimed your father should have wed his mother, not yours. He believed he should have your place. If not he himself, he plotted to have his son become the next Earl of Bennington.”

  “An empty dream. Strange...” Puzzlement twisted the mild scowl on Donovan’s face. “How could he hope to gain my earldom? He had no influence with the king. If he thought to take Bennington by force—he was no match. He is not my heir,” he added.

  “Simon knew about Marta and Syllba.”

  “Syllba will go to Pomeroy immediately. She need not concern you again.”

  “Donovan -- listen to me. Simon threatened to expose the women’s—affections – if -- if Marta did not submit to his use of her body. He got her with child.”

  Although it seemed impossible, Donovan’s frown increased. “But Christian…”

  “Simon poisoned Christian with the same powder he put in our wine. With Christian – gone – his child would pass for yours.”

  She could see the impact of her words, the grief. Impotent rage made the scar at the side of his face more prominent. Most of the time, she took no notice of the mark. Now it served as another reminder of all the pain Donovan had endured over the years. She longed to ease his hurts but after what Simon had done, did she have the right? And still, she had more to tell him. “I know it will be empty comfort but…”

  “This makes no sense. Simon was indeed mad...” Donovan strode across the chamber and back again. “There is more?”

  She nodded. “While Marta might have been willing to pay a high price for Simon’s silence, Christian was not part of it. Apparently, she confronted Simon with her suspicions of Christian’s death. They argued and he struck her. He did not mean for her to die before she came to term with his child. He blamed Marta for dying and ruining his plans.”

  Stunned and silent for a time, Donovan took a deep breath and finally spoke. “I believe some of your brother’s evil was controlled by another. There is a plot against the king among some barons… Kirney?” Donovan paced to the far wall and back, obviously -- in his mind -- somewhere beyond the chamber. “I must write the king about this...” He looked up and exhaled but still did not focus on her, “Simon would have been a handy tool… Married to Syllba – Kirney’s ward... She must have been his pawn as well.” He jerked as the thought came to him. “Learned her proclivities at Kirney’s knee...” Donovan shook his head, snorted, and looked at Isabeau again. “As I said, Simon was quite mad.”

  My brother did all these things. Must my husband remind me?

  If someone beyond Simon was more evil yet, did it matter? Only Simon’s behavior had affected her – and Donovan.

  Donovan’s fists worked at his sides, opening and closing, but he stayed where he was. If he wished to put his hands around her throat and squeeze, he overcame the urge. Isabeau knew, without a doubt, all was lost. A weight crushed her heart. “I will have Caitlin help me pack a trunk.” She would not cry. She would not cry.

  “Why?”

  “I must leave Bennington.”

  “Where do you think to go?”

  “St. Ignatius.”

  “No.”

  The single syllable took her by surprise. He had spoken calmly, coolly, even soothingly.

  “But…”

  “You are the countess of Bennington. Your place is at my side, being my helpmate, giving me children. You are going nowhere.”

  “How can you stand to look at me after all I have told you?”

  “Simon’s behavior – and Kirney’s -- have nothing to do with how I feel for you.” Donovan crossed the span of the hearth in two strides. She felt the warmth of his large callused hands as they enveloped her upper arms. Before she could protest, he pulled her to her feet and then to her toes. He bent his head, almost nose to nose, to look deep into her eyes.

  “How many times must I tell you, you are not responsible for Simon and his deeds?”

  “And what if I give you children with the madness of their uncle?”

  “At the time of my betrothal with Marta, I seem to recall a discussion with my father. He said choosing the lineage of a wife was as important as choosing that of a horse. A man could not be concerned only with the silver brought to the union, but also the strength of the sire and dame. Father said he discontinued bridal negotiations with one baron. He would not chance that daughter after dealing with the father. Shall we wager it was Simon’s grandfather of whom he spoke? There must have been something about the man’s thinking that put my father off.”

  “Truly?”

  “Your father, Sir Charles, did not have the benefit of the same counsel. At least, not with his first alliance. I remember your grandfather and your grandmother. Both were of sound stock.”

  “You do not think I might carry the madness in my blood?”

  Donovan pulled her closer into his embrace. His lips came down on hers and plundered her mouth. With the kiss, he invaded her body and soul. When she thought she might faint from lack of air, he lifted his head and eased her feet back to the floor. Even as she clutched at his forearms for balance, he swept her into his arms. He deposited her in the center of the raised bed, and divested of her bed-robe, before she could think to protest.

  When she moved to cover her body with a blanket or her even her hands, he caught her wrists and positioned them on the bolster on either side of her head. He stepped from the dais and began to undress. She watched his eyes as he followed the lines of her naked body with his gaze. His every motion seemed to her a sensuous dance of sinew and steel. Her legs moved restlessly on the bed.


  How could he distract her with such ease?

  She needed reassurance. She needed an answer…

  Donovan finished with his disrobing. He approached the bed with the air of a predatory cat. Instinctively, Isabeau wanted to scramble to the other side of the bed but she found her limbs seemed too heavy with desire to budge.

  “I have a confession as well,” Donovan confided as he reached the top step. He stretched out his hand to palm her cheek.

  His expression and his hand combined to quell the need for flight but stirred an instant urgency feed the fire she glimpsed in his eyes.

  “I took you as my betrothed as an act of revenge.”

  “I know,” she whispered.

  “I took you to wife for an entirely different reason.”

  “You need an heir.” She bit her lower lip to prevent her chin from quivering.

  “I am a soldier.” His hand drifted lower until he cupped her breast. “To date, my life has been full of war and death. My business is that of bloodletting. I am not a gentle man nor am I fair of face.”

  Her hands fell from the bolster as she moved to protest. One hand covered his roaming fingers to still it at her breast. The other she lifted to trace the scar at the side of his face. “You have always taken care with me. As for your scar, it adds to your comeliness. But do not think to acquire more.”

  “When I first took you away from Olivet, I thought I would be imprisoning you either into the darkness of Bennington or the loneliness of the St. Ignatius convent. Marta was not within reach of my vengeance. The only way to punish her was to take away Olivet’s riches from her lover. I did not realize at the time that you are the true treasure of Olivet. You brought light and life to Bennington Castle, to my people and to me. I cannot remember the last time I felt welcome in my own holding.”

  She tried to pull him atop of her but he held his weight aloft. “But you are welcome here,” she proclaimed. “The people of Bennington are proud to belong to a warrior of such legendary honor.”

  “You are the one who threw open the doors. You are the one who transformed Bennington from a dank dungeon to a perfumed castle.” He leaned in to place feather light kisses on her eyes, her nose. “I did not wed you to acquire an heir.”