My Heart Belongs to You (Medieval Romance Trilogy Book 3) (12 page)

And yet, he wanted so much more. If he compelled her, he would never win her trust. He wanted her willing and pliant in his arms. He yearned for her respect, if not her affection. For that reason alone, he’d offered her a choice. He just hoped he could live with the consequences.

Sunlight no longer blazed through the windows set high in the stone walls. He knew a haze of pink, orange and red filled the sky over the rolling hills, glinting off the river. Evening was upon them. In the morning, he had little doubt Lord Marshal’s army would arrive. Without wedding Ysabelle, Nicholas would have no legal claim to Sutcliffe. Without their marriage, it was only a matter of time before her people abandoned him. Sutcliffe would be forfeit.

He would be defeated and killed.

Staring at the large gold crucifix hanging at the priest’s waist, a wrench of sadness deepened in Nicholas’s soul. It wasn’t that he feared death. But the thought of never holding Ysabelle’s hand as he walked with her along the hills made his heart ache. She would never call his name in passion, nor would they laugh together as they watched their children take their first steps, or share gifts at Christmastide. They wouldn’t watch the seasons turn into years as they grew older and wiser together. The future held nothing for Nicholas but bleak and barren emptiness.

He would remain a husk of a man, good only for war and slaughter. No laughter and no warmth.

No soul.

There was a shifting amid the guards. Lifting his gaze, Nicholas saw them gesturing and whispering among themselves as they stared at the doorway leading up to Ysabelle’s chamber. Ada stood there, her chin raised high, her wrinkled face ashen, her eyes narrowed with disapproval.

The old bat.

She approached the high table and Nicholas tensed, wondering what news she might bring. It couldn’t be good.

“My lord,” she curtsied but her eyes held a hint of mockery. “My lady sends her apologies, but she cannot attend you now.”

The sting of rejection bit hard but Nicholas disciplined his emotions. His face remained passive as his pain turned to cold, hard anger. “Is she prepared for the consequences of her choice?”

Ada’s mouth dropped open and Alex leaned closer, a movement Nicholas knew was meant to calm him. But it didn’t. Not one bit.

Indeed, Alex seemed to be the only person able to sense what Nicholas was feeling. It was an uncanny ability that irritated Nicholas.

“Lady Ysabelle is occupied elsewhere. Her absence is not her fault.”

He snorted. “And what excuse did she give?”

Ada’s eyes widened and he tried not to glower. It seemed futile. Her mouth puckered. He was not in the mood to console the irritable woman. He didn’t care at all that she disliked him. But right now, he wanted to smash something.

“She received word the child Sara had been trampled by a horse,” Ada said. “Lady Ysabelle has gone to tend the girl. You see, she is the only skilled healer we have here at Sutcliffe. She has always had a kind heart and learned the healing properties of herbs so she might be of use to her people.”

Nicholas tensed. “Where has she gone?”

Shifting nervously, Ada stuttered an inarticulate reply.

Nicholas paused, conscious of Alex listening intently by his side. “The child is inside the castle?”

“No, my lord. She lives with her Uncle Madoc in a cottage deep in the forest.”

Cold dread gripped Nicholas. “Lady Ysabelle has left the castle?”

“Yes, she left some time ago, when Madoc’s son came to bring her the news.”

Nicholas’s eyes widened. “When was this? I saw no one go up or down the stairs.”

“You are mistaken, my lord. I myself took her the news and she went with haste.”

Nicholas felt the blood drain from his face. He sprang to his feet and bolted toward the door. Alex scrambled after him, racing down the narrow steps leading to the bailey. Nicholas startled the guards as he grabbed at the first available horse. Swinging onto the gelding’s back, he asked for instructions to locate Madoc’s hut.

“Gather the men,” he called to Alex.

Nicholas thumped his heels against the nag’s sides and galloped over the drawbridge and past the River Tweed. As he raced through the open fields toward the forest of trees, one thought branded his mind.

He must find Ysabelle.

The rhythmic movement of the horse beneath him did little to soothe his mind. Surely Ysabelle would not set a trap for him. He must trust Lord Maston who had told him Ysabelle was honest and loyal, a gentle and compassionate woman who despised death and war.

She had no cause to be loyal to him. And he was angry at how easily she’d left the castle. She might even try to run away again, though he had no idea where she might go.

Bah! She would never abandon her people at such a crucial time. Instinctively, he knew she would stay and fight. But what had she been thinking to leave the safety of the keep? And how had she gotten past his men?

As Nicholas kicked his mount, he swore beneath his breath. Had she gone to seek out Lord Marshal? The man would merely return her to her king and another forced marriage.

Nicholas guided the horse into the shadowed darkness of the woods. He ducked his head out of the way of hanging branches as he sought a glimpse of the cottage.

Something rustled in the bushes. He turned as a heavy weight slammed into his back. He felt himself falling. The ground slammed up to meet him. Experienced in attack, he rolled across the leaf-covered ground and came quickly to his feet, braced for battle. A peasant dressed in coarse woolen garments stood crouched before him, brandishing a sharp knife.

Rather thin and frail, the man didn’t look intimidating. Nicholas unsheathed his sword and held it up, admiring the thin gleam of sunlight on the burnished steel. “My sword against your knife. Are you possessed of any wits whatsoever?”

He glanced at the woods behind the peasant where a small lad peeked out from behind a tree, then cleverly disappeared. At least one of the assailants wished to remain alive.

The peasant’s lips curled in a snarl. Then, he flinched and horror filled his eyes. He dropped the knife and bowed his head.

“Lord Nicholas,” the man choked with surprise. “Forgive me. I didn’t know it was you. I thought perhaps the English had arrived.”

Looking about, Nicholas scowled. “Where is Lady Ysabelle?”

The boy came out from behind the trees, his forehead furrowed with concern as he drew closer to his father’s leg. The man lifted his arm and pointed to a thin trail leading deeper into the woods. “She is there, my lord.”

It would be difficult for Nicholas to ride the gelding through the dense underbrush. Instead, he slid off the horse. “See to my mount.”

Cautious of a trap, Nicholas lifted one arm to push aside the heavy branches as he hurried down the path. The boy dodged in front of him and Nicholas barely stopped in time before he plowed over the top of the child.

“What are you about? Would you kill yourself?” Nicholas barked as he stumbled in an effort to avoid collision.

The boy’s cheeks reddened, his eyes filling with tears. He faced Nicholas bravely, his little chin quivering. “You won’t hurt Lady Ysabelle, will you, my lord? She’s gentle and kind and can’t protect herself from you.”

Even this child sought to defend her. Looking down, Nicholas saw the boy’s small face contorted in an expression of dread. It took great courage for a mere peasant child to challenge the fierce Scots Ram. Other lords would kill the boy for daring so much. But Nicholas respected courage.

“Be at ease,” Nicholas assured the lad. He couldn’t fight off a grim smile. Ysabelle would surely feel no pain once he throttled her senseless.

The boy stepped aside.

For several minutes, Nicholas moved through the birch trees, until they gave way to a small clearing. A crude hut stood in the center of the glade, a thin stream of smoke rising from a single chimney in the thatched roof. He caught the bitter scent of wood smoke.

Night was coming on, black and thick. Vague light penetrated the heavy shroud of clouds overhead. Nicholas glanced about at the rough dwelling. A tree stump with an ax imbedded in the top rested in the middle of the clearing. Several cords of firewood had been stacked to one side, waiting for carts to haul it away.

A piercing scream filled the air. Without hesitation, Nicholas barreled through the rickety door of the hut.

Chapter Seven

The door to the hut banged open and fell of its rawhide hinges. Ysabelle whirled about in surprise. The door landed on the hard packed floor with a loud thump. A cloud of dust filled the air. Nicholas stood in the threshold, his eyes hard, his expression lethal.

So, he’d found her. Not surprising. When she’d snuck out of the castle, she’d known it would be just a matter of time. Somehow, she no longer feared his anger. She was beginning to understand him. It had been the same with her father. Though fierce in battle and quick to deal justice, Maston’s blustering wrath aimed at her had merely been a show to hide his soft emotion when he’d been worried about her. And Nicholas was very much like Lord Maston, in looks as well as actions. Perhaps that was why her father had betrothed her to the Scots Ram.

With a sigh of dismay, Ysabelle decided to treat Nicholas’s wrath as she would have done her father.

She ignored it.

Turning, she continued to sprinkle dried herbs into a crockery dish. She poured boiling water into the mixture and set it aside to steep. A heavy aroma filled the room, thick and pungent.

“Please replace the door with haste. The draft is not good for the child.” Ysabelle spoke without turning around.

She heard Nicholas lift the door back into place before he drew near. He peered over her shoulder at the little girl of no more than three years lying on a pallet in a dark corner of the room. The child wore only enough clothing for modesty’s sake. Her eyes were closed. Covered with cuts and scrapes, her small body was badly bruised and broken. Ysabelle had wrapped her right arm in a splint.

“What happened?” Nicholas asked.

“She ran in front of a horse and was trampled. Her arm is broken and I fear she is seriously injured in the head. Though she cries, she has not regained consciousness. I have just finished setting her arm.”

Nicholas grunted. “And where is her mother?”

“She died last winter.”

“And her father?”

Dipping a clean rag into a basin of tepid water, Ysabelle wrung it out and began to gently wipe Sara’s face. She pushed lank tendrils of blond hair away from the child’s pale cheeks.

“Sara is a bastard.” Ysabelle’s voice wobbled as she spoke. “She lives here with her cousin and uncle, the woodcutter. No one knows who her father is.”

Glancing up, Ysabelle saw Nicholas’s brow darken, his eyes filled with sympathy.

“You’re frowning again,” she remarked. “It’ll mar your face and make you an old man before your time.”

The heat of the fire fanned her face. She wiped her damp hands on the plain apron she wore. Still dressed in her black linen dress, she rolled up the long sleeves and loosened the neckline.

“Did you plan to run away again?” he asked.

She blinked. Dare she confess she had deliberately waited inside her chamber, testing his word, wondering when he might break down her door and drag her to the chapel? Running away had been a tempting notion, but she had nowhere to go. No matter what, she could never abandon Sutcliffe. She couldn’t leave, even to save herself.

“I won’t run away,” she said.

A flicker of doubt passed his brow. She half-expected him to threaten her and lock her up in the future. Instead, his next words surprised her. “It is a most inopportune time for you to be here, my lady. For your safety, we must return to the keep.”

“Sara will die if I leave her now.”

“We’ll take her to Sutcliffe and you may tend her there.”

His consideration touched her like nothing else could.

Nicholas moved to pick up Sara, but Ysabelle interceded. “She mustn’t be moved now. It could do her more harm.”

“If the king’s army arrives, they could kill her. They won’t be happy with your people for defying the king’s will. It’ll only take a few moments to move Sara to the keep and then I’ll leave you to care for the child to your heart’s content.”

She studied him, wondering if this was a ruse to win her

acquiescence. “You would postpone your own plans and allow me to care for Sara instead?”

Ah, he didn’t like that. He heaved a sigh of impatience. It was another test, though she hadn’t planned it. To see if he would sacrifice the child in order to reach his own selfish goals.

If he did, she would never, ever agree to wed him.

“Our marriage can wait until the morrow,” he conceded. “The girl will be moved now, and you both will return to Sutcliffe where you’ll be safe.”

A nervous tick pulsed at his temple. Though he’d agreed, she knew he feared the consequences of delaying their marriage. But his agreement won her respect.

“All right, Nicholas. We’ll return to the keep.”

He flinched and she realized it was the first time she’d spoken his name. Stooping so he wouldn’t strike his head on the low ceiling, he stepped back to let her pass. Gathering her basket of herbs, she bundled up Sara. When she would have picked up the child, Nicholas brushed her hands aside and lifted the child as easily as a fluff of wool. He cradled the girl, holding her battered body against his chest. When he lifted a hand to brush the blond curls away from Sara’s brow, Ysabelle noticed his eyes crinkled with concern, his mouth curved with compassion.

“I don’t think you’re as cruel as you would have everyone believe,” Ysabelle remarked.

He frowned. “Who did this to her?”

As she led the way outside, Ysabelle shrugged. “It was an accident and the man feels terrible for the deed. Sara ran in front of him and he couldn’t stop his horses in time. It was no one’s fault.”

Nicholas’s brows darkened as he looked at her face. She could tell he didn’t like her evasion, but she wasn’t about to tell him that one of his own men had done the deed as he’d hurried about his task of taking a wagon filled with grain inside the castle walls to prepare for siege. The man had already been to the woodman’s hut several times within the last two hours to check on the girl. Each time, his face had been pale, his eyes filled with guilt as he asked if Sara would live. It hadn’t been his fault that Sara was playing along the side of the road and darted into his path.