Betrothed (32 page)

No
harm will come to Isabeau.

The
promise Donovan offered as reassurance to Caitlin reverberated through his
mind, a litany, a prayer. He used the words as a talisman as he followed the
narrow tunnel, the dog at his side. No light guided his way but with his hand
on Jaffey’s back he had no trouble determining when the stairs ended.

He
caught scent Isabeau’s sweet floral perfume over the mix of still musty air,
the acrid smell of burning tapers and the odor of unwashed bodies. The tunnel
had sheltered a recent intruder. Or was it intruders?

Did
Olivet work alone?  How many would meet the point of Donovan’s sword by
the end of this day?  It mattered not to Donovan. Simon’s death would not
be easy. For what he had done to Isabeau while she was under his
guardianship—Donovan pictured cat-o-nine-tails. For daring to take what was his
liege lord’s—Simon would lose his hands, one finger at a time.

What
would Simon do with her? Isabeau must be unharmed. Donovan could think of
nothing else without madness. He would not let this fear feed the darkness of
the tunnel.

Isabeau
had grown so quickly into his affection, that he had no thought of shielding
his heart from her. He, who had fought countless battles, a shield on his left
forearm, a broad-blade in his right hand, had no guard against a minute lady
who had once tried to pass herself off as a boy. He had thought to offer her
safety from her brother and sister-in-law’s depravity, a sanctuary from an
unwanted suitor. He had used her and her inheritance as a weapon of his
revenge.

Donovan
swore as he stumbled over the rough floor. Jaffey growled in response. He put
his hand on the rough fur to calm the animal, keeping in close step behind the
dog.

His
wife had asked nothing of him—except his tender feelings. As they stood
together in the doorway after their wedding, Donovan knew she had wanted to ask
for his love.

Isabeau.
She had been bold enough to bare her body for his use—and had been afraid to
ask for what she truly craved. How had Donovan responded?  The brave knight,
feared champion of the king, had stood on the chapel steps with a frozen tongue
in his mouth.

With
eyes straining through the darkness, Donovan’s mind grappled with his mistakes;
his regrets. Isabeau, in the spirit of her generous heart, had not cried at the
implied rejection in his silence. Instead, she sought to give him another gift.
She planned to knock down the walls between earl and countess, blending her
possessions with his. Never again would he traipse the castle corridors to
spend his seed in his countess’ bed. Isabeau had successfully crawled into his
heart.        

Donovan
felt the grit beneath his feet as the slight decline turned steeper. Soon the
slant would veer upwards. With a pat on Jaffey’s head, he brought both of them
to a halt. Listening, he hoped to hear their prey’s progress, but heard
nothing.

He
nudged Jaffey to resume their hunt. The occasional scrape of claw against
stone, was the only sound he heard over his heartbeat. He sensed when the
tunnel was about to widened into the naturally formed walls of the caves so
prevalent to the area. A brush of fresh air touched his cheek. He squinted
forward towards the faint wash of sunlight in the distance.

When
he could see no dancing shadows of his quarry, Donovan acknowledged Simon had
made better progress than he hoped

No
harm will come to Isabeau.

How
had Simon known of this place?  How had he known of the tunnel?

He
slowly became aware of the cave’s dimensions. With a ceiling tall enough for a man
to stand full height, the cavity curved sufficiently to provide shelter from
any kind of weather. Someone had taken the time to carve a small fire pit.
Straw and rags lay strewn haphazardly about the floor and a bed pallet was
spread out on the dark side of the pit. The ravaged carcass of a cooked bird
and the used spit were propped against the rocks.

From
the signs of recent occupation, Simon must have followed them almost from the
day Donovan had returned to Bennington. He could have been no more than a day
behind. Tracks revealed only one man had paid frequent visits to the actual
tunnel, but evidence of a second man marked the ground.

With
knowledge of the tunnel, this camp offered a handy place to spy on Castle
Bennington, to sneak into the bailey; to have the run of the castle undetected.

Donovan
had not expected Simon to have skills to find such a place, nor the brains to
be quite so successful in his deception. The blackheart had not even earned his
spurs. Had Simon assistance from inside the castle?  More than old Dame
Granya?  He could not see Granya making the trek from the castle to the
camp. Someone was a traitorous snake.

Donovan
emerged from the cave into the sunlight braced for battle, Jaffey at his heel.

The
welcoming clearing flowed towards the mouth of a cave. A small brook trickled
down the opposite side of the opening. Water swirled into a clear pool then
continued on its way down the hill.

Water,
fire, fresh animals to poach, situated well off the normal footpath. It all
added up to a perfect hidey-hole. The site claimed everything, including
privacy.

This
is the same forest where Isabeau seduced me; the perfect place for a tryst
.

No
one waited for him outside the cave. He detected no sounds of retreat. The
dog’s ears were pointed, waiting only for the next command.

Donovan
silently cursed the air. How much time had elapsed before Caitlin gained enough
courage to bring her fears to his attention? 

He
looked for signs of horses. He had been a fool not to send specific instructions
for Carstairs to prepare mounts. Would Carstairs think of the possible need on
his own? 

Donovan
surveyed the ground surrounding the tunnel entrance. Simon, the rabid cur, had
either been too hurried or too unskilled to cover the tracks of his escape.

The
footmarks on the ground told Donovan more than just his prey’s direction. He
  discovered
the spot where Isabeau had landed on her
knees, then been dragged to her feet.

Simon
will lose his feet—one toe at a time.

Donovan
saw where the pair headed. More than one trail entered the clearing but Simon’s
faint track meandered, then met up with the main footpath, which eventually
merged into the main road.

A
few hundred strides further along the uneven terrain revealed evidence that
Isabeau had staged a small but unsuccessful rebellion before being subdued.

Do
not challenge him too hard, sweet Isabeau, Donovan silently commanded his wife.
Do not make him hurt you before I arrive.

For
Olivet to take the-foolhardy action of kidnapping Isabeau meant he was beyond
desperate. What could make such a coward brave death?  Simon had signed
his warrant the minute he laid hands on Donovan’s countess. The man had to know
it.

Donovan
detected evidence of yet another struggle, broken branches, leaves crushed into
the dirt.

Aye.
Simon was a dead man. His heart raced -- not with exertion -- but with the
natural brew that formed in the blood of every warrior called to battle. The
same heady euphoria he felt when deep inside Isabeau. He contemplated other
things he would do with Isabeau—once he had her ensconced in their bedchamber.

Their
bedchamber.

His
senses buzzed. He heard the wind in the trees but no bird sounds. He saw the
signs of his two-legged prey on the ground and on the bush. Still, his body
anticipated taking his wife to bed.

He
felt warmth begin to melt the ice in the middle of his chest. He would not fail
this all important quest. He would rescue Isabeau so they could share the ducal
bedchamber. He was reluctant to close that door, otherwise dark thoughts flickered
through his mind, thoughts of failure—thoughts of not reaching Simon before he
harmed Isabeau.

Donovan
pushed on harder, his strides longer. Thoughts of punishing Simon fueled his
determination. Thoughts of Isabeau fueled his strength.

No
harm will come to Isabeau.

He
scowled when Isabeau’s tracks changed. She began dragging her left foot. Was
she doing her best to slow their progress or was she injured?  Donovan
prayed she only playacted and had not been hurt in the last tussle. He was glad
they were on foot. He wanted to be closer to the ground, ready to take on
Simon.

Donovan
was confident his men would be close behind them. He commanded the dog to
continue his silent lead. They made excellent time and he knew they gained on
their quarry. The realization gave him the incentive to move even faster.
Isabeau needed his skill and speed.       
         Jaffey, in his headstrong
pursuit, found marks Donovan would have missed. And Isabeau’s shoe. Instead of
continuing along the expected path, Isabeau had been dragged down a narrow and
little used animal trail. Was she hurt? Or worse?

After
a few strides along the new path, Donovan released a held breath. Isabeau was
on her feet again. She left enough disturbance in the brush to mark their
direction.

Good
girl!

This
path hugged the contour of the hillside, to the left, the incline pitched
up—steep and rough. On the right, the bank sloped down at an even more
treacherous angle. Did it circle back towards the cave?

Donovan
again waved the signal for silent hunting. Donovan did not want Simon to hear
their approach by either bark or tread. Jaffey gave him a scolding expression,
reminding his master he need not repeat an order.

Determined
to reach Isabeau, Donovan nearly stumbled over a frozen Jaffey and into the
sun-dappled glade.
 

 “Bitch.”
The muffled curse came from inside the cave. Donovan’s inclination was to rush
inside, but his warrior intuition held him back. He drew his sword.

Commanding
Jaffey to secure the perimeter, he stepped back to wait, concealing himself
behind an old oak. Simon emerged from the dark mouth, moving towards the small
pool. The disheveled man bore little resemblance to the fancy-dressed prig of
Olivet. Garbed in the brown leather hide of a peddler, dirt and leaves clung to
his knees and backside. Had Isabeau dragged him to the ground in her struggles?

Donovan
stealthily approached Simon’s flank. The bastard had knelt by the water and
seemed too intent on his task to care that he might have an enemy at his back.
“Olivet,” Donovan warned in a low voice.

Simon
jerked and spun on his haunches to face Donovan.

A
small blade was clutched in Simon’s hand, blood smearing the steel and the
front of the man’s borrowed tunic. Fear pierced Donovan’s heart as surely as if
Olivet had already used the dagger on him.

“Bring
me Isabeau, Olivet,” he demanded. “Where is she?  What have you done to
her?” Tightening the grip on his hilt, he tried to control his rage and his
need to run his sword through Olivet’s black heart. Donovan’s hot-blooded revenge
would do Isabeau no good.

With
feigned leisure, Simon looked down at his fist and then insolently back to his
liege. Fear was surprisingly absent from the man’s face. Donovan could not understand
the man’s reaction. Simon had to know he was going to die.

Instead,
a slow smile spread across Simon’s thin lips, a smile that gripped a fist
around the knot in Donovan’s gut. He disguised his dread. Simon threw back his
head and laughed. The sound resembled a wolf braying triumphantly over a fresh
kill.

“Where
is my wife?” Donovan asked quietly. From Simon’s gleeful expression he had
arrived too late to save her. For a second, he closed his eyes to shut out the
pain. He could offer her one last service. He could take her home—bury her with
the honor that was her due as his countess. There would be no other countess.
Not even for an heir could he marry another. If there would be no child of her
body then there would be no heirs.

”Your
wife, my lord?” Simon punctuated his words with a jab of the bloody knife he
pointed at Donovan. His face screwed up in an expression of contempt, he spit
on the ground at Donovan’s feet. “Puh! The vaunted Bennington honor is a sham.”
He practically danced in his madness as his words sang out over the short
distance. “What honor? What honor? You have ruined me! You took my sister
without the church’s sanction.”

Donovan
blinked against the accusation but he did not deny it. He could not dispute his
lack of honor. Not after his behavior with Isabeau. He had announced his
betrothal to Isabeau from no higher motive than revenge. He had failed to give
her the one thing she requested. Isabeau had paid the ultimate price for his
arrogance.

His
legs bent, his sword primed, Donovan braced for combat. It would be a short
battle. He made no advance but waited for the dancing knave to close on him.
Simon’s thrusts were hardly a threat from this distance.

“Have
nothing to say, do ya?” Simon laughed again. “I thought you would at least wait
until your wedding night to deflower your bride. The honorable Earl of
Bennington would want—demand another virgin bride.”