Susan Spencer Paul

by The Bride Thief

  His head was beginning to throb, and shouting at Isabelle only heightened the pain. When she raised the palm of her hand and pressed it against her forehead, closing her eyes, she seemed to mirror his own agony.

  “I do not want Evelyn,” he repeated more calmly, striving to contain his fury. “I admit I’ve enjoyed her company since she has been at Talwar, but only because the woman I should rather be with cares more for her books and numbers than in being with me.”

  “That’s not so!” Isabelle cried.

  “Is it not?” he asked scornfully. “Always locked away in your working chamber, giving all your attention to making my wealthy brothers even wealthier. When have you ever once come to me of your own accord? Simply to greet me during the day, or to spend a few moments with your husband?”

  Surprise possessed her features, and her mouth dropped open. “But I didn’t wish to disturb you,” she told him earnestly. “You brought me to Talwar to care for your fortune. I did not wish to become a burden, or an annoyance.”

  “God save me!” He moved away from her, his fury renewed. “I don’t give a damn about being wealthy! How many times must I tell you before you finally believe me? I wouldn’t care if you took those cursed account books and threw them down the well, or if you used them to fuel the hearth! The only reason I let you play with them is because you want to do so, because you enjoy doing so, and I had vowed that you would be happy here.”

  “Then perhaps,” she suggested, the line of her mouth growing stubborn, “you made a mistake in choosing me. Perhaps you should have waited for Evelyn.”

  “Perhaps I should have!”

  “Then why didn’t you?” she demanded.

  “Because I thought I wanted you!” he shouted back, enraged beyond care. “Because I thought you might want me, as well. But I can see now that I was wrong. Oh, aye, how wrong I was. A blind fool could have seen better than I that you would never come to trust me, no matter what I did to earn your faith! I brought your brother to you, Isabelle, and gave you back your mother’s books.” He set his hand against his forehead, trying to push away the lancing pain. “I’ve been a damned fool! I wish I had taken Evelyn for my wife. At least she craves my company!”

  The words shocked them both, and filled Justin with sudden horror. The look on Isabelle’s face was worse than death. “I didn’t mean that,” he said quickly, sick that his anger had made him so reckless. “Isabelle—”

  She backed away from him, weeping, one hand pressed against her temple and the other against her stomach.

  “I didn’t mean any of it, Isabelle, I swear it!” He reached out to take hold of her, but she crumpled, falling onto the straw-covered earth with a cry of pain.

  “Isabelle!” He dropped to his knees beside her. “Oh, God.” He tried to put his hands beneath her to lift her up, but she gripped his arm.

  “I trust you,” she sobbed. “I believe in you, Justin.”

  “I don’t care if you do, or if you never will,” he told her truthfully, his heart in his throat as he pulled her precious, seemingly weightless body into his arms and cradled her with desperation. “I love you, Isabelle. What have I done to you? Forgive me.”

  But her eyes were closed, and her head fell limply against his shoulder, and Justin’s heart filled with dread. Rising, holding her with all the care that he possessed, he pushed out of the smithy and ran toward the manor house, shouting for Gytha every step of the way.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The chamber was darkened when Evelyn sneaked inside, with only the fire in the hearth to light it. Isabelle slept soundly in her bed, suffering the effects of the poison Evelyn had been feeding her these past several days.

  “Cousin,” Evelyn murmured, moving silently to gaze at Isabelle’s still form. It had taken longer than she expected for the poison to take its toll, just as it had taken longer for the one that she herself swallowed to work its magic on the day Justin attempted to escort her to Briarstone. More than an hour had passed after they left Talwar before she finally felt the effects of the double dose she’d taken, and by then she’d nearly given up hope of being able to convince Justin that she was with child. Afterward, at Talwar, she’d been so truly ill that she almost began to believe the lie, herself. She could only pray that when she truly did carry Justin’s babe in her belly, she would not suffer so badly. For if she did, she would get rid of the child right quick. Or just as soon as she had Justin’s ring upon her finger, and his signature upon their marriage contract. Once she had that, a great many things were going to change, and most eminently their place of residence.

  She wasn’t going to live in this rustic hovel for the rest of her life. It amazed her that she’d managed to stand it as long as she had, regardless the cause. No, indeed. Once she and Justin were wed, they would build the finest palace in all of London. One that would rival even her father’s. And there would be servants, and every comfort that his riches could buy, and if Justin didn’t approve, she would threaten to never give him children. The fool wanted them badly enough to learn obedience right quick, she knew. He was laughably ecstatic about the child Isabelle carried. So much so that Evelyn almost regretted bringing the child’s life to an end. Almost. She would make the loss up to Justin somehow. He was easy enough to please, the lackwit. Lady Alicia hadn’t exaggerated just how dull the man was. His preference for living a peasant’s life was beyond understanding, and his love of sword making was so foolish that she didn’t know how much longer she’d be able to pretend an interest in it without exposing her true feelings for such a filthy, lowly occupation. If it weren’t for Justin’s well-favored looks and his wealth, Evelyn never would have suffered so much to gain him for a husband.

  Isabelle murmured in her sleep, and Evelyn sat beside her, pulling a small vial from out of her surcoat.

  “Only a small amount will rid you of the child,” she told her sleeping cousin. “A very small amount.” She uncorked the glass bottle and lifted the edge to Isabelle’s parted lips, carefully, and slowly, dribbling the contents into her mouth. “Ah, ‘tis bitter, I know,” she murmured when Isabelle coughed and tried to turn away, “but you must drink it, dear little mouse. I only hope it will not kill you, for if you should die, Father would be most displeased.”

  With her fingers she wiped the few remaining drops from Isabelle’s lips, then replaced the cork and slipped the vial back into the folds of her surcoat. “It will be painful, Isabelle, as you lose the child, but I will give you no sympathy. You stole the man who was rightfully mine, and have made Father’s life a misery.” She stood from the bed, leaning to whisper, “You deserve to suffer.”

  He was in the smithy, just as he had been for the past few hours, since delivering Isabelle to her bed, and just as Evelyn expected, he was suffering from more than simple remorse. Lying on the straw, Justin had one hand pressed to his head, suffering the effects of the same poison she had been giving Isabelle in smaller doses. It was good that he should react so strongly to his first taste of it, Evelyn thought. She would have no difficulties with him once he’d drunk the sleeping potion she had brought with her.

  Summoning up the sweet voice that had pleased him so well these many weeks, she said, with concern, “My lord, Sir Justin! Are you ill?”

  He groaned as she knelt beside him. “My head aches,” he whispered, as if the words alone caused him to suffer. “It is my just due for speaking so badly to Isabelle. God has rightly punished me.”

  She touched his forehead with gentle fingers, smoothing his dark hair away from his brow. “Nay, my lord, it is not so. Please, I have brought you this wine to drink, to soothe your suffering. Drink it, I pray you, and let me do what I may to bring you ease.”

  He pushed her hand away. “How is Isabelle? Does she rest? I must go to see her.”

  “She is sleeping gently, and well. You must not fear for her, my lord. She would not want it so. You know it is the truth I speak. Drink this wine and let me rub your aches away. When you are rested, you will
wish to speak with her and be of good mind, will you not?”

  “Aye.” He sounded fully miserable. “I want to beg her forgiveness for speaking to her so falsely, for making her ill. If she should lose the child because of me…”

  “She will not lose the child,” Evelyn lied reassuringly, “but she will worry if you are ill when she awakes. Come, my lord, and drink this before my hand grows weak and I spill it. Let me help you.”

  He sat up a little when she put her hand behind his head, and drank when she put the cup to his lips.

  “’Tis bitter,” he murmured when he lay down again.

  “’Twas the last in the barrel,” she told him, moving until she knelt behind him. Putting her hands to his temples and rubbing gently, she whispered, “Close your eyes, my lord, and I will make the aching go away. ’Twill all be better soon, and you shall sleep. When you awake, you will speak with Isabelle, and all will be well.”

  “I should go to her,” he said, his eyes drifting shut. “I do not want her to be alone when she awakes.”

  “She’ll not be,” Evelyn said softly. “For you will be beside her. Now rest, my lord, and let your mind be at ease. All will be well, once this pain has gone away from you.”

  The potion lured him into slumber quickly, and Evelyn heard his breathing calm, growing deep and even. Beneath her hands, she felt his muscles relax, and an hour later, when Isabelle’s screams began to fill the night air, dimly echoing in the outer bailey, he did not stir.

  Someone would come to fetch him, Evelyn knew. She had been looking forward to this moment since the day she and her father planned it. She scooted downward, tossing her cloak away, and began to unlace his leggings. She tugged until the garment was down about his knees, unrepentantly admiring the way God had made him. Her potion left him useless for the moment, but he would be a welcome lover when they were at last rid of Isabelle.

  Quickly, before they were discovered, she unlaced the top of her surcoat and pulled it down to her waist, baring herself to the cold of the night and praying that someone would come before she began to freeze. Justin’s body was warm as she straddled him, and she wished that she had been strong enough to remove his tunic and bare his flesh to hers. His warmth would have been that much greater to soothe her, and the effect on their certain intruder would have been more useful. But his shoulders, heavily muscled from his work in the smithy, were too heavy to lift without aid, and she would have to suffice with what she could. Arranging her skirts so that his lowered leggings were clearly shown, Evelyn huddled against his clothed chest, gathering what warmth she could, and listened for any sound that she might hear above Isabelle’s screams.

  At last it came. Hurried footsteps and loud, distraught breaths.

  Evelyn pushed up on her arms, making certain that whoever came in would see that she was naked from the waist up, and began to move her hips on the lifeless Justin as though they were coupling.

  “Oh, my lord,” she cried loudly, moaning in a way that had never failed to convince her lovers of her sincere passion. “Oh, yes, my lord.”

  The smithy door squeaked open, grinding against the dirt as it moved inward, and Evelyn prayed that whoever it was would simply go away again, for if the person moved any closer, he or she would surely see that Justin’s eyes were closed in nothing more than slumber, and all would be lost. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw Aric, standing with one arm held against the door as if he were made of stone.

  “Oh!” Evelyn cried out, moving in a greater frenzy and striving to be heard over Isabelle’s increasing screams. “Oh, Justin!”

  With a passionate toss of her head she saw that it was Aric, his usually somber face filled with shock and revulsion. And that was perfect, she thought, even as the boy turned and fled, pulling the smithy door closed behind him.

  Absolutely perfect.

  She climbed off Justin with a sigh and a laugh, patting him after she pulled his leggings back up and retied his laces.

  “Perfect,” she said happily, sliding her arms back into the sleeves of her warm surcoat and lacing the front until she was as modest as a nun once more.

  “Aric will never forgive you,” she murmured as she lay down beside Justin’s slumbering body, covering both of them with her heavy wool cloak. “Never. He loves Isabelle too well for that.” She slipped her arm about his waist for warmth and snuggled close.

  Isabelle was only crying now, but weakly, and wearily, and could barely be heard. Evelyn hoped her cousin would not die, but if such an unfortunate event did occur, she knew exactly how to comfort Justin Baldwin. In a few months, whether Isabelle lived or died, he wouldn’t even remember who his first wife had been.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Justin came awake slowly, his head feeling as thick as if it were filled with tree sap.

  “God’s mercy,” he groaned, trying to push away the weight that lay half on him.

  The weight, which rolled over at his ungentle prodding, groaned in reply.

  “Is it morn?” Evelyn asked sleepily, yawning. “Have we been here all night?”

  The light hurt Justin’s eyes when he opened them, telling him that it was, indeed, morn. With an effort, he pushed into a sitting position and blinked at the now freezing-cold smithy. The fire that kept the small building warm while he worked had long since died down to naught but embers.

  “How did we come to be here?” He brushed a hand through his hair, trying to rid it of straw. “Isabelle,” he said with sudden remembrance, and struggled to his feet. “She will be wondering where I am.” Staggering, he turned to Evelyn. “Did you come to fetch me? Why did you not wake me? Is Isabelle all right?”

  She, too, was pulling straw from her hair, brushing it from her surcoat. “She was well when last I saw her,” she told him. “She was sleeping peacefully. But you were suffering from an aching head when I found you here. Do you not remember?”

  Shutting his eyes, he pressed a hand over’ his face, striving to lift his mind from its sleepy fog. “I remember…you brought me a cup of wine, and rubbed my forehead. I must have fallen asleep. But why are you still here, Evelyn?”

  “I could not wake you,” she replied innocently, gazing up at him wide-eyed. “And I was afraid you would freeze to death alone.”

  “You stayed to share your warmth?” he asked, deeply touched by this selfless gesture. “I am grateful to you, Cousin, but you should have sent one of the lads in your place. There is no need for you to suffer such discomfort.”

  Evelyn gave a little shrug and smiled. “We were warm enough to sleep. ‘Twas not so bad.” Lifting her hand, she let him pull her to her feet. “But we must return to the keep, for Isabelle will be worried, and the others, as well.”

  “Aye.” He released her at once and started for the smithy doors, pulling them open with force. He was groggy yet, but driven by the need to see that Isabelle was well. She would think him crazed to have fallen asleep in the smithy, but he would tell her about the ache that had plagued him, and of his remorse for the words that had passed between them the day before.

  There was no one in the manor house when he walked inside, and the silence and stillness filled his heart with dread. The last bit of sleep left him, and his every sense sharpened. Gytha and Meg and Odelyn should be busy here in the great room; the lads should be breaking their fast. There was only one reason why they would not be here.

  “My lord?” Evelyn’s questioning voice came behind him, but Justin was already running for the stairs, taking them two at a time, toward Isabelle’s bedchamber.

  They must have heard him coming, for the door opened before he got there, and Aric stepped out.

  “Aric,” Justin said breathlessly, grabbing him by the arm. The sight of the boy’s face stunned him—he had never seen Aric cry before, never, not even after the lad first came to Briarstone, beaten almost to naught and abandoned outside the castle gates and left for dead. “Aric?”

  Aric glared at him with eyes filled with hatred. Jerkin
g free, he shoved past Justin and strode to the stairs, wiping his face with his forearm.

  Heart pounding, Justin pushed the chamber door wide and walked inside. The window had been covered, and the room was dimly lit. He could see Kayne and the other boys standing at the far end, all of them staring at him with faces made of stone. Senet held a weeping Odelyn in his arms, but over her head his gaze locked with Justin’s, as hard and unwavering as if they were enemies.

  Gytha and Meg were bent over Isabelle’s bed, but at the sight of him Gytha rose and came to him, pushing long stray strands of hair from her face. She looked years older than she was. Her face was filled with sorrow.

  “She is past danger, my lord,” she told Justin quietly, the soft words filling the chamber as if she were shouting rather than whispering. “The bleeding has stopped. She is not going to die.”

  “Die?” Justin repeated with sick horror. “What do you—?” He pushed past her, surging forward to the bed. “Isabelle!” Meg moved away when he knelt, and Justin gazed at his wife, who lay so still, her face drained of all color. “Oh, God. Isabelle.”

  Her lips moved, parting slightly that she might breathe, then whisper, as lightly as a feather’s caress, “Justin.”

  He took one of her cold hands in his, bringing it to his mouth and kissing it fervently. “Aye, beloved. I am here.”

  “I didn’t think…you would ever come.”

  “I am here,” he repeated, weeping suddenly. “God forgive me, Isabelle. I fell asleep in the smithy. My head ached, and I… It doesn’t matter. Forgive me, I pray. Forgive me.”

  She didn’t open her eyes. Only her lips moved, as if she were dreaming and speaking of what she dreamed.

  “I called for you,” she whispered. “I wanted you.”

  “I was asleep,” he said mournfully. “Oh, God above. The babe has gone. Is it not so? You nearly died, and all the while I slept!”