Betrothed (22 page)

Donovan
was thankful Carstairs refused the banishment. Being left to the mercy of old
women did not rank high on his list of preferences. His failure to protest
Isabeau’s intention to nurse him through the night had not been accidental. But
he did not like the idea of the two busybody chaperones.

Maisie
turned on Isabeau. “You should run along. Have Maid Caitlin help you freshen
your dress. Glenys and I will put our heads together with Hemrick to determine
the best course of care for the earl.”

Isabeau
looked ready to protest but she glanced down at her gown and froze. Apparently,
she had been too busy to note its condition. She had no alternative but to
follow Maisie’s instructions. Before making her escape, she gave a Donovan a
small curtsy, pausing only long enough to call Jaffey to her side.

Donovan
felt his belly tumble when the two martinets focused their attention on him.
Without even his breeches, what defense did he have?  He was not an overly
prudish man but he did not have the wherewithal to parade naked in front of the
two biddies. He narrowed his eyes as they both gave him a thorough inspection.
 

“You
can forget any grandiose ideas you might have in your female brains. I am not
an invalid,” he reiterated. “There is no need for a passel of nursemaids at my
attendance. You eased Isabeau’s worries, for that I am grateful, but your
presence is no longer necessary.”

Maisie
just clicked her tongue. Glenys wagged her head.

Donovan
knew he was at their mercy when he caught a glimpse of Carstairs’ sardonic
smirk.

“You
are overset, my lord -- because of your injury without doubt,” Glenys teased
with a smile. “Everything will be as Lady Isabeau deems best. We will, of
course, be diligent in our duty.”

Donovan’s
glare of resentment did not quell Carstairs’ bellow of laughter in the
slightest. Obviously, Bennington had been left too long without a strong hand.

 “You
just lay back, young man,” Maisie boldly ordered. “Glenys will go see to the
preparations for our evening meal. I am sure the kitchen will be interested to
know of the approaching wedding. The news will go a long way in assuring the
castle that all is well.”

“What
about you?” Donovan asked suspiciously.

“Well…”
She plopped into a chair. “I am goin’ to see you stay put. There be no need to
worry Lady Isabeau.”

“Damnation.”
The low curse slipped from his mouth much to Carstairs’ continued amusement.
Donovan snapped at him, “You have been no help.”

“I
beg to differ,” Carstairs contradicted. “I helped carry your dead weight across
the bailey and up those damn stairs without knocking your head on the stone
wall even once.”

Donovan
looked at Maisie and inclined his head – very slightly – away from the bed.
Just that little movement made him squeeze his eyes shut and grimace through
gritted teeth.

The
humor left Carstairs’ face and he glanced at Maisie. “Mistress Maisie, mayhap
you could stir the coals and put a stick or two on the fire?”

The
old woman’s smile faded from her face as she looked from Carstairs to Donovan
and then back again. Without a word of protest she hauled her girth from the
chair and moved to the hearth.

“Champion
did not kick me in the head,” Donovan told Carstairs in a low voice when he
drew closer to the bed.

“You
do not have to tell me,” Carstairs said. “I would have doubts if another had
been found beneath Champion’s feet, but not you.”

“Isabeau
said she had to open the latch to enter the stall. I had not yet opened the
stall myself when I was hit from behind.”

“I
thought as much when I saw the scuff marks on the floor and the straw stuck to
your boots. The Lady Isabeau might be a fiery wench but she does not have the
muscle to drag your dead weight any distance. I speak from experience. It took
six of us to lug you as far as your room.

Donovan
dismissed his friend’s complaint. “It felt like a kick.”

“Your
wound has the curve of a horse’s shoe,” Carstairs conceded. “However, there are
plenty of spare shoes about the stable for someone to grab as a weapon.”

“Aye,”
Donovan agreed. “But who?”

“Could
this have any connection to the murders?”

Donovan
took a deep breath and released it in a long hiss. “A possibility. But again,
who?  Why?  I have not forgotten the phantom baron. Why do you think
I left so many men at the abbey?  I did not think Sam would attempt an
escape. No matter Glenys’ verdict, there is one yet who will meet the hangman.”

A
moment of silent contemplation met Donovan’s pronouncement. Carstairs, as was
his wont, broke the heavy silence.

“You
have made a wise choice.”

“What?”

“You
have maneuvered Lady Isabeau into agreeing before witnesses to wed you in a
sennight. You should have pushed for tomorrow. In her concern for your health,
she might have relented. You certainly need the surcease of a wedding night.
What is the cause of her reluctance?”

Donovan
stopped thinking of the mysterious baron, and answered with the truth. “She
wants to be sure she can give me an heir rather than trapping me in a barren
union.”

“What
gave her that fool idea?” Carstairs asked sharply enough to catch Maisie’s
attention across the room. Before Donovan could admit to his own complicity in
Isabeau’s determination, his friend voiced his own conclusion in a lowered
tone. “No doubt it stems from the babes her sister-in-law has supposedly
conceived and yet failed to produce. Well, that obstacle is easily solved.”

“It
is?”

“Yes,”
Carstairs recommended with his usual humor. “Get her enceinte. You have a
week.”

For
a moment, Donovan only stared at the other man as his thoughts drifted back to
his betrothed and the possibilities.

“Carstairs?”

“Aye?”

“She
went into Champion’s stall.” The thought still chilled his bones.

“Aye.
And she lived.” Carstairs did not bother to hide the awe.

“She
had no blood on her but mine.”

“I
do not mean to speak ill of the dead...” Carstairs halted as Donovan searched
his serious face.

“But?”

“Isabeau
is already more of a countess than Marta ever was, even after five years.”

Simon
froze when he heard the low growl then sharp bark on the other side of the
panel. He jumped back from the door and nearly fell down the uneven stone
steps. The pitiful flame on his taper flickered as he waved his arms for
balance. Debating as to whether to blow out the light, he retreated half-way
down the staircase until he judged he still had enough of a lead should anyone
with knowledge or curiosity check the passage. During several trips through the
secret way, he had discovered the side tunnel did indeed end at the master bed
chamber.

He
had met the old bitch during his scouting excursions but she had not warned him
about Allyonshire’s dog. She would pay for her oversight. He would enjoy making
her pay but not yet. She might still have her uses.

He
listened as the barks faded. After a hesitation, Simon returned to top of the
stairs and put his ear to the panel. The dog no longer seemed to be in
evidence. Though he could hear voices and surmise more than two men were in the
room, he could not discern the content of their conversation. Try as he might
he could only hear a scattered word. His eyes narrowed in resentment.

Voices
in a chamber the old woman had assured him would be empty at this time of
day?  Another mistake to rest at the hag’s door, he fumed.

He
was feeling quite bold and superior until he again heard the unmistakable low
rumble of a large canine. The sound was so close the panel actually vibrated
against his ear.

Deciding
a full and swift retreat was wise; Simon scrambled down the stairs and almost
ran down the dank corridor. He slowed his flight only when he reached the light
of day. He nearly forgot to extinguish and then hide the candle before he
emerged from the tunnel. By the time he had reached the sanctuary of the glen,
he had shaken the dirt of the passage from his clothes as well as the sweat of
his fear.

Though
he continued to curse the unexpected delay to his plans, he regained his
composure as he sat on a patch of long grass in front of the cold fire ring. He
patted the pouch at his belt, assuring himself, it had not been lost in his
hasty withdrawal. He resented the necessity of waiting for another opportunity
to implement his plan.

A
temporary setback only, he assured himself. He would return on the morrow and
the old witch would lead him to the castle’s stores. She was as eager as a
bitch in heat to avenge Marta. The slight Bennington had given to her beloved
Marta by choosing another countess so soon, festered in the woman’s craw.

Simon
was on his back contemplating the sun filtering through the leaves of the trees
and wondering how much wine remained in the new cache when Arneau came
lumbering into the clearing. The clumsy oaf made the noise of a herd of cattle.

“Damn,
Arneau. Could you have made any more noise?” he complained loudly. “You are
more clumsy than usual. You could have led a blind man here.”

Simon
raised his head and pushed up onto his elbows as he surveyed his man. He
noticed absently the round man wore a different tunic draped over his
shoulders. “Did you bring any ale back with you?”

Arneau
dropped the tunic as he sat on the ground beside Simon, expelling a whoosh of
air from his pudgy body. Only then did Simon notice how white Arneau looked
around the mouth. His gaze took in the tear in Arneau’s sleeve, the blood
slowly seeping from the gash in his arm.

“What
happened?” Simon was on his feet, a knife in his hand as he faced the path
Arneau used. “I will kill you myself if you have led Bennington back to me.”

“Bennington
was in no condition to follow me,” Arneau claimed with breathless pride in his
voice.

Simon
turned to the seated man, his knife still at the ready.

“What
do you mean?” he asked with suspicion. He could cut Arneau’s throat and be away
in a heartbeat. Dead, Arneau could not give witness against him.

Arneau
wiped sweat from his face with his uninjured arm. He licked his plump lips
before looking up at Simon. “I went to Bennington to steal supplies. You said
you wanted the earl dead?”

Simon
just stared at his servant.

“Six
men were needed to carry the earl to his chamber.”

“What
happened?” He eyed Arneau’s wound speculatively. Mayhap, there was more bite to
this mutt than appeared.

“When
the earl ventured into the stables alone, I bashed his head with a spare
horseshoe.” Arneau tipped his chin proudly. “Then I dragged him into the stall
of his own horse. That is how I got this.” Arneau indicated his torn arm with a
shrug of his shoulder.

“Well?”

“The
beast went mad at the smell of the earl’s blood. I thought for sure he would
finish the chore.”

    
“And of course, he did not,” Simon finished the tale. The flavor of disappointment
and disgust at the failure filled his mouth like bile. “You imbecile. You
should have disposed of Bennington yourself rather than rely on a stupid
animal. But what can I expect when I deal with fools?”

Arneau
slouched in dejection. “He was badly hurt,” he whined defensively. “He is weak.
Even though I had my own wounds, I lingered in the bailey long enough to see if
he lived. He will not be out of his bed before the morrow. He may yet die. I
learned something else as well.”

“What?”
Simon snapped impatiently.

“If
he lives, he will wed your sister in a sennight,” Arneau imparted importantly.

Isabeau
woke slowly. She stretched her restless legs.

Her
night had been filled with dreams of a dark warrior. She saw him fierce in battle,
uncaring of the blood dripping from his wounds. She saw his face implacable as
he dealt with Simon. She saw his eyes shining with promised passion as he gave
her a taste of the pleasure in the marriage bed.

She
saw him crumpled in the hay on the stable floor, blood staining his hair. That
very real image had followed her into her dreams. Once in her dreams, the
memory turned them into nightmares more fierce than those Simon created.

Donovan
had been wounded on foreign battlefields. He deserved happiness and loyalty. He
deserved a haven from the violence he had lived.

He
deserved love.

She
loved this great warrior, but did he know? How could she make him understand
how she felt? Instinctively she knew he would not ask her

True,
Donovan wanted to marry her but it could be a man’s lust; a marriage only to
produce the necessary heir.

Or
might he love her, too?

Perhaps
his behavior the night before Zeke’s murder had been an attempt to discover how
she felt about him; he might have needed proof of her love.

Without
the murder, they might already be man and wife. He
must
know she loved
him!
    

But
she couldn’t endure it if they should marry, only to discover she could not
give him the child he deserved. There was still time. She knew only one way to
provide proof of her love without trapping him in marriage.  

She
was going to have to seduce her betrothed.  

She
had a sennight.

How
long did it take to get with child? 

She
did not know exactly how to get with child.

Donovan
knew. He had fathered Christian as proof of it. She would just have to go about
the business of persuading him to instruct her on the matter. But how?

Privacy
would be essential.

She
clapped her palms over her warming cheeks as she recalled the evening she
waited for Donovan. To disrobe for Donovan’s eyes alone had been difficult
enough without the threat of someone else seeing her nakedness.

She
would have been tempted to visit his chamber the night before if not for
Maisie’s promise to watch over the wounded earl. By the speculative glances
shared by the cook and housekeeper, Isabeau had the suspicion that if she
ventured down the corridor, one or the other of the women would likely be
lurking to catch her in the shadows.

A
knock on the door signaled Caitlin’s readiness to begin the day.

“Lady
Isabeau?”

“You
may enter, Caitlin,” she called to her friend.

The
girl entered the room, carefully balancing a tray with an earthen mug and what
looked to be a honeyed oat cake—a favorite treat of both of them. Isabeau threw
back her blanket and scrambled off the bed. She rushed to Caitlin’s side and
took the tray from her.

“You
are not my maid, Caitlin,” she admonished gently. “You are my companion. There
is no need to bring me a tray unless you have included enough for two. Promise
me.”

Caitlin
turned a becoming pink as she mumbled an unintelligible answer.

“What
do we have planned today?” Isabeau asked as she placed the tray on the small
table near the hearth. She needed time to think of a stratagem and then put it
into action. As much affection as she had for Caitlin, she knew the girl’s
constant presence would hinder any opportunity of intimacy with her betrothed.

Caitlin
began reciting a litany of duties both ongoing from the prior day and those yet
to be started. Isabeau sighed as the length. Would the list ever shrink? 
Then she realized Caitlin had added several items.

“Why
ever is it necessary to have the women to weave bowers for the chapel?  We
have much more pressing jobs to make Bennington proud once more.”

Caitlin
used the interruption to inhale a breath. The girl’s mouth curved in a smile
making Isabeau nervous.

“Maisie
is quite worried that a sennight will not be long enough to get the chapel in
the pristine condition for the Grand Event.”

“The
grand event?”

“The
earl’s wedding. The great hall was all abuzz with the news last night when we
supped. ‘Course they was worried lest the earl not have a peaceful night with
the bump on his head and all but…”

“But?”
Isabeau prompted as she dropped into a nearby chair.

“Most
of Bennington is looking forward to having a countess especially one…” She
clapped her hand over her mouth as if stunned by what she had been about to
share.

“You
might as well finish,” Isabeau told the girl as she grabbed the mug of floral
tea. She inhaled the aroma seeking fortification.

“ ’Twas
not proper for me to hear nor proper to
bring to your ladyship’s ear.”

“You
have already tweaked the cat’s whiskers. You know what happened to the cat.”

Caitlin
tilted her head in a quizzical manner.

“The
old saying about curiosity killing the cat?” Isabeau reminded but she could not
see any understanding. “Only satisfaction brought her back. You have raised my
curiosity. Now you must satisfy it.”

“Oh.”
Caitlin nodded slowly, her mouth pursed in the shape of her answer. “Everyone
is looking forward to having a countess…”

Isabeau
stirred the air with her hand as a cue for Caitlin to finish her sentence.

“Glenys
said they are all looking forward to having a countess who does not seem prone
to spend all her time locked in her chambers in prayer and meditation.”

Isabeau
swallowed the sip of tea before commenting. “I had no notion countess Marta was
so devoted to spiritual matters. I do not believe she even visited Olivet’s
small chapel on her many trips to the manor.”

“Maisie
laughed at Glenys,” Caitlin added scrupulously. “The women seemed to think her
ladyship suffered from ill humors rather than piety. They are pleased your
bodily humors seem better balanced.”

“Well,
I suppose that is a start,” Isabeau sighed. “Have my pending nuptials added
many more labors?”

Caitlin
resumed her catechisms and Isabeau could only shake her head in amazement.

“Your
memory is quite astonishing. I will speak to Father Matthias about starting on
your reading lessons as soon as possible.”

“There
is no need,” Caitlin hastened to say.

“There
is every need,” Isabeau countered. “I have already explained that as my companion,
reading and writing will be useful skills. Now, I think we will have to divide
the jobs if we are to get all accomplished. You pick first.”

Isabeau
hoped to keep Caitlin busy but she could not with good conscious allow the girl
to take responsibility for all she volunteered to do. She modified Caitlin’s
list as she reviewed her own secret agenda, carefully ensuring they would often
be in different parts of the castle.

She
needed privacy.

Donovan’s
chamber?  Was he still abed?  She could nip down the corridors and
check. She nearly shook her head in silent denial. Maisie and Glenys would be
playing sentry if Donovan still slept.

Going
to the kitchens seemed the most efficient method of garnering information.

Isabeau
soon discovered her betrothed seemed quite recovered from his misadventure in
the stables and had already begun his normal duties.

“Are
Maisie and Glenys discussing the menus with Eldred?”

“Nay,
Milady,” one of the scullery maids answered. “They be in the chapel saying
prayers for Zeke and his family.”

Isabeau
nodded stiffly. A knot formed in Isabeau’s belly, remembering the older woman’s
loss. How could she have forgotten the senseless tragedy?  Although she
was not in church, she said a silent prayer for Glenys and one asking God’s to
forgive her own thoughtless. Taking a deep breath, she added an appeal for
God’s mercy. She prayed to give Donovan a son. She knew it was selfish to wish
that
she
might heal the earl’s heart, but there it was. Oh, that she
might be the one to do it.

Without
the eagle-eyes of two household despots, Isabeau set about assembling a
tempting repast for her betrothed. Those bustling around the kitchen and stores
seemed very busy tending to their own duties. She didn’t think anyone paid
notice to her actions; not even when she filled a bladder with wine. She loaded
her goods into a soft straw bag often used to carry foodstuffs to workers out
in the fields.

Draping
the cloth strap over her shoulder, Isabeau went in search of Donovan. Next came
the hard part—diverting her fiancé to a place of privacy with a modicum of
discretion. Not only did she want to attempt her seduction in seclusion but she
did not want all and sundry to know what she might be doing.

Luck
or fate was on her side. The first person she saw as she skirted the kitchen’s
herb garden was the object of her quest. She tried to call out his name but
sudden nerves dried the words in her throat. She picked up her pace as she
watched him go through the gate to the bustle of the outer bailey. About to call
out, Jaffey’s black bulk crossed her path. He nudged her leg with his big head,
demanding a pat and a scratch. Though better behaved than even four days
prior—at least she was not flat on the ground—she could not quietly banish him.

Giving
up, Isabeau gave the signal for the dog to remain at her side. She got to the
outer bailey in time to see Donovan make a wide circuit away from the stables.
Where was he headed?  Jaffey almost knocked her to the ground when she
suddenly stopped. Isabeau absently rested her hand on the dog’s head to catch
her balance. She watched Donovan. His long stride made it impossible for her to
follow without running. People would notice if their future countess raced
across the bailey.

She
continued to stroke Jaffey as Donovan navigated around thick vines climbing the
far bailey wall and -- seemingly disappeared into the stones! 

Even
as she intended to follow, the hound’s keeper hailed her. “Milady?”

Ignoring
Felix tempted her, but if she did he would likely to take notice of her
behavior and destination. She wanted to maintain a modicum of secrecy.

“Milady
Isabeau?”

With
a sigh, she turned to the earnest man. “Yes?”

“Do
you wish me to take Jaffey?”

She
was amazed how easily the houndsman had reverted to Christian’s name for the
dog. “Jaffey is fine with me. I thought mayhap to take him for a stroll. The
activity might reduce some of exuberance.”

She
could feel the shrewd gaze travel from the canine to the bag hanging from her
shoulder before returning to her face. Hopefully, he could not see the heat she
felt burning her cheeks.

“I
will get his leash. ‘T’will take but a moment.”

Resigned,
Isabeau carefully noted the point in the wall where she had last seen her
betrothed. There was no help but to follow Felix to the kennels. Upon reaching
their destination, Felix grabbed a chain from many dangling from pegs on the
wall and attached the leash to Jaffey’s collar. He placed the leather loop in
Isabeau’s hand.

“Since
you be going fer a walk, would ya mind taken a couple o’ others of the
blighters?”

“Others?”

“Aye,
they won’t be trouble. I promise.”

Isabeau
forced a smile. “Of course.” She let out a long breath.

“They’ve
been trained to the same commands as the big brute here. Just be firm,” he
instructed. “Tell them ‘No’ like ya mean it.”

How
was she to say ‘No’ to the dogs when she failed to say ‘No’ to their trainer?