Betrothed (11 page)

Donovan,
leading the party to Bennington, found Carstairs at his side. They were
probably making better time since Isabeau rode in one of the wagons.

She claimed it
was for comfort, but he thought he knew her. She wanted to watch over Carrie
without his blaming the maid for the change. Even after such a short
acquaintance he saw that Isabeau bore the weight of Olivet’s ills on her
shoulders.

Donovan was
certainly not prepared to reveal Syllba’s insanity. He did not think the sick
truth would ease her burden. He did not think he could stomach corrupting the
bright innocence that miraculously still remained in Isabeau’s hazel eyes.
  

Carstairs
seemed content to ride silently, for which Donovan was grateful; not yet ready
for his lieutenant’s skewed sense of humor. He groaned when Carstairs broke the
peace. “My lady seems quite content back there.” Carstairs wagged his chin
towards the rear of the procession.

“Aye,” Donovan
agreed noncommittally.

“She’s
clucking over the maid like a mother hen with a lone chick.”

Donovan didn’t
respond; answering Carstairs was to encourage conversation and Donovan needed
to think, not talk.

Why had he
laid claim to Isabeau’s dowry?  And to Isabeau?

The last thing
he wanted was another wife.

His marriage
had offered nothing but grief. No amount of land or gold was worth the misery
one female could heap upon the head of a man. A woman might seem small and
defenseless, but she could cut through a man’s heart and soul with one swipe of
her dainty little tongue. The only peace a man could find was to discover a new
war.

“Quite a
change, heh?” Carstairs tried again.

Donovan
continued to stare straight ahead. He searched the road intently. To avoid this
conversation he would almost welcome bandits.

“’Tis quite a
change, to be traveling with a couple of ladies in tow.” Carstairs the long
piece of straw he had been chewing from the corner of his mouth and waved it in
the air. “Why, we even lit fires last night. ‘Tis a good thing we supped at
Olivet or you would have the men hunting by moonlight instead of our usual
fare.”

Donovan could
not keep from grunting, though he pretended not to listen. He inspected a
fallow field on the left side of the road with great intent.

“My lord’s station
in life has taken another turn, now. Why, only a few days ago, we were hefting
mighty fine ale with Sir William, and you made the bold statement that it would
take more than a royal decree before you made another meeting at the altar.”

Donovan narrowed
his eyes and clenched his back teeth—hard.

Carstairs
grinned. “And look at you now. Donovan d’Allyonshire has whisked away Olivet’s
prize and is rushing to sacrifice the lady on the altar at Bennington’s chapel.
I have never known you to be so—what is the word?
Impetuous
. To swear
your troth so quickly?  You practically held your blade to Lord Simon’s
throat. She’s a sweet bit, no doubt—with a bite of spice thrown in the mix—but
marriage?  ‘Tis ‘til death, remember.”

“I remember,”
Donovan growled. How many times had he faced death rather then his loving
bride? 

“A betrothal
is as legally binding as a marriage and as constricting to a man as a slave
collar,” Carstairs continued as if he had not heard Donovan’s response.

“I was
careful.” Donovan said defensively.

“Careful?” His
lieutenant gave him an exaggerated astonished stare. “How were you
careful?  You are betrothed—as tethered as one of Felix’s hounds.”

“I ensured the
betrothal was one of
Per Verba de Futuro
not a
Per Verba de Praesenti
,”
he hissed between his teeth.

“Does the lady
know the difference?”

Donovan’s
irritation was plain in the scowl he directed at his man—supposedly a friend.

“
’T
was a promise to
perhaps wed. We can mutually break such an agreement once she is out of that viper’s
pit.”  

“Viper’s pit?”
Carstairs questioned. “Ah.” Carstairs nodded once. “And as you did not kiss her
at the ceremony, all gifts will have to be returned.”     

 Donovan
tightened his reins in surprise. His horse obediently stopped. The irritated earl
clicked his tongue to resume the gait. “Why should it matter?”

“I do not
know.” Carstairs shrugged. “Not many women would relinquish the opportunity to
become a countess. She could easily run to the church and cry
“Cum Cupola
”
 Only
Scotland requires the prospective groom’s written acknowledgement of
consummation. I wonder if it is already too late for you.”

“Isabeau would
not…”

Carstairs
laughed. “You are caught and bound for true, my friend—like a pig for the high
table. How long will you be able to resist the tasty morsel before you share
her bed and satisfy the terms of
Cum Cupola
?

“Would you
just keep your mouth busy chewing on your straw and be
quiet?”           

The
woman under Simon whimpered. He smiled as he grew hard. He loved the sounds
women made when he took them. From the gasp when they realized they were
subject to his ultimate power to the last cry as they crawled from his
presence, the music stiffened his rod.

Where
another man might find enjoyment in a woman’s climax, he found his pleasure in
the sound of a woman’s agony. Not just pain but agony. The sound that escaped a
woman’s mouth when she was beyond crying—beyond begging for his mercy—would
often make him climax another time.  

He
pushed up on his elbows and looked down on the bare breasts beneath him. Four
perfect ovals were already turning blue around the top of the white globe, a
fifth one formed underneath the soft nipple. He lifted his hand and fitted his
fingers to the fresh bruises and squeezed.

The
woman tried to twist away from the new pain, but Simon’s weight held her in
place. She would not move until he was finished. He was far from finished. Far
too much rage burned inside of him for his usual coupling to satisfy the fire.

Bennington
had yet again taken what should have been his. He pulled from the wriggling
body and viciously thrust into the unwilling woman again. She cried and Simon
began to pound into her in a flurry of motion. He let out an exultant scream of
triumph as he came, then plopped down, squeezing the breath from the weeping
wretch.

He
was soft now—but he wanted more. Mayhap he would…

“Simon.”

Syllba’s
silky voice interrupted his contemplation of what toy he would introduce into
the woman.

“Leave
me be, woman.” Simon growled. “Can you not see?  I am busy.”

“I
see very well, husband.” Syllba sighed. “My lord’s enthusiasm has pushed her
beyond the point of your satisfaction.”

He
craned his neck back to look at Syllba and watched a moue curl her red lips.
“You did not invite me,” she added with a pout. She knew him too well for his
comfort.

“Next
time,” he promised, “we will pick a novice to our games. I adore watching the
expressions of shock as you take them the first time. Their mothers may have
told them to beware of men, but they are always unprepared to be savaged by a
female.”

He
noted the dreamy anticipation in her drooping eyelids leak away.

“Husband,
we have much to discuss.” The cold focus in her blues eyes usually preceded
their shared pleasure of dispensing pain upon an unsuspecting head. Perhaps, he
would not be spending a monotonous night after all. She jerked her chin towards
the prone woman. “Get rid of the flotsam.”

Simon
rolled over and dropped to his feet beside his counting table. He liked the
unsteadiness of his knees. The spongy sensation gave evidence to the amount of
seed he had expended inside the limp nag. Perhaps she would bear his
bastard—though he would deny the brat. He stiffened his arms and pushed the
wench across the hard boards and unceremoniously onto the floor.

“Get
out of here,” he ordered. “Remember, say a word and you will be taken to the
outer bailey, stripped naked and every cock in Olivet will have at you,
including the goats.”

Still
on her knees, the woman scooped up her clothes. Unable to stand, she crawled to
the door and only then pulled herself up by holding onto the latch.

“Was
that necessary?” asked Syllba.

“What?
The threat?” He turned to his wife and shrugged. She was the picture of feminine
gentility in stark contrast to his recent plaything. He smiled as he recognized
what lay beneath the cool façade. “Nay, not with that one, she will remember
well enough. She thinks taking us is sin enough. I just like to watch her
quiver with the threat.”

Unmindful
of his nakedness, he strode to the small stand against the wall and poured a
goblet of wine. He drank deep before refilling his vessel. Lifting the carafe,
he silently offered her a drink.

She
shook her head and then changed her mind. “Yes, pour me one. Mayhap it will
drown the scent of sex.”

He
laughed as he carried the full pewter goblets back to her. “You like the scent
of sex well enough.”

“Not
when I am not part of the tangle.” She pouted with a hint of the coquette.

“So
why did you interrupt my tangle without climbing atop?” He narrowed his eyes as
he watched her sip daintily at the wine.

She
licked her lips and then drew the back of her hand across her mouth in the
manner of a peasant boy. “We need to discuss your new plans.”

He
raised his brow. “New plans?”

“Aye,
for Bennington and your slut of a half-sister.” She nodded vigorously. “I know
you have something diabolical brewing. You can not let the little bitch go
unpunished. Because of her, Bennington has left us with nothing.”

Bennington!  Bennington!  Why did she have to keep
repeating the name—the title that should have been mine?
 

He
drained his goblet and threw it against the hearth. He bitterly regretted not
having a convenient target. Syllba found too much enjoyment in both the meting
and receiving of pain to be satisfying.

“The
first earl should have been
my
sire, not Donovan’s.”

Syllba
sipped her wine and made no indication she had heard Simon’s complaints many
times before.

“My
mother was betrothed to the first earl, but from the moment Donovan’s mother
spread her legs and interfered with my mother’s nuptials, Donovan has been a
thorn in my side. He has taken everything from me—from my title to my power.”
Simon strode back and forth across the chamber, his manhood drooping like his
thoughts. “My grandfather told me all. The old earl was desperate for an heir
to his new title and that little incubus he married instead of my mother
offered up Donovan, a son.  

“My
mother had to settle for Lord Charles, only a baron. My father was nothing to
an earl.”

“I
know, husband.” Syllba crooned sympathetically. “Here you were, so close to
reclaiming everything that had been stolen. If Marta had not died—well, things
would be different. But all is not lost. I know, even now, you are chewing on
ways to exact your revenge.”

Simon
stopped his pacing long enough to stare at Syllba’s ingenuous smile. Never
would he admit to her he had all but admitted defeat.

“Of
course, I have been considering my next stratagem.”

“It
must be swift. Bennington must die.”

“Aye,”
Simon agreed.

“If
it is done before they are wed, then Kirney will still have his virgin.”

“But
would Isabeau not have more value as a widowed countess?”

Syllba
cocked her head to the side much as a vulture contemplates carrion. “Do you not
think you would risk the king’s interference if she were a countess?  You
are guaranteed your fee if you present Kirney with a virgin. You can also
reclaim all of the
keepsakes
the bitch stole from Olivet.” A stringent
note entered her cajoling. “She needs to be stripped bare of the lot.”

“What
would be your suggestion?” he asked cagily.  

She
practically danced on her little slippered feet. “Get him away from his castle.
 Keep him away from her and out of her bed. He will be vulnerable outside
the walls.”

“How?”
In spite of himself, he was intrigued. Beneath her blue gown, her nipples
beaded with her excitement. Her eagerness boded ill for someone.

“If
you were to take—oh, I do not know—Arneau, and create a distraction. One
devastating enough to lure the earl from his stronghold—he would not be
prepared for an attack on his person. Once he has -- been disposed of -- you
can resume your lawful guardianship of your father’s get.”

The
singsong of her voice was in direct contrast to the wickedness of her plan.

“Are
you sure Arneau is the right man?” he asked doubtfully.

Syllba
drew a sharp fingernail down the center of his bare chest leaving a line
without drawing blood. He shivered at the pleasant sting.

“I
think he will do whatever you demand with no hesitation—no question.”

“And
the disaster?” Simon grew warm with anticipation.

“Pick
a farm—any farm—at least a half day’s ride from Bennington and burn it to the
ground. All will think a mythical band of outlaws are the culprits. When the
earl falls, none will think to look for a single man.”

“There
will be no witnesses to dispute the sign.” Simon gripped his hardening cock and
tugged.

“No
witnesses.” Syllba whispered her agreement.

“Bend
over the table and lift your skirts, wife,” he demanded.

“Oh,
husband,” she cooed. “How forceful you are.”

“We’ll
use the whips later,” he promised.

Syllba
gripped the edge of the table and grunted as he jammed into her with no
preliminaries but their talk of violence. She never refused him no matter his
mood—no matter the place. Even when he had thought to rip through her
non-existent maidenhead on their wedding night, she had been ready, if not
willing. The reaction to her lack of virginity had surprised both of them. He had
plowed her raw those first weeks and they had both fed off her pain.

She
had been the one to introduce whips and toys and then finally the females to
their play. How many sluts had she placed in a compromising position, allowing
Simon to
discover
the indiscretion and take advantage? 

They
both enjoyed the game—the hunt—the power.

A
woman would do anything rather than be labeled a rouncivale—a lover of women.
When one controlled the woman, one controlled her house—her man.

Simon
was sure he controlled
his
woman—just to prove it, he growled in her
ear. “Come, now.”

She
shuddered beneath him as she cried out her completion. Her knuckles were white
as she gripped the table edge.

Yes—he
controlled his woman.