Authors: Rexanne Becnel
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General, #Medieval
The Maiden Bride (28 page)
“I asked her,” Axton bit out. “Can you not speak for yourself?” he taunted the trembling girl. He held her terrified gaze with the force of his stare and took a stark satisfaction when her eyes misted with tears. “Have you no voice of your own?” he persisted.
“Who … whomsoever I am wed to,” she said in a thin, faltering voice. “I shall endeavor to be a worthy wife to.”
At least she did not weep, Axton thought. Still, if he’d pressed Linnea for the same answer, there would have been both challenge and warning in her answer, though the words themselves be exactly the same as her sister’s.
“You are not like your sister.”
Now why had he said that? She blinked at what must have seemed a very odd observation on his part, for the likeness they shared was uncanny. And yet there was something …
For a moment he thought to press the issue, to push it further and discover precisely what the differences between them were. But he stopped himself before he could begin. It was not the differences between them that mattered—save that this wench not be so devious as her sister. No, it was their similarities.
With an abrupt motion he drew her to her feet. In the background the old woman objected, demanding that he unhand her, threatening him with every manner of punishment. But her shrill complaints were no more than an annoyance grating like the threatening roll of thunder that could do no real harm.
Axton held Beatrix before him, her arms small in his hands, her body as easy to overpower as ever her sister’s had been.
But she was not her sister. Something he could not name—she was softer, not as strong; she smelled different; she gave off a different level of heat. Whatever it was, the difference was there.
“By God’s bones!” he swore. Then he let out a low growl of frustration, hauled her up to him, and kissed her.
He was not easy with her. He devoured her mouth and forced his tongue in. He tasted her with the ferocity of a man who could take whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it.
Only when he tasted the salt of her tears did he finally thrust her away.
“Baseborn brute! Spineless cur! Villain!” the old woman shrieked. She struck out at him with her stick, but the blow was as ineffectual as her curses. Axton stared at the girl, at her sobbing form, clutched now in her grandmother’s skinny embrace.
That he was almost as despairing as she, he quashed with brutal determination. He could take her, yes. And tomorrow, once he’d felled that fool de Montfort, he would take her. Henry would have to concede then that both woman and castle were rightfully his.
Fists clenched, he turned and strode from the hall. But he was acutely conscious of the weeping girl and the shrill old woman behind him. Once in the darkened yard he was beyond hearing them. But he could not so easily escape his thoughts.
The feel of her was all wrong. But he would grow accustomed to it, he told himself. He would learn to rouse to the touch of her. She was not so different from her sister as all that. Besides, one woman was much the same as the next. He’d thought so all his life. No reason to believe otherwise now.
But even as he told himself that, he knew still that he must find Linnea. He must find her now and decide what to do with her before the morrow came.
And before Henry found her first.
L
innea slipped from shadow to shadow. Thank God and all the saints that it was a moonless night. As it was, her heart thundered so violently she feared anyone might hear it and thereby detect her presence.
innea slipped from shadow to shadow. Thank God and all the saints that it was a moonless night. As it was, her heart thundered so violently she feared anyone might hear it and thereby detect her presence.
A voice drifted down from the ramparts; a step sounded just beyond the stable. Duke Henry’s men were everywhere, as were Axton’s. Eustace de Montfort’s entourage had been forced to camp beyond the moat. But that only increased the feeling of an armed camp ready to erupt. As much as she already despised Henry Plantagenet, she nonetheless prayed he could maintain peace on the morrow.
Meanwhile, however, she must cope with tonight, and manage somehow to avoid Henry and yet find Beatrix. She had no doubts about the young duke’s intentions toward her, but even the threat of landing in his bed could not overcome her need to be with her sister.
How long would Beatrix be detained in the hall?
The wait seemed interminable, though in truth it was not so very long. The watchman nearest her whistled a broken tune only three times through. He spoke briefly to another man and they shared a crude laugh at the expense of some woman they referred to as Creamy. Then he began again to whistle.
On the fourth verse Axton stormed down the steps and into the yard.
He paused as if to get his bearings, and with an impatient gesture thrust both hands through his hair. She could see very little of him, only his silhouette dimly rimmed by the wall torch next to the oak doors. But she could sense his frustration—and his seething anger.
I’m sorry. So very sorry.
More than anything, she wanted to run to him, to beg his forgiveness and to offer him some comfort. But that would be madness. He would never forgive her for making a fool of him, nor could he possibly feel any comfort in her presence. She was the thorn that had pricked him, then festered, and on the morrow she might very well prove to be the instrument of his downfall.
More than anything, she wanted to run to him, to beg his forgiveness and to offer him some comfort. But that would be madness. He would never forgive her for making a fool of him, nor could he possibly feel any comfort in her presence. She was the thorn that had pricked him, then festered, and on the morrow she might very well prove to be the instrument of his downfall.
She almost cried out on that thought. He could not die. He must not! But what could
she
do about it?
she
do about it?
With a mighty effort she tried to make herself as small as possible, to shrink into the rough wall of the alehouse and disappear forever into the stones that made up Maidenstone.
When he finally moved on, headed she knew not where, instead of relief, she felt a devastating sense of loss. I love you, she sent the message silently to him.
Though you see only my betrayal, what I feel most for you is love.
Though you see only my betrayal, what I feel most for you is love.
After another bleak span of time one of the tall doors creaked open and a head ventured out. Then two women crept past the door and down the steps—one with a walking stick nearly as tall as she—and Linnea’s aching heart leaped with joy. Beatrix! At last her beloved sister was come to her!
She joined them at the base of the steps, only to find Beatrix violently weeping. “I cannot!” she sobbed. “I cannot wed him. I will kill myself first!”
“Do not be stupid!” Lady Harriet hissed. Then spying Linnea, she thrust Beatrix at her. “Talk some sense into her!” she snapped. “The man does not walk this earth who is worth dying over!”
Beatrix fell into Linnea’s arms with a grateful sob. “You are here! You have survived! Oh, but I should not have been such a coward as to see you sacrificed to that … that—” Again she burst into sobs.
Half-supporting her distraught sister, Linnea managed somehow to guide her into the shadows where the outer wall met with the eaves of the alehouse. There she hugged her sister hard, offering her the only comfort she had, just as Beatrix had so many times hugged and comforted her.
“Shh. Do not weep, sister. You do but make yourself sick.” She held the shuddering girl as if she’d never let her go. “Shh. Just listen to me. Listen to me!”
“Oh, Linnea, I have prayed and prayed for you,” Beatrix whispered against Linnea’s neck. “But it has been for naught.”
“No,” Linnea retorted. “Not for naught. If you prayed for me, then you see now that I am well. No harm has come to me. Nor will it come to you. Axton is not a cruel man. He—”
“He will die on the morrow, so it matters not,” their grandmother broke in. Despite her harsh pronouncement, however, she looked small and beaten. She leaned heavily on her stick as a sudden fit of coughing shook her frail form.
Linnea glared her fury at the old woman. “What matter to you if it be Axton or this Sir Eustace who marries her? They are both Henry’s men—”
“Do you so easily forget your brother?” Lady Harriet spat back at her. “Are you that ungrateful to him who did sacrifice his very life for you?”
Not for me,
Linnea wanted to say. She chose instead to ignore her grandmother and turn back to her sister. “Whatever shall come tomorrow, Beatrix, you shall not suffer for it. I do not know this Sir Eustace as do you, but I know Axton.”
Linnea wanted to say. She chose instead to ignore her grandmother and turn back to her sister. “Whatever shall come tomorrow, Beatrix, you shall not suffer for it. I do not know this Sir Eustace as do you, but I know Axton.”
Beatrix drew back, just enough to look into her sister’s face. Though the darkness shrouded them, there was yet that sense that they could see one another very well.
“Do not defend him to her,” Lady Harriet croaked. “She has experienced already his cruelty.” She moved nearer to them and fastened her bony hand on Beatrix’s arm. “Tell her how he mauled you just now. How he forced himself on you. Tell her!” The old woman shook with the vehemence of her emotions. “Tell her ’ere she conspires with him to destroy Eustace and your only remaining hope for happiness!”
“He would be a good husband to her,” Linnea countered, frowning at her grandmother. “You do not know him like I do.”
The old woman snorted at that. “No. You
do
have a particular knowledge of him that I do not. A carnal knowledge that I would save your sister from!” she finished shrilly.
do
have a particular knowledge of him that I do not. A carnal knowledge that I would save your sister from!” she finished shrilly.
Loyalty and selfishness fought a terrible battle in Linnea’s heart: loyalty to Axton and Beatrix—both of whom she loved better than herself—against a selfishness she could not defend. She did not want to share Axton with anyone, not even her sister. She wanted to keep Axton all for herself.
She let out a laugh that was half sob. Even if she could keep him, he would never agree. He hated her now. There was nothing she could do for Axton—save to help him retain this home he’d fought so long and hard to possess. And even that was not within her means.
She pressed her cheek to Beatrix’s damp one and felt her sister’s trembling fear. “Do not be afraid of him,” she whispered: “In time you will see that I am right in this.”
But Beatrix twisted away. “I will pray the whole night long that Eustace defeats him. I will keep vigil on my knees,” she swore with a fierceness Linnea had never seen in her mild-mannered sister. But when Beatrix spied Linnea’s stricken expression, her angry expression relented. “I do not wish him ill. But … but I cannot be wed to him. I cannot!”
She began once more to weep, but this time Linnea did not have the words to comfort her. How had this happened? How had it come to this between them, that one could want a man she could not have, while the other could spurn that same man who, meanwhile, was set on possessing her?
“If you love your sister,” Lady Harriet broke in, “you will do whatever it takes to ensure that man falls on the morrow. Weaken him with some potion. Sap his strength in another fashion, if it so suits you. But do not betray us now when you have almost succeeded.” Her voice had altered and now she reached out a hand to Linnea’s face.
Linnea flinched, but the old woman only made a grimace of a smile and patted her cheek. “You have done well, Linnea. Do you wish to prove your worthiness, you will not falter now.”
Linnea tried to swallow but something hard lodged in her throat, a lump of emotions that threatened to choke her no matter what answer she made. She stared at Beatrix who huddled now in her grandmother’s embrace, but she could not reply. Her heart was breaking; her world was collapsing in ruin about her. The future loomed forbidding and grim. But Linnea could not reply.
Distraught, she spun around, disoriented, but desperate to escape. But escape was no real solution to her plight, and anyway, even escape was denied her. For a sturdy figure blocked her way, a figure she recognized even in the dark. It was Peter and it was plain he’d come for her. It was equally plain the contempt he felt for her.
“Do the three of you meet still to plot against my family? Do you gather here to gloat and anticipate your triumph?” He advanced on them, his fists knotted, his expression cold.
Beatrix and Lady Harriet fell back a pace. But he looked so much like Axton that Linnea could do nothing but stare. When he stood just before her he sneered, “Are you indeed Linnea, brave but stupid, or are you the cowardly sister, Beatrix?”
“I … I am Linnea.”
He glared at her, then past her at Beatrix. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Prove it. I have heard that the first sister is unmarked, but the second one sports the devil’s own mark.”
“’Tis not the devil’s mark,” Beatrix cried from behind Linnea.
“So you are Linnea!” Peter accused her.
“No, I am the one you seek,” Linnea countered. She stayed him with a hand on his arm when he would have advanced on Beatrix. “I am Linnea. See?” She raised her skirt to display the red welt on her calf. “I carry the mark, not she.”
He looked at her, then over at Beatrix. When his gaze came back to her, however, some of the belligerence had been replaced by confusion. He studied Linnea’s face as if searching for some other difference between them, some indication—the shape of her lips, the arch of a brow—that would set them apart. When he could not find one, he frowned at her.
“Come with me.”
To Henry, Linnea assumed. To Henry’s bed, for Henry’s pleasure. She thought she would be ill.
He grabbed her above the elbow and steered her back toward the hall. But Beatrix unexpectedly tore herself from her grandmother’s arms.
“No! You can’t take her. Hasn’t your family done enough! Haven’t you taken our home, our brother. Even my father—” Beatrix burst into tears. But even unfinished, her words seemed to affect Peter. Or perhaps it was
because
she’d been unable to finish, for Peter’s stern expression faltered and Linnea saw him swallow hard. Then he rallied and his grip on Linnea’s arm stiffened.
because
she’d been unable to finish, for Peter’s stern expression faltered and Linnea saw him swallow hard. Then he rallied and his grip on Linnea’s arm stiffened.
“You forget that I have lost two brothers and a father to your family. We owe you nothing.” Then with a rude jerk he hauled Linnea off. But Beatrix’s sobs were not silenced until the stout doors of the keep thudded closed behind them.
In the hall all was quiet save for the grumbles of sleeping servants. The hearth glowed but dully with embers of the banked fire. One torch yet gave a faint dying glow. There were no signs in the hall of the terrible tension that gripped the castle, only their own harsh breathing.
Peter’s fingers tightened even more as he steered her toward the stairs. Before Linnea had been too numb to object. Besides, she’d known it would be pointless: Now, though, pointless or not, she could not bring herself to cooperate. To be given over to Henry was unthinkable. Impossible. She dug her heels in and grabbed at a corner of the wall.
Peter swung around. “Bitch you may be, but don’t be a stupid bitch also,” he snapped. Then with a rough jerk he yanked her up the stairs.
“No! I won’t go! You can’t make me—”
“Shut up!” he hissed, clamping his hand over her mouth. “Do you want to wake up the whole castle?”
But Linnea was far beyond caring about waking up anyone. Instead she fought him as violently as if he did plan to murder her. For to her mind, sending her to Henry was tantamount to murder, for it would forever kill something in her soul.
“Bloody hell!” he swore when she bit his hand. He shoved her so hard against the wall that her head cracked painfully against it and the breath was knocked out of her. “Damn you!” he swore, shaking the hand she’d bitten. “I’m trying to help you! My mother is fool enough to wish to protect you—”
“That role is better filled by me,” a voice from behind them broke in.
Axton’s voice.
But no, Linnea could not believe it. It must be her imagination and the dizzying spin of her head.
But then another hand curved around her arm. A bigger hand, equally harsh, equally stern. Peter released her and stepped back.
“Mother instructed me to fetch her—”
“Her involvement in this matter will not be necessary,” Axton retorted. Without giving Linnea the time even to look up at him, he steered her ahead of him up the stairs.
Linnea was too confused to resist. Peter had been bringing her to the Lady Mildred, not the young duke? That was difficult enough to comprehend. But Axton’s appearance was even more difficult, for he’d said that protecting her was his responsibility.
“What do you intend to do with her?” Peter whispered as he followed behind them.
“Exactly as I please,” Axton bit back. His words were meant less for Peter though, and more for her, Linnea feared.
She balked as they came into the antechamber, but her lack of cooperation was of no moment to him at all. He merely clasped her to his side with one brawny arm, and pressed her face into his shoulder. Muffled against his wool tunic, Linnea could neither cry out nor object. He hustled her past the lord’s chamber where Henry waited, past the several sleeping men who made up Henry’s personal staff, and into the smaller chamber he was occupying. She vaguely spied Sir Reynold before Axton slammed the door shut. Only then did he release her.
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