Betrothed (5 page)

Donovan
tugged on the reins and turned his mount back to the small manor. “I think I
have seen enough, Porter. Olivet was once kept in excellent order.” What he
didn’t add was that he saw recent disregard for the people, as well as
property.

Porter
had no choice but to change his course as well. Porter seemed eager to share
information but was reticent about confidences regarding Lord Simon. Donovan
respected the man’s discretion, but the source of Porter’s diplomacy concerned
him. If his silence was based on fear of retaliation rather than loyalty,
trouble could be brewing.

Trouble
brewed anyway. D’Olivet had still not appeared, nor had he sent a message
explaining the lapse.

However,
Donovan’s thoughts refused to stay focused on the business at hand. Donovan couldn’t
remember the last time he had actually looked forward to just conversing with a
female. But Lady Isabeau was different; a fascinating mix of vinegar and honey.
Good for his bodily humors. But, could she be trusted more than any other
female?  She had already proved her eagerness to run.

Her
guileless smile intrigued him. Her innocence enticed, yet that same quality was
a shield as well. Could she really be as innocent as she seemed? Why was she
running to the convent disguised as a lad? There were more questions than
answers at Olivet.

She
was an accomplished chatelaine. The smooth running household of Olivet held
testimony to her skill. Her relationship with the servants was of long
standing—not a temporary stopgap while her sister-in-law recovered from her
last miscarriage.

Isabeau
was adept in all things. He bit his tongue—well not all things. Not when she
was nervous. Twice at their shared morning table, had it not been for his quick
reflexes, she would have lost the contents of her goblet. It seemed her hands
were never still.

He
liked the way she talked with her hands – both when she was nervous and when
she forgot to be nervous. He liked her hands. They were soft, small and
competent. An interesting combination.

He
liked her hazel eyes. Their changing color signaled her mood; the more agitated
she was, the
more green
they became. When calm, they
turned almost blue with flecks of gold. The warm emotion appeared to go soul
deep. But had he really seen into her heart?

“My
lord?” Porter’s voice was breathless as if he had been the one doing the
cantering, not the horses. Donovan realized his horse was going at a fair clip.
He slowed to a trot. His thoughts of Isabeau had fired a need to return to her
side. To explore the contradictions that made up the lady.

“Yes,
Porter?”

“I
hesitate to speak out of turn but…”

“What
is it, man?”

“I
don’t wish to seem disloyal to the new master of Olivet, but I have some grave
concerns.”

“If
you think I haven’t noticed the state of the tenant cottages, be at ease. I
will make mention of the situation to Lord Simon. Workers who sicken in the
winter will be of little use to Lord Simon come planting and harvest. I will
make him see the long-term profit of caring for his people.”

“You
see the measure of the man, my lord,” Porter replied. “Please accept that I
mean no disrespect to either of you, but my greatest concern of late is Lady
Isabeau.”

Donovan
brought his animal to an abrupt halt. “Lady Isabeau?”

 “Aye,
my lord.” The man paled and perspiration began to bead on his upper lip. “Some
months back…” He swallowed and pushed his shoulders back before starting again.
His voice stronger this time, “Some months back, we were visited by Lord
Kirney. I know he is your man, but he does you no credit.

“He
took a fancy to Carl’s—one of the tenants—twelve-year-old daughter. Two of his
men snatched her from the field where she was minding younger brothers and
dragged her to the manor. He—he raped her again and again—through the night and
into the next. Some say that Lord Simon joined him, for they both jested of it.
Pardon, my lord, I must speak of this. With my own ears, I heard Kirney brag
that tearin’ virgins was the best of sports. He said nowadays he must hunt
further afield ‘
cause
they were becoming as rare as
unicorns.”

Rage
burned in Donovan’s gut. “And Lady Isabeau?” he demanded between clenched
teeth, “How does she play in your worries?  Was she part of…?”

“Nay,
my lord!” Porter shook his head vigorously. “If she had known Hannah was being
hurt she would have forged into the fray and ‘twouldn’t be the first time.”

“What
else?”

“I
heard the two lords bargaining over Lady Isabeau. Marriage was mentioned
but—but Lady Isabeau is a gentle lass. She’d not survive the likes of Lord
Kirney. I’d not like to see her broke like Hannah. She’s cared for all of
Olivet in spite of her brother’s tirades.”

Donovan
flicked the bridle and once more headed towards Olivet. “I comprehend your
meaning, Porter. Rest assured, I will see that Lady Isabeau is safely placed.
What of the young girl?”

For
a moment, only the thump of hooves on the well-worn path answered him. He
turned to the steward and read grief on the thin man’s face.

“She
lived, the poor mite. They say that, though her face weren’t touched, she was
tore up inside and out.”

Donavan
and Porter proceeded apace to the keep. In Donavan’s mind, superimposed on the
lovely countryside, was a picture of Isabeau’s perfect body atop that of a
remembered French woman. The unfortunate whore had been willing to sell her
wares but the bastards he and his men tracked had decided their gold was too
good for her. Their victim had been brutalized for days. They had stripped her
and lashed her to four trees. When the monsters were through, they robbed her
and left her to die.

When
Donovan’s patrol found her, little could be done but to wait for the end and
then bury her body. Though he had meted out swift and painful justice to the
guilty, there was little satisfaction. Justice had not stopped the woman’s pain
nor given her back her life.

Isabeau
would not meet with a similar end. Donavan had no qualms about supplying Kirney
with the same painful justice he had provided the French bandits. Would it be
necessary to deal with Lord Simon the same way?

The
return trip to the keep did not take long. He wanted to think, but also, he
must see to Isabeau’s immediate safety. Agitated, he threw the reins at the
stable boy and strode towards the manor’s side entrance. He saw Isabeau enter
the kitchen with her chin at its normal determined angle. She was still safe. Now
Donavan felt enough at ease to slow his pace and change direction. Where was
Simon d’Olivet?

Donovan
was on his way to the solar when a dark thought washed over him. He stopped in
mid-step.

What
of Simon’s wife?  What of the true lady of the manor?  Donovan had
yet to meet the woman. Was she, too, brutalized by her husband?  Were
bruises the reason she remained behind closed doors -- not problems birthing
babes?

Taking
care not to be seen, he soundlessly changed course and on the first floor took
the staircase leading to the mistress’s chamber. Would it be Lady d’Olivet’s
prison or her sanctuary?  As liege, Donovan had the obligation to find out
which.

He
heard a low sound coming from behind the wooden door and was thankful for his
stealth. He would know the truth, and the door was a pitiful barrier. He paused
to listen and determined the sound to be a woman’s painful whimpers.

“Please,
I’s beggin’ ya. Do’na make me do this. ‘Tis a ‘bomination agin’ God. I do’na
wanna go ta hell.” The sobs were interrupted by the sound of the blow of flesh
on flesh.

“Shut
up, you little bitch. Pay attention. You’ll be doing this to me and I’ll have
you doin’ it right.”

He
heard the words but could not recognize the husky voice who spoke them. “Things
will go bad for you if you don’t obey. Do you think your father will have you
in his dirt hutch if I turn you out of the manor?  You’ll be whorin’ for
your supper before the week is out and let me tell you, you’ll never get the
filth out of you once you start taking in the village rods.”

Donovan
tried the door and was surprised to find it latched but not barred. He knew it
went against the church to come between a man and his wife, but he would
somehow find a way to convince Olivet to go easier with his lady wife.

The
scene that greeted his eyes stunned him. For a moment, he was frozen in shock.
The tormentor continued unaware of the audience.

A
girl of no more than fifteen, stripped naked, was backed up against the tall
corner post of Lady d’Olivet’s bed. Her wrists, stretched over her head, bound
with bright scarlet silk were attached to a hook embedded in the oak. Her
blonde hair was askew over the matching velvet sash which covered her eyes. She
tried unsuccessfully to squirm away from the hand fondling her ample breast and
flinched when those cruel fingers tweaked her left nipple.

“Open.”
The demand accompanied the other hand jabbing a riding crop between the girl’s
legs and swatting her inner white thighs. “Open, I say, and be quick. I want a
taste of you before you bring me to pleasure.” The right hand lowered. “Do you
feel my fingers?”

“Stop!”
Donovan bellowed as he finally overcame his immobility.

The
woman kneeling on the scarlet silk cushion in front of the girl slowly turned
to face her intruder. “Ah, you must be the Earl of Bennington. Did you want her
first?  She’s still new to the play, but, I’m afraid, not that new. She’s
spread her legs already and is an innocent no longer.”

He
looked at the girl and saw the velvet about her eyes darkening with tears. Her
body shook. He had no doubts that if not for the support of the binding she
would have collapsed to the floor.

“Release
her.” Donovan demanded.

“But…”

“I
said, release her.” He voice was low and rough in his throat.

The
woman shrugged and stood. She was tall enough that even kneeling, she didn’t
have to extend her arm much to undo the bindings. The girl sagged to her knees
and tugged off the blindfold, smearing her tears down her ashen cheeks.

He
walked over to a pile of coarse woolen garments and tossed them to the girl.
“Get dressed and then get out of here.”

“Yes,
milord.” She nodded though hiccupping sobs and complied with amazing speed --
considering the number of times her fingers fumbled over the task. She kept
backing towards the door as she dressed but Donovan still caught a clear
glimpse of several welt marks on her back. Opting to finish the job on the
other side of the door, she bowed out, carrying her slippers and stockings.
“Thank you, milord.”

Donovan
waved the maid away and closed the door after her. Slowly, he turned to
confront the witch. “And you must be Syllba, the Lady d’Olivet.”

With
only a gold net to restrain her golden curls, Syllba was as naked as her
captive had been. She made no move to cover her body. She stood, and
straightened under his scrutiny and stretched her tall slender body taut. With
her shoulders back, she thrust her small breasts Donovan’s way. Her skin was
pearlescent white, but she appeared quite healthy. Her flesh was firm and gave
no hint of the softness one might expect from being stretched from several
pregnancies -- not matter how short the term. Not too helpless to complete her
duties as chatelaine.

 “You
should be thrashed.” On a dim level, Donovan was aware of the irony of his words.
He had come to prevent just such an action from her lord husband.

Her
dark gold brows rose over ice blue eyes. “Why?  What have I done that is
so evil?  I make myself available for my husband’s needs. I accept his
seed into my body, and I have welcomed no other man into my bed or into my
cunt. What are you going to do?  Tell my husband?  He knows that he
will never have cause to question any babes I present to him. I will birth no
bastards.”

“You
belong in Pomeroy. The monks are renowned for their willingness to beat the
devil out of madness—and women. The church condemns your behavior. Hell-fires
will keep you warm for eternity.”

The
woman’s full-bodied laugh shook her breasts and pinkened her cheeks. “You would
condemn me for having the same appetites as you wife?  Surely, you had
some tender feeling for your beleaguered bride?  Would you sentence her to
the fires of hell as well?  Even after she did her best to endure your
hungers?  To give you an heir?”

“Liar!”
Donovan raged against the poisonous implication. “You dare to speak such filth
of the Countess of Bennington.”

Syllba’s
only response was a sly laugh, this time sending a revolted shiver down his
back.

At
another time he might have ignored the insult, the defamation, but the need to
defend Marta became overwhelming. He could do this for her memory—for their
son. “My wife had the tender sensibilities of the finest bloodlines. To share
the bed of one not her husband would have been abhorrent to her. To commit such
acts as you?  To defile all of the church’s teaching?  She would
never…”