Captive Heart (46 page)

Celiese looked up at the stocky guard, barely aware of his insult. As her lips curled into a vicious smile, her green eyes glowed with so menacing a light that he backed away, certain she’d gone mad. Not wanting to incite a hysteria he might be unable to contain, he dashed through the still open door and after locking it hastily fled for the security of the guard room. Knowing he’d been a fool to taunt her, Jaret vowed to follow his orders to the letter and not make any attempt to speak with the lovely young woman ever again.

After that slight interruption disturbed her thoughts, time ceased to exist for Celiese. She saw neither the changing pattern of sunlight moving across the bare wooden floor nor the trays of food that appeared upon the table each evening. She had wrapped herself in the cloak of numbness that dulled all pain, as she had done years before to escape Raktor’s brutality. She was alive only in her mind, preferring to relive the time she’d spent alone with Mylan on his farm. During the days they’d found the challenge of the hunt exciting, for the game had always been plentiful and the nights had been filled with love’s most blissful expression, regardless of Mylan’s insisting that she was his slave and no more. Those memories brought a peace that soothed her ravaged heart as the troubled contemplation of her future never had. Her thoughts took on an absorbing rhythm, and she ceased to struggle against the bitter reality fate had presented and floated instead upon a bright cloud of remembered love. That brief happiness was all consuming, burning away the need for anything more.

At the week’s end, Marcela scurried through the door ahead of Jaret. She rushed to Celiese and knelt by her side. “My lady, come, it is time. You must come with me now.” Patting her hands, she found the pretty woman as cold as death, and seeing the uneaten food upon the table she turned to look up at the powerfully built guard. “Fool! The master wants this woman alive, not dead from the chill of this room or starvation! How long would you have continued to bring meals she did not eat before you had summoned someone with more sense than you possess!”

Understanding few of the Frenchwoman’s words, Jaret nonetheless found her critical tone and fierce expression easy to comprehend. It was plain his prisoner had suffered far more from her confinement than had been intended, but she had brought her troubles upon herself and he had no sympathy for her now.

Marcela persisted in her efforts to awaken Celiese, and at last she opened her eyes and regarded her two visitors with a curious glance. Yawning sleepily, she apologized, “I’m sorry, I must have dozed off, is it time for supper?”

“You have missed several, dear lady, but it is near dawn and we must hurry, as the duke will not be kept waiting,” Marcela warned sternly. She was overjoyed to find Celiese coherent at last, but they still had much to accomplish and little time.

When Celiese got unsteadily to her feet it was obvious she’d never be able to manage the stairs, and Jaret scooped her up into his arms, then nodded for the troublesome maid to precede them. “If she cannot walk I will carry her. Let us be gone.”

Startled to find herself in the obnoxious guard’s arms, Celiese had no choice but to lift her arms to encircle his neck. For all his strength, his touch was surprisingly light, but she was too tense to relax in his arms. The hallway was long and dark, followed by a narrow flight of stairs that led to still another gloomy passageway before they entered the corridor she recognized as the one where the room she’d shared with Mylan was located. He did not take her there, however, but to the room at the far end of the hall.

Once inside the opulently decorated bedchamber, Marcela gestured toward the bed while she poured a generous amount of wine into a silver goblet. “Please place her carefully upon the bed, and I will do my best to help her,” Once she was certain Celiese was comfortably seated, she lifted the wine to her lips. “Drink this, it will restore your strength.”

Celiese thought Marcela’s concern sincere but misplaced, and she took only a small sip of the rich red wine. “What is the cause for this sudden attention? Hrolf has kept me waiting for so long, why should I hurry to please him?”

Marcela set the goblet aside and gripped both of Celiese’s hands tightly. “You must not even think such a thing! There is no time for even the smallest delay!”

Celiese looked closely at the little woman, alarmed by the urgency in her voice. “Did Hrolf tell you why he wishes to see me at so early an hour?”

“His reason is unimportant, he is the duke and his order must be obeyed!” As if to emphasize her point, Marcela pulled Celiese off the high bed and pushed her toward a tub of steaming water. “I will help you bathe and dress, but there is no time to waste in conversation!”

Looking over her shoulder at Jaret, Celiese refused to move. “You must wait outside, as I’ve no wish to bathe in front of you.” The very idea disgusted her, and her expression clearly showed her mood.

“I do not trust either of you out of my sight. I will stand right here while you bathe, so be quick about it,” Jaret replied forcefully.

Realizing she was too weak and dizzy to argue any further, Celiese turned her back on the guard and slipped off her rumpled clothes, too grateful for the opportunity to bathe, to create a scene over his presence. She stepped into the tub and sank down into the warm water, lathering the bar of perfumed soap Marcela had provided. The bubbles were so soothing that she washed her hair twice before the diminutive maid brought a towel and insisted she climb out of the water immediately.

“I have your clothing laid out, the most beautiful gown ever fashioned, but you must put it on quickly, as we are late as it is.”

As Celiese patted herself dry she noticed that the Danish guard had gone to the door where he was speaking in hoarse whispers to another man who was apparently stationed in the hall. Hrolf certainly had her well guarded—but why, was an escape attempt expected? She whispered to Marcela in French in a voice too low to be overheard, “What is the truth, where am I being taken?”

As she helped Celiese don a lace-trimmed chemise of the softest silk, then an exquisitely embroidered brocade gown, Marcela responded softly, “The priest is waiting for you in the chapel. Then you are to be taken to the duke before the light of dawn fills the skies; those were his orders to me, and I know of no others.”

“The priest?” In her first week in Hrolf’s home she had not even met the man, and she could not imagine why he wished to see her now. Had he had some interest in her, why had he not come to the cell where she had been held to speak with her or to pray? “I do not understand why the priest wishes to see me.” Celiese fluffed out her damp curls with her fingertips, then stepped into the velvet slippers Marcela had placed at her feet.

“To hear your confession; I suppose.” Proud she had accomplished what had seemed the impossible, Marcel stood back to admire the beautifully groomed young woman.

Celiese gasped sharply, stunned that the smiling maid seemed to have no idea what she was saying. Prisoners were executed at dawn, and surely that was what her fate was to be after she’d been extended the courtesy of making her peace with God. She was being prepared for only one thing, for the most gruesome of deaths, but it was not a prospect to which she would submit meekly. “The priest is a Frenchman, is he not?”

“Of course, a most sympathetic man he is, too. Father Bernard is his name,” Marcela explained calmly.

Although she could scarcely think for the violent pounding of her heart, Celiese hoped only that the good priest had a back door to his chapel, or would offer sanctuary so she could escape the hangman’s noose or the executioner’s blade that she was certain Hrolf would swing himself. Sitting down upon the edge of the bed, she removed her right slipper, as if it were ill-fitting, in hopes of gaining a moment or two more to devise some plan. Clearly Marcela had no idea of what was to happen, but as she glanced around the pretty bedroom she saw no way to escape the guard, for other than the door to the hall at which he stood, there was no exit.

Thinking she had perhaps brought the wrong pair, Marcela knelt down to help Celiese with her slippers. “These seem to be perfect for you; Gisela has many but these were new and she said you might have them.”

“Is this room near hers? If so, I would like to speak to her, to thank her for her generosity.” Celiese smiled warmly, as if she were making only a small request. She had no idea what sort of relationship the princess had with her Danish husband, but she prayed it was a good one. If Gisela would take her side, then surely Hrolf would not execute her without further thought. Perhaps she would pay a ransom herself rather than let her countrywoman be put to death so unjustly.

Puzzled, Marcela shook her head. “No, Gisela’s room is in the other wing, but I am certain you will see her later; when you speak with the duke she will probably be there. Now come, we must hurry.” Taking Celiese’s elbow, she helped her from the bed and escorted her to the door.

Jaret tried to appear bored, but he’d found the lovely young woman’s slender body too erotic a sight to be ignored. Now he could hardly recall what his orders had been, but with a forced calm he took her arm and led her down the flight of stairs that were closest to the chapel. There was no sign of the priest, but he escorted his prisoner to the front pew and thinking she would like to be alone with her prayers went back to the door to stand guard.

Celiese clenched her fists tightly in her lap, trying only not to scream hysterically, but if the priest did not arrive in the next few seconds she knew she would lose the thin grip she still had upon her composure. Just as a shriek formed in her throat, the brown-robed priest slid into the pew beside her. His features were hidden by the shadows cast by his hood, but she cared little what his appearance might be as she begged him to help her. “Father Bernard, I have been told you are a good man, and I trust you are a fair one as well.” Giving him no opportunity to respond, she continued in a frantic whisper. The guard did not seem to understand French, but she wanted to take no chances on his overhearing her remarks. “Perhaps you have heard my name, I am Lady Celiese d’Loganville and I was raised on an estate not far from this city. When the Danes overran our home my father was murdered and I was taken prisoner and spent more than five years in the home of a villain every bit as despicable as the man who now calls himself Robert and resides here as the duke.” She hesitated no more than a moment, then plunged on with her tale, revealing the love she’d felt for Mylan from the moment they met. Swiftly she recounted their adventures, ending with the voyage that had brought her again to the shores of France. “I was a fool to challenge Hrolf so openly, I know that now, but my home means everything to me. He means to kill me in only a few moments time, I am certain he does, but is there not some way you can help me to escape him? If only you will help me leave this accursed house, I can make my way out of Rouen and go to Yvetot where I can join my mother at the convent of Saint Valery. I will stay there forever if I must, but I will not die like this, not when all I wished to accomplish is still left undone. Please say you will help me, for you are my only hope.”

As she reached out to take his hands, the man moved toward her, his hood slipping back upon his shoulders as he turned. She saw only the bright gleam of the candles glow upon his golden curls and the menacing shine of his amber gaze, and she knew Mylan had betrayed her trust again, and this time most cruelly. All hope of saving herself gone, she could not catch her breath, and with a small strangled sigh she fainted in a languid heap, falling into his outstretched arms.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Having no idea what Celiese’s long frantic speech was even about, Mylan was completely bewildered when she collapsed in his arms. He sat for a moment, simply holding her tenderly in his embrace while he tried to decide what was the most logical course of action. Realizing he could accomplish nothing until he revived her, he promptly turned his attention to that task first. When gentle coaxing had no effect he picked her up in his arms, carried her back to the sacristy, and laid her upon the priest’s small red velvet couch. He lit two more candles from the small one that had been burning upon the chest containing the vestments, then stood looking down at the unconscious beauty with a bemused stare. It had been a week since he’d seen her, the longest seven days of his life, and as his perceptive gaze swept her delicate features he was surprised by the change in her appearance. She had been slender, but now she was thin, her high cheekbones clearly evident beneath her translucent skin. Her long, thick lashes seemed too heavy for her fragile eyelids to support, and he knelt down to brush her pale lips with a light kiss, hoping she would awaken and be pleased to see him this time, but she did not stir, and he knew he would have to find a more effective method. After a brief search, Mylan found a flagon of wine he was certain had not been blessed for use in the Mass that was soon to be said, and he poured a small amount into a cup for Celiese. Kneeling by her side, he propped her head upon his arm, brought the stimulating drink to her lips, and forced her to take several sips. “There, now open your eyes, you have nothing to fear from me.” Rising to his feet again, he placed the cup upon the chest, pulled the monk’s robe off over his head, and replaced it upon the peg where it belonged.

Celiese opened her eyes slowly, uncertain what to expect from Mylan now. He was dressed in the most splendid of apparel, looking very much like the favorite of the duke that he clearly was. His
bliaud,
or tunic, was a deep blue wool with embroidered borders of silver silk at the neck, sleeves, and hem, girded by a jeweled belt. He wore dark blue
chausses,
gartered with silken ribbons woven of the same precious thread that decorated his tunic. His black leather boots were new, as well. The fit of his clothing was superb, it had obviously been tailored for his sleek build rather than being merely borrowed. It was only his blond hair and light eyes that made him look less than the French nobleman he appeared to be at first glance.