Betrothed (28 page)

Damn
,
but his willing bride might be the death of him, much sooner than on a
battlefield. He covered her exploring hand with his palm, debating whether keep
it at rest or move it on to more southern territories.

“I
do not understand.” Isabeau’s chin rubbed his pectoral as she bent her neck to
look up at him.

“What
can you not understand?” He was actually surprised he had the breath to speak.

“How
could Marta find pleasure in a woman?  I certainly enjoy all of your manly
parts and I never considered the possibilities before your tutelage. How did
you discover this?  Did she tell you?”

With
Isabeau secure in his arms, the scent of her womanly welcome still wafting
through the air, the bite to Donovan’s pride did not seem so deep.

“I
had the news from her lover’s mouth.” Speaking of Marta’s cuckolding held only
irritation.

“Her
lover?” Isabeau would have sat up in astonishment if Donovan did not keep her
in the curl of his arm. “Who would be
so
bold as to…?”
Her voice trailed off the edge of the bed.

“Syllba.”
He supplied the answer though even in the heavy shadows he could read her
conclusion in her expressive eyes.

“Does
Simon know?”

“No
doubt.” He was not going to add to her distress.

“Why
has he not sought the church to cast off their vows?”

“I
imagine the situation suites his purposes.” Donovan ended the subject by
sitting up on the bed carrying her with him. “I think it is time for you to put
on at least one of your gowns and traipse back to your bed.”

“Why
bother?” she mewled in protest as he pulled her from the bed. “We will be wed
in a few days.”

He
shook his head as he lifted her for a kiss. “As to that…”

She
squirmed until he put her feet back on the floor. He recognized a ploy to stop
his words but he allowed it. She would not wriggle out of saying vows a few
hours hence. He could afford to let her play her games.

Pulling
from his hold she rushed to the bedside table and poured wine from the carafe.

“I
brought your wine. You should at least take a small drink for my troubles,” She
pouted as she turned to face him with the proffered goblet’s bowl cupped in her
dainty hands.

He
shook his head.

“Mayhap
I should take the drink?” Her mouth curved in that smile he had learned led to
things carnal. “Then you can sip the ambrosia from my lips.”

He
was about to suggest she anoint her body when she downed a hefty gulp. Her
expressive features screwed into a grimace of distaste.

“This
is your special cache?  How can you abide the stuff?” She extended the cup
to him, clearly not about to take another drop.

Donovan
thought her teasing and reached for the goblet to take his own sip. Even as his
hand touched the cup, it slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor. She
doubled over, her arms clutching her belly, groaning in agony.
   

Without
stopping to think, Donovan grabbed the chamber pot. He dropped to the floor,
pulled Isabeau into his arms for better leverage and stuck two fingers down her
throat. She rewarded him with by gagging and then vomiting into the chamber
pot. He repeated the process twice more until only dry-heaves racked her
fragile body.

He
lost track of how long they rested, there in the middle of the floor. He rocked
her, a gentle sway, to offer comfort. Her face absent of any color, her body
still quivered with reaction while his own burned with fear and rage.

He
had almost lost her.

He
reached for the abandoned goblet and lifted it to his nose. Even in the
flickering light he could see the sediment sticking to the empty cup.

Treachery.
He was quite calm in his determination.

Without
speaking, he put the cup down and then lifted Isabeau into his arms. Her weight
was as nothing as he stood and carried her up the dais to his bed. He settled
her easily enough among the bedcovers. The wrench came when he had to force
himself to pull his arms away from her.

He
stood, staring down at her stark white face and could not resist pushing a
sweaty tendril from her temple.

“How
do you feel?”

She
took several deep breaths before answering, “Battered.”

Donovan
turned away after one more look and then crossed to the pitcher and basin on
the table along the wall. He poured water, dropped the cake of lavender soap
into the pan,
then
brought it and a washing cloth back
to the bed. She did not even have the spirit to protest his ministrations as he
began to wipe down her body with the scented water. He started at her brow and
continued to her feet before beginning the process a second time.

In
a detached part of his mind, he wondered at his ability to stroke her every
part, to map her every contour, all without the burning lust of moments ago. He
cooled the cloth with the water before returning it back to the valley between
her breasts. As he smoothed it closer to her navel, he looked up to catch her
watching his face with intent.

“How
is your belly, now?” he asked as he spread his fingers to rest lightly on that
part of her. He felt a little quiver beneath his touch. “Do you need the
chamber pot?”

“Nay.”
She shook her head, and then looked as if she regretted the movement.

“Can
you sit up?”

“I
think so.”

“Good.”
He dropped the cloth into the water with a small splash then moved the basin to
the table. Climbing down from the dais, he went to her pile of discarded
clothes and retrieved a tattered shift. He noted only one tear down the center.
It would do to cover her modesty. When he returned to her side, he helped her
to sit. Then he slipped her arms in the sleeves,
the rend
to her back.

“We
will wed at prime.” His words came out even with no inflection. He was proud of
that bit of control. “I have already spoken to Father Matthias.”

“When?”
Her protest was weak.

“If
I have to carry you to the chapel, we will wed at prime,” he stated, his eyes narrowed
at the thought she might dare protest again.

“But
it is too soon. I might not be carrying your heir.”

“I
am tired of this plaint.” He put his palm over her belly in a blatant
possessive manner. He read her understanding in her wide gaze. “Did Syllba not
puke her guts when she attempted to carry her many babes?”

She
nodded, a guarded expression on her face. “But you made me vomit.”

“I
only thought the wine had overset my babe.” He lied smoothly and without a
twinge of remorse. When she opened her mouth, he shook his head. One hand on
her shoulder, he gently pushed her back among the bolsters, covered her with
blankets, and spoke firmly, repeating his promise. “If I have to carry you…
 Now, rest.”

After
a thorough glance, assuring himself she was indeed safe, he began to dress. The
size of his chamber had never seemed
so
great as when
he crossed to the door, leaving Isabeau alone, undefended. In the corridor he
let his fist hit the stone before he rousted his squire.

“Without
waking the entire castle,” Donovan ordered the young man in low tones, “Wake
Lady Isabeau’s companion, Maid Caitlin. Inform her that her mistress needs her
in my chambers. Then find Sir Carstairs; he’s probably tupping a serving maid.
Have him bring two of my best men back here.”

“Aye,
my lord,” the lad said as he pulled up his leggings and pushed his head into
his tunic.

“With
stealth, boy, as on a battlefield,” Donovan cautioned again. The boy nodded and
raced down the corridor.

Isabeau
stirred on the bed at Donovan’s return to her side. “I am much better,” she
assured him from her cocoon of coverlets.

“I
am sure you are,” he agreed with a tip of his head. “You will rest there until
your appointment at prime.” For a while, he simply stroked her temple while she
lay acquiescent. He heard the scuff of slippered feet and canine nails coming
along the corridor before he broke the silence.

“Who
drew the wine?” he asked casually.

“I
did,” Isabeau answered.

“From
what cask?”

“From
your personal selection in the dungeon stores. Maisie and Eldred have traipsed
me over leagues of halls and tunnels; acres of rooms.” She tried to prop
herself up on her elbows but it took little force to keep her prone. “There was
something wrong with the wine?”

“I
just thought to take precautions,” Donovan countered coolly. “I want nothing to
overset my babe.”

Before
she could offer any more arguments, a disheveled Caitlin raced through the open
door forgetting even to knock. An excited Jaffey clamored at her side.

After
two loud barks, strangely enough directed towards the paneled wall, Jaffey
obeyed Donovan’s ‘silent vigil’ command and settled on his haunches.

“You
will tend to Lady Isabeau, Donovan instructed Caitlin. “No one beyond the three
of us need know she took ill this eve,”

Caitlin
bobbed her head, her blue eyes serious. By her expression, he knew there was no
need to say more.    

He
sat on the edge of the bed and held Isabeau’s hand while he waited. She
threaded her fingers between his and he could feel her returning strength. The
four of them composed an interesting tableau. Even as this thought occurred to
him, Isabeau broke the silence with a weak laugh.

“If
only someone had an easel and the skill. We would make a classic mural. Me as
the princess in the near repose of children’s tales, Sir Donovan, the knight
errant, Caitlin, the faithful attendant and Jaffey, the great beast, guarding
the tower.”

Donovan
gave her an answering smile as he lifted her hand to his mouth. It was well the
tension be waved away like a foul smell. ”And what token of devotion do you
give me as I go to crusade?” he asked.

“Alas,”
she blushed as she looked around. “I have naught but a kiss.”

Donovan
grinned widely as he leaned closer. For her ears alone, he promised. “At prime
I will take but the first from my countess.”

Three
rapid raps on the wooden door sounded and Carstairs entered the room. Donovan
could see two sentries take their position in the corridor at each side of the
door. He kissed the back of Isabeau’s hand, this time touching his tongue to
her skin. The rush of her indrawn breath and her wide eyes gratified him. She
was not too weak to feel desire.

He
grabbed the carafe before crossing to the door. The grin on his face quickly
faded as Carstairs followed him into the corridor.

“I
thought your taking the lady to bed would end our misery.” Carstairs tried to
find a joke but his heart did not seem to be in it. “What has happened that
pulls us from our sleep?”

Donovan
held up the offending carafe, only then noticing his bruised knuckles from
battling the wall. “The wine was tainted. Isabeau could have died.”

None
of the jester remained on Carstairs’ face. His stance was of a warrior, his
hand on the hilt of his blade.

“Who? 
How?”

“That
is what I would know.” He started down the corridor, grabbing a lit sconce on
the way. “She drew from the cache set aside for my use alone.” The two were
silent as they made the trek to the bowels of the castle. They were on a
campaign, with death as the only conclusion.   

Donovan
lifted the sconce higher so that both had a good view of the stack of casks.

“Only
the one has been tapped,” Carstairs observed. “The wax seal is intact on the
others.” He stood to the side as he tapped the open keg and let a stream of red
wine trickle into his palm. Fine sediment settled and clung to his hand much as
it had clung to the goblet. He sniffed it but declined a taste. Wiping his hand
on his legging, he then broke the seal of another cask. He did the same test,
running the wine into his hand, but nothing solid settled this time. He sniffed
again and then stuck his tongue in the cup of his palm.

“I
cannot discern the herb, but it appears a poor choice of poison,” he informed
Donovan. “It seems to have reacted to the wine and turned it rancid. ‘Tis
lucky. One would not get down more than one sip before knowing something was
wrong. Since no one would expect Lady Isabeau to drink your wine first, you are
the likely target. Your enemy earnestly wishes you dead. Be glad he is lacking
in skill.” Carstairs glanced around the storeroom before turning back to
Donovan. “This makes three,” he added grimly.

“This
makes three,” Donovan agreed. Then a minute reflection of light by the entrance
caught his eye. A quick stride brought him to the curious item. The light had
bounced off a polished piece of wood. It was longer and larger than he
expected.

“What
ho!” Carstairs exclaimed over the find. “This answers the question about the
old bitch’s cane. Now, the question is—did she accidentally discover the
culprit or was she an expendable accomplice?