Betrothed (27 page)

“A
party from the Abbey will be arriving shortly. The earl has charged you with a
certain decision.”

The
older woman’s head bobbed once, tears forming in her blue eyes.

“I
have a suggestion for your consideration. The earl believed young Sam deserved
mercy—an opportunity to atone for falling in with the true villains.”

“My
Zeke and Tessa; their two babes?  What mercy did they get?”

“I
know you fret over what will happen in future years. After you have spoken to
young Sam, heard the story from Sam’s mouth, I would that you think on this.
You might see fit to put Sam to work on Zeke’s farm. Sam could tend it and when
need arises, see to your comfort.” Isabeau intentionally repeated the man’s
name. She wanted Glenys to start seeing Sam as a person, not as one who kept
company with greedy monsters.

“ ’Tis
something to think on, Glenys.” Maisie
spoke with the level voice of one not ready to pass judgment. “You will meet
this Sam soon. If he knows nothing ‘bout farming, there are those who would
teach him for your sake.”

“Those
two others what the earl hanged, did they not sin against Sam by causing him to
sin?” Surprised, Isabeau turned to Caitlin who sat with banners of scarlet
coloring her white cheeks. The girl’s words had an edgy quality and Isabeau
wondered if a deeper meaning ran through them.

“Just
so, Caitlin.” Isabeau nodded softly.

“If
a sinner touches one, is that one painted with the black of sin as well?”

Caitlin’s
question fired a lively discussion among the women, lasting until the church
bells rang. Only then were the mugs and bread crumbs whisked away to the
kitchens.

Isabeau
found herself alone, as even Caitlin scurried off to attend to her list of
duties. How simply life rolled back into its natural rhythm. In God’s wisdom,
the ordinary had the power to heal a tear.

Did
she have it in her to heal Donovan’s wounds?  She wanted so to be the one
who gave him peace.

Restless,
Isabeau stood and took a step towards the chest at the foot of her bed. The
twinge between her thighs reminded her she wanted to give her betrothed more
than peace; she also wanted to give him passion; to give him so much that he
would never again forget to keep up his guard. She needed to be the reason he
would always rush home—in one piece. But how could she accomplish this?

Bed
play was new to her. All she had learned, Donovan had taught her. He had found
satisfaction in her body, but was it enough? Her body flushed at remembered
caresses. Her heart pounded with anticipation.  

Isabeau
could again hear Donovan’s voice when he found his release. She wanted to be
more than just a vessel for his seed. But, if needs be, she would start with
that.

She
also remembered the passion in his voice when he speculated on unwrapping her
body. The idea blossomed in full flower. She was fully prepared to gift Donovan
anything he wished.  
 

Why?
The insidious question lashed through her glow of anticipation. Why was she so
determined to give Donovan d’Allyonshire happiness?  From childhood, she
had been trained to run a large household, to make the keep a haven for her
father, all in preparation for a misty future with some vague husband. Was
every woman ready to please her husband as Isabeau was willing to please
Donovan?

Isabeau
moved the short distance to her chest. She pulled the iron peg in the latch and
lifted the lid, contemplating the clothes as she fished for answers.

She
had only vague memories of her mother, who had seemed happy tending to her
lord. Syllba certainly had not been strong enough to care for Simon’s house,
yet she seemed to be willing enough to keep trying to give him an heir. Perhaps
her brother and his wife were not the best examples to mimic? 

Shaking
off the dark thoughts, Isabeau offered a prayer skyward that she would have
little or no dealings with Simon in the future. Donovan’s attitude assured that
he would not seek out Simon’s companionship.

She
sifted through the garments and pulled several out to drape over the bed pane.
Tilting her head, she weighed her choices even as she wondered again about the
strength of her emotions regarding Donovan.

She
loved him!

No
reason to dig any further.

She
loved her betrothed; so much that should she be unable to give him the all important
heir, she would hove herself off to the convent so he could find a wife who
could give him everything he needed. He said she was already with child. Was
she?

It
would kill her. To be separated from the man who had rescued her from her
brother’s plans—who had introduced her to the passions of her body— it would
stomp her soul into the ground.       

Donovan
watched Isabeau leave the crowded hallway. He caught Carstairs’ eye and gave him
a silent signal. Without a word, his lieutenant followed him to his solar.

“The
men need to be kept on alert,” Donovan said as soon as Carstairs closed the
door behind them.

“Does
your latest bandage have anything to do with this need or has your clumsiness
continued?” asked Carstairs with a touch of irony in his voice.

Donovan
looked down at his arm. He had forgotten the knife wound, the pain was
negligible. His concern was Isabeau’s vulnerability. Pulling the knife from the
woods out of his belt, he held out the blade for Carstairs’ perusal.

“ ’Tis
of fine quality steel,” Carstairs
observed aloud. He took the weapon, weighing it in his hand, then tossed it in
the air, catching it with smooth skill. “A well-balanced throwing knife. Where
did you get such a treasure?”

“Plucked
from a tree in the woods.”

“Interesting
fruit in this part of the country.”

“The
damned thing was embedded in the bark of an elm after glancing off my arm.”

Carstairs
whistled through his teeth as his gaze flew from the blade to Donovan’s wound
and back again. “You are a man with many enemies but none so stealthy. Twice in
as many days. Is there not a wives’ tale about three?  If I were you, I’d
be wearing my full mail.”

“’Tis
not a matter for joking,” Donovan grumbled.

Shaking
his head, Carstairs apologized. “Nay, forgive me the ill-placed wit. What do
you want of me?”

“I
need your promise to protect Isabeau above all.”

Carstairs
scowled in confusion as he searched Donovan’s expression.

“If
something should befall me, Isabeau will be vulnerable. I have spoken to Father
Matthias. We will wed at prime on the morrow. I would have done the business
this eve but the priest will be attending to the burial of Granya.”

“Burying
her so soon?”

“I
thought it a good idea to get the witch in the ground as quickly as possible.
Isabeau had several disagreeable encounters with Granya. We were witness to one
such duel. While Isabeau was triumphant -- as was right -- I saw the
speculation in many eyes today.”

“Speculation?”

“That
Isabeau may have done more than find the old woman’s body.”

Carstairs
placed the knife upright on his palm, moving his hand horizontally to steady
the blade. The weapon fell and he caught it with his other hand. "Could
Isabeau have done this? Not that it matters. There is no great loss”

“No
great loss?” Donovan eyed his friend and confident with interest.

Carstairs
shrugged nonchalantly, handing back the throwing knife. “Few will grieve the
old woman’s waspish tongue.”

“Isabeau
did not dispose of the woman.” Donovan took a deep breath. He had no need to
divulge all details, but he would not have Carstairs, with his indelible wit,
think ill of Isabeau. “Her ladyship was with me. She had only just stepped away
when she found the body. However, someone helped the woman’s fall down the
stairs.”

“How
so?” Curiosity brightened Carstairs’ eyes, yet seriousness smoothed away his
grin.

“Isabeau
noticed the absence of the cane but I do not think she noticed what else was
missing?”

“The
blood on the stairs,” Carstairs nodded, considering. “I see your point. You
think the blood is on the cane?”

“Aye.”

“Do
you think your knife thrower has anything to do with the old lady?”

“I
would rather be looking for one villain than two,” Donovan quipped.

Carstairs
laughed. “We have one thing for which to thank the bastard…  He has
reincarnated your sense of humor.”

For
a moment, Donovan could only stare at his lieutenant then he let out his own
guffaw. “You can lay that miracle at the feet of another.”

“Lady
Isabeau.” Carstairs’ lips curved crookedly. “A lady of many talents, indeed.
Now, what do you want of me.”

“Suppose
this assassin succeeds. As I have said, I intend to protect Isabeau with my
name soon,” Donovan began. “If she gets with child—and I pray this event
happens posthaste -- you are to protect my holdings for her and my child. If
she is without issue, mongrels will come out of the woodwork hoping for a piece
of what is left after the king takes his helping. Spirit Isabeau away—do
whatever it takes to keep her safe, but under no circumstances are you to let
her to fall back into Olivet’s grasp.”

“Anything?”

Donovan
nodded briskly.

“Even
to wed her?”

Donovan
felt his air leave, as if he had taken a blow from a broadsword. His hands
curled into fists ready to strike out. Carstairs did not know when to end his
wagging tongue. He sucked in a breath and released it slowly. He had to remind
himself that Isabeau’s safety should be of primary concern but… But the thought
of another man touching her—sharing her bed.

Donovan
curled his lips, baring his teeth as he answered. “Make no mistake. I will do
all in my power to remain Isabeau’s one and only husband for the next thirty
years, but should God choose otherwise, you are to do all to keep her safe—even
to wed her.”

The
subdued evening meal, went smoothly. Donovan kept his ears pricked for whispers
regarding Isabeau and Granya. He heard nothing and prayed that it was only the
recent deaths casting shadows, not suspicions.

Isabeau
seemed distracted. Her glance occasionally drifted towards his arm, the fresh
bandage now covered by the sleeve of a clean tunic. Did she suspect they had a
murderous rogue in their midst?

After
the meal, he would have asked her to join him in his solar but she was nowhere
about. Caitlin informed him her ladyship had retired to her chamber but offered
to fetch her if that was his wish. Donovan shook his head.  Isabeau needed
time to recover, given their earlier activities. Her body was gloriously new to
lovemaking and he would have her vigor replenished for their wedding night on
the morrow.

“Let
her ladyship rest now, but help her dress in one of her fine gowns—perhaps the
green—before prime on the morn. Someone will fetch the two of you then.”

Turning,
he found Eldred, his steward, at his elbow.

“My
lord, I was wondering when you might be wanting to go over the accounts? 
With you bein’ away at the king’s charge, it has been several quarters since
the last review. I mention it only in that everyone is anxious to return to
routine with their lord in residence. I—as well as your scribe—be at the
ready.”

Donovan
sighed. His accounts were not the stuff of scintillating reading but perhaps
they would serve to take his mind off where he would be sleeping on the morrow.

Isabeau…

She
had swayed Glenys into offering Sam mercy instead of the hangman’s gibbet.

The
old cook had spoke with Sam upon his arrival from the abbey. The young man had
been a farmer before a fickle earl had awarded the land Sam worked to a relative.
Now Sam would tend Zeke’s fields and provide a home for Glenys when she left
the castle’s service.

Isabeau…

The
accounts were as boring as he expected but the work did pass the time till
Donovan retired. He welcomed his bed this night.

Isabeau…

Few
sconces lit the hallway. He would tell Eldred to keep the passages well
lighted. Economy was good, but he wanted no accidents because of sparing a
penny.

Isabeau…

As
he neared his chamber, his squire, at the ready, came from his own sleeping
space. Donovan shook his head. He realized he was too tired for the boy’s
routine. Donovan just wanted to shed his clothes and throw himself on the bed.
He could manage.

Isabeau…

What
he really desired more than sleep was solitude. Life in the castle afforded little
time alone.

“Go
to your sleep. I have no need of your assistance tonight.”

When
he entered his chamber he breathed a sigh. The room was dim with only two
tapers lit. Kindling was laid in the hearth but no fire blazed. The weather was
warm enough to do without but he remembered an evening not so long ago when he
had instructed Isabeau to light a fire. His manly rod hardened immediately,
almost to the point of pain. His body, without his instruction, readied for his
bride on only a memory. He could almost smell her perfume mixed with her scent.

A
bed curtain swayed on the other side of the bed. He was not alone. Donovan drew
a knife from his belt. Would the recent mysteries be solved this
night.
He was confident of victory in face to face conflict.

“Who
dares to go there?” he called out, his command holding as much steel as his
hand.

The
curtain fluttered again and Isabeau’s face emerged from the shadows.

“Isabeau!
Jesu
!” He sheathed his blade. “What are you doing here, Isabeau?”

Her
lips curved into a mischievous smile. He stared at her mouth. More than
mischievous, he thought.
Seductive
.

“I
wish to give you the stars in the night sky,” she said in a husky voice as she
came to stand before him. He noticed a slight difference in the line of her
figure as she approached.

“What
do you mean?” he asked, his own throat going dry as he searched the depths of
her emerald and gold eyes.

“I
have brought you your carafe of wine.” She waved her hand in the vague
direction of the table by the bed. Her voice took on a slight quiver as she
placed her palm over her heart. “And per your wish earlier this day, to offer
my body with
plenty of wrappings
so as to whet your hunger.”
  

“
Jesu
,”
he repeated with awe. He needed nothing to whet his hunger.

She
dropped her hands to her sides and stepped closer. With the up-tilt of her chin
and the tentative thrust of her breast, she offered easy access to the bowed
laces of her girdle.

Donovan
was not a foolish man. He needed no more prompting. His hands went to work on her
lacings in a thrice, praying he would not rend the fabrics between his fingers
and the silken touch of Isabeau’s milk white skin. He dispensed with her girdle
and outer tunic before he understood the reason for the change in Isabeau’s
shape.

He
did not know with laugh or curse. She had taken his word to heart and given him
many layers to build his anticipation.

“Are
you wearing every dress you own?”

He
could see embarrassment burning her cheeks as she mumbled. “No. None of the
more elegant.”

He
dispensed with another layer
.

“Only
a couple of gowns easier to put on—I could hardly ask Caitlin to help me
without explaining,” she confessed.

He
added more clothes to the growing pile on the floor. He could not help but
stare.

Then
he chose to laugh. The guffaw came from deep in his belly and he only just
stopped from clutching his arm to his waist and bending over in merriment.

If
he was not mistaken, she still wore at least two more shifts.

When
he raised his gaze back to her oval face, he saw she was worrying her lips with
her teeth and tears gathered in her eyes. He had not meant to overset her. How
could she not know the joy she gave him?  He framed her beloved face in
his big hands and lowered his mouth to hers.

In
that kiss, he coaxed—he led—he seduced.

She
bent—she responded—she surrendered.

When
he lifted his head and looked down, her eyes sparkled with more than tears. He
narrowed his own gaze.

“I
am d’Allyonshire,” he declared in a low growl. “I can afford a few linen shifts
for my bride.” He suited his actions to his words and ripped away the final two
layers.

Later
he thought he heard the bells ringing matins. He could not be sure over the
roaring of his blood. Both of them—blessedly naked—lay in the middle of the
ducal bed. He was flat on his back, staring at the velvet canopy, Isabeau
curled tightly against his side—her head pillowed on his shoulder. Her
fingertips danced a pattern over his thumping heart.

He
could barely breathe, yet she had the energy to move her hand? 

Her
skin glistened in the pale wick-light. The sheen of perspiration gave evidence
of her recent -- exertions. Donovan tilted his head enough to look at her face.
Her lashes shielded her eyes but he could tell she was awake.

He
wondered if her tender body ached. He had meant to be gentle with her but lust
had quickly battered down any thoughts of chivalry toward the end. Her fingers
continued to meander over his chest, twirling the hair there. If she would go a
bit lower…  Just the thought stirred his manhood.