Betrothed (6 page)

“Ah,”
Syllba interrupted with a pitying shake of her blonde head. “My lord, your
countess enjoyed a woman’s bed. She reveled in the shared passions of women. We
spent countless hours playing with each other’s bodies. Many a time she sang
out her pleasures as I brought her to the peak of ecstasy.”

“No!”

“And
then, in return, still trembling from her excitement, she would put her
hands—her mouth—on my body and work me to raptures.” Syllba threw out her chin,
her eyes narrowed in memories. Her empty hand stroked her throat, trailed down
between her naked breasts and squeezed her peaked nipple.

“Stop.
You must have bewitched her into such depravity!”

“Marta
was not only an apt pupil in the arts but so, so eager. Why, she was willing to
travel two grueling days to share my bed.”

“I
don’t believe you.” He took a forbidding step forward but the madwoman seemed
not to fear him. She only lowered her hand to the gold curls covering her mound.

“She
had three little moles forming a triangle just below her left breast and that
intriguing little pattern was mirrored right here in the inside of her thigh.”
Syllba’s ice blue eyes opened to stare at him, to taunt him. “She loved my
mouth on them. I found the tiny markings fascinating. Didn’t you?”  

Donovan’s
stomach clinched. His hands balled. He wanted to take the scrawny neck in front
of him and twist. Isabeau’s innocent comments from this morning came back and
hit him in the gut. He remembered them well. Isabeau had spent many an hour
with Christian while his countess wiled away endless time in this very room.

Syllba
had
been his wife’s lover.

Who
had they lashed to the bed?  Had they taken turns or had they forced
another innocent to partake in their vile sport?

Donavan
had to be free of the room’s cloying perfume. All these years…  How could
he have been such a fool?  But suddenly these revelations, as wretched as
they were, explained so much.

“You
will attend to all of your duties this evening,” he ordered coldly.

Jesu! 
His honor hung in tatters. He needed to think. He burned to defend it. Were it
a man, he would issue his challenge. He had to have retribution. Marta wasn’t
here to pay for her part in the duplicity, but her lover was. This day he would
bring his vengeance down upon Marta’s lover.
     

Although not expecting to see his lordship before the
evening meal, Isabeau was aware the instant he returned to the bailey. When
next she glimpsed him, he had reclaimed his mount and ridden out as if the
devil himself held burning embers to his heels.

Had
he and Porter found something terrible during the inspection?  Shame
weighted her heart like a millstone. Olivet had changed since her father’s
time.

At
breakfast, all had appeared well. But she had reminded him of his grief. Had he
brooded over the memories she kindled?  Had she caused his black
mood?  Had she angered him so he would tell Simon all, as punishment for
her boldness? 

She
had only thought to share pleasant memories of the earl’s wife and child.
Instead, she might have opened an abyss of loss. The man had so many visible
scars; proof that some wounds were slow to heal. What of the ones unseen? How
could she mend the tear in his soul?  Why did she want to?

“Milady?
Milady?”

Isabeau
let go of her musings and turned to Marley. “Is there a problem in the
kitchen?”

“Oh
nay, milady.” The woman practically shook with anticipation. “I was just
wonderin’ if my lord would be returnin’ at the regular time or should we put back
the evenin’ meal?”

Isabeau
shook her head. “I will check with one of his lieutenants. Until we know, let
us just plan to begin serving at the regular time. I will make sure his
lordship does not go hungry. Remember what Papa always said. ‘A full belly leads
to happiness in the field or at the hearth.’ ”

“Aye,
milady.” Marley smiled with nostalgia. “Lord Charles was a right one with the
sayins. He once told me, ‘A saint was not but a sinner who had not been
caught.’  ‘Course that was right after he had nipped a pie coolin’ on the
sill for his supper that night.”

Isabeau
produced a slight smile. After all of these months, Marley had spoken so
casually of Isabeau’s father, it was apparent she had forgotten Simon’s decree.
He was the existing and
only
Lord d’Olivet. Her smile drooped with the
reminder of her half-brother. “Have you seen Lord Simon at all?”

“Lord
Simon never visits the kitchens, as you know.” Marley gave her a pleased smile.
Simon’s absences were welcomed by all.

 “I
will confer with the earl’s man. You continue with the preparations as usual.
This is our liege. We must do ourselves proud,” Isabeau instructed absently.
     

She
searched for Carstairs and a few answers. He and several men from both
Bennington and Olivet had formed a circle in the outer bailey around two men
engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Her first instinct was to put a stop to the
battle but she quickly realized it was a friendly match. The spectators made
varied wagers ranging from chores to pieces of gold.

Noticing
Donovan’s horse—his reins held by an eager stable-boy--Isabeau searched the
undulating ring for the earl and failed to pick him out of the crowd. Her gaze
returned to the combatants as cheers rose for the victor. Just before the
circle surged towards the winner with enthusiastic congratulations, she caught
the glint of the sun on onyx black hair. Disheveled and sweating, the earl took
the accolades with accustomed calm. He was gracious in his triumph—all the
while assuring his defeated opponent of his skill.

Before
being swallowed by the surging swarm of bodies, he chose that single moment to
look up. Isabeau found herself caught in the swirling depths of his dark eyes.

She
sucked in a breath, nearly choking on air, as their gazes locked.

Wordlessly,
she backed away from the crowd and practically ran back to the safety of the
bustling kitchens.

Donovan
stretched his tested muscles and then began to brush some of the dust from his tunic
before searching out Porter once more. He needed more information from the man.
When he ran from Syllba’s chambers like a child running from a bogie, he wanted
only to put as much distance as possible between himself and the fetid bitch.
That a woman had sent him running—even for a second—shamed him to the core.

His
horse, still saddled, was a handy escape but, he hadn’t gotten far. Carstairs
had been in the process of putting the Olivet men through their paces—testing
their mettle—as a unit, as a man. Donovan had reined in his flight, slid from
Nemesis and joined in the fray.

Fighting
with the men went a long way towards fighting his demons.

But
it wasn’t enough.

Her
vile verbal poison could do him no harm. Marta rested in her grave. The only
one who would have been hurt—other than Marta—was her son. He had preceded her
in death by several weeks. Christian had been spared the knowledge of his
mother’s depravity.

Syllba
would not profit should she repeat her noxious tale. Simon’s wife would be
vilified. Her own people would turn on her and her lord. Her chambers would no
longer be her serpent’s nest but her prison.

He
clenched his teeth. He had come close to making it her tomb. Never before had
he wanted to kill—had such a blood-thirst—for a woman. She reveled in her
taunts, proud of her conquest.

Marta
was no longer here to accept her due, but what would he have done if she still
lived?  Would he have denounced her?  Sent her back to her family in
disgrace?  Exposed her perversities to the church?

When
all was said and done, Marta had been his wife, his countess—the mother of his
son.   

Mayhap
fate had given him a blessing in not forcing him to make such a decision.

But
that still left today.

It
left him to with deal with Syllba.

And
where the devil was the lord of manor?

What
part did Simon d’Olivet play in this madness?  Did he know of his wife’s
proclivities?  Did he condone them?

What
of Lady Isabeau?  What did she know?  She had tried to run away. Was
she as innocent as she appeared?  Had he erred in forcing her
return? 

He
wished Warren would hurry back with Malak. The lad had a talent for seeing more
than expected. Perhaps he had seen or heard something during his stay before
moving on to Montrose. People often said more than they should in front of him,
which was strange considering how much the boy talked himself.

Donovan
found Porter in a storeroom taking inventory of goods on hand and those needed.

“Porter.”
His dry throat surprised Donovan. Just the dust from the battlefield.

“Aye,
my lord?” Porter lowered his wax tablet and stylus as he whipped around to
address his liege.

“Porter,
we have some matters to discuss. The two of us will retire to the Baron’s
counting room with a couple of mugs of the fresh ale and talk. I would prefer it
done with the master of the house but he seems to be as rare as the sun shining
at a December matins. For the sake of the people of Olivet, you will be frank.”

The
man straightened to his full height. “Aye, my lord.”

Their
discussion was short, not too sweet and very fruitful. Although Porter had
answered Donovan’s questions, the answers had raised many more questions.
Simon’s portrait, blurred around the edges, began to clear. The baron was
greedy, lazy, and venal. For some unknown reason, Simon harbored a fierce
hatred for his father which had festered over the years. The man had none of
the honor or pride of his sire.

By
the time Donovan had as much information as he could stomach, the bells sounded
for the evening meal. He straightened his appearance with the assistance of his
squire before going down to the great hall.

As
he descended the staircase, he watched Isabeau’s well-trained servers. He saw
their expertise – she had little to do. Was she fearful that one of these
servants would displease him? He hoped he had not caused her such distress.

As
he mused about this, a tall blond man in expensive garb crossed the hall to sit
in the master’s chair. The conversations of Olivet’s people dwindled to
silence. Lord Simon’s arrogance was evident in the set of his shoulders, the
wave of his hands. He sat at the head of the table giving no appearance of
noticing the presence of the earl. Donovan disliked him straight away. What was
he going to do with the man?

The
earl crossed to the grand table. Simon arose slowly from the chair and made a
grandiose gesture of acknowledgement, but the pointed delay in the homage paid
to his liege rendered it a mockery. Resentment lit a dull fire in Simon’s pale
blue eyes. Donavan revised his earlier estimate of the man as he approached
Simon. He had the pride of his pere but it had warped to an imperious conceit
that sought only his own aggrandizement.

 “Olivet.”
Donovan nodded curtly as he sat in Simon’s throne.
“ ’Tis
good that we finally meet. I was beginning to wonder if you were naught but the
phantom of Olivet Manor; as insubstantial as a wisp of smoke.”

“Did
you?” Simon showed all of his teeth with his smile. “I assure you, I am quite
solid. Ask any of my people.”

Donovan
carelessly shrugged one shoulder. “Oh, I have. Most illuminating.” He rather
enjoyed watching as Simon’s smile tightened. “Do sit, Olivet. The meal is about
to be served. I did expect to see your—lady wife by this time.”

Before
Simon could reply, Donovan turned away, a direct insult to his host. “Lady
Isabeau.”

At
the sound of her name, she froze and Donovan wondered again at her tension. Was
she so afraid of him? Then she turned from her task and he glimpsed a shimmer
of quickly hidden alarm in her hazel eyes. Was it directed at him? How had he
instilled such great fear in her? Then he remembered his assertion the he would
not indefinitely conceal her attempted flight from the manor.

 “Lady
Isabeau,” he repeated gruffly as their gazes met. “Take your place at our
trencher.”

She
had taken but two steps before she glanced to his left and stumbled. Shifting
his own gaze over his shoulder, for an instant he saw the same malevolence in
Simon’s eyes that he’d seen in Syllba. The tense silence in the hall. Isabeau’s
trepidation. Was the atmosphere here due to himself or Simon? Then he recalled
Porter’s gruesome tale about the young girl raped by Kirney – and perhaps by
Simon – and unwelcome suspicion – perhaps by Syllba. It smacked him that Simon
ruled with deliberate cruelty, not mere lazy neglect.

Isabeau
hesitated and Donovan stood to hold out a beckoning hand. “Isabeau.”

She
visibly straightened and made her way to the chair beside Donovan. Her courage
and her delicacy enthralled Donovan and awakened long-dormant emotions in his
chest.

As
Isabeau settled into her chair and he sat in the throne once again, the voices
of Olivet began to take on a pleased hum. The sound didn’t compare with
boisterousness of the morning’s meal but Donovan noticed the noise infuriated
Simon. With a wave of his hand he signaled the nearby attendant to fill the
goblets with wine.

Donovan
made a small salute to Isabeau before lifting the goblet to his lips. The wine
tasted bitter and he took only a tiny sip rather than a gusty gulp. He wondered
briefly if the wine was of such poor quality or if he found the taste a
reflection of his opinion of the lord and lady of the manor.

Another
hush settled over the hall. Donovan heard the sibilant rustle of skirts. The
fine hairs lifted on the back of his neck. He forced his eyes away from the
pleasant sight of Isabeau’s sweet face with troubled eyes and looked towards
the disturbance.

Isabeau
also turned towards the grand stair and froze.

“Syllba.”
Isabeau gasped whisper an astonishment whisper.
“ ’Tis
the first time she has ever descended to the hall.”

Donovan
raised his eyebrows. “Ever?” His low undertone matched hers.

“Ever.”
Isabeau nodded. “Not since she and Simon left her father’s manor when my father
became ill.”

They
weren’t the only ones to watch the lady of the manor as she paused on the third
from the bottom stair, surveyed the hall and then began the smooth glide to the
main table.

“She
is so -- so elegant. She seems to float across the floor. She would never
stumble or tip over a vessel of wine. I feel like a coltish dolt in
comparison.” Isabeau sighed.

Donovan
snorted and commented in a voice for her ears only. “Even the slither of a
snake on the ground holds a degree of grace.”

He
could feel Isabeau’s surprise as she turned away from her sister-in-law.
Donovan studied Syllba. The tall woman’s gestures gave an air of fragility he
knew was false. Her cold blue eyes and smile lent a smugness which boded ill
for those in her sphere. When her gaze rested first on Donovan and then
Isabeau, he knew he had to do something to get the young woman out of harm’s
way.

That
bitch would harm no one else.

When
he had returned home to Bennington after months on the battlefield, discovering
the deaths of his wife and son, he had thought only to escape the condolences
of his people. He had devised the plan to inspect all of his holdings as a
valid excuse not to remain within the walls, much has he had welcomed the
battlefield for the same reason while Marta lived.

The
trip should not have been complicated; leisurely visits while meeting with his
knights and barons, conducting inspections, perhaps implementing a few training
programs and farming techniques to bring prosperity to all of his people.

How
had things gone so wrong?

He
continued to watch Syllba’s slow progress. She had an audience and she played
to it. How many of the Olivet people were seeing their mistress for the first
time?  Her golden hair was drawn up in a stylish gold wimple fashioned into
two cones. Donovan thought Syllba’s headgear resembled a Billy goat, or—the
devil. Most appropriate. Her face was blatantly painted with rouge and white
powder.

She
did look elegant in her close fitting gown, the blue of a robin’s egg. The
drape revealed no evidence of the babes she had failed to deliver. He doubted
her fecundity. Nothing could grow in her.

“Ah,
Lady Olivet.” Donovan greeted her with no real welcome as he continued his
scrutiny. “I had expected you to join us before this. However, it is obvious
the manor can function without your guidance. You look quite fit and your
adornments are without compare.”

She
nodded graciously as she sat beside her husband, completely ignoring the hint
of censure. Her jewels glittered under the candlelight of the chandeliers. She
wore a fine gold and sapphire choker with matching broach that complimented the
blue of her under-dress. A pearl and gold link chain trimmed her girdle.

Donovan
discretely inspected the gem encrusted crucifix dangling from her waist. He had
seen the beautiful piece years before and had read the detailed description of
it more recently.

He
turned back to Isabeau to gain her reaction and found her floundering under the
study of an older serving woman. Isabeau’s delicate complexion paled even
further as she gave an almost indiscernible shake of her head and then reached
for her goblet. Her shaking fingers bumped the vessel. If not for Donovan’s
quick reflex, she would have been trying to mop up a puddle of the bitter brew.

He
picked up a morsel of meat on his knife and offered it to Isabeau. She
nervously accepted. The pink color that warmed her cheeks pleased him. After
her tremulous smile of thanks, he found it easy to engage her in meaningless
chatter which made the meal speed by. His total absorption with Lady Isabeau
equated to an outright snub of his host and hostess but he would be the last
person to cater to their sensibilities.

Donovan
heard Isabeau’s sigh of relief when the tables were cleared of the main
courses. The assortment of dried fruits and honeyed-nuts signaled the end of
the long meal and he still had yet to determine his course of action.

Simon
stood to leave the table before his guest and liege—a breech of good
manners—but nudged a pewter bowl of nuts towards Donovan in an expected
overture. “You must try these sweets. Isabeau turns quite a talented hand at
them. They were a favorite of your boy.”

Isabeau
sucked in her breath and Donovan saw all color leave her face.

“What
is it, my lady?” he asked quietly.

She
turned the fathoms of her green gaze in his direction. “I beg your forgiveness,
my lord. I don’t know what to say. That he should pour salt into the wound I
opened this morn?”

He
felt his left eyebrow elevate. “What wound?”

“The
reminder of your losses. I meant no harm when I spoke of Christian over our
morning bread.” Her fingers fluttered on his forearm before she tucked both
hands primly in her lap.