Wed By Proxy (Brides of Karadok Book 1)

by Alice Coldbreath

  “I am persuaded I must have been mistaken that time, as you suggested” she said, and leaned against the wall of the cave a moment. “Please,” she begged. “Let me only catch my breath a moment.”

  “You were not mistaken,” he said heavily, and his hand landed on her shoulder, making her jump. “Walk,” he said abruptly. “Now. There’s a good girl. I won’t tell you again.”

  Mathilde gritted her teeth and carried on farther into the caves, sealing her own doom. I will never find my way back out of here, she thought despairingly. Was he going to retreat into the shadows and leave her here? To wander around in the dark, getting increasingly more and more lost? She had remembered now what it was Guy had said about people walking in to these caves and then never walking back out again.

  “Lettys knows we have come here together,” she reminded him, and was surprised to hear how calm her voice sounded. “She will tell Firmin and the others that you have ridden out with me.”

  “What of it,” Tristan answered coolly. “Do you really think me incapable of spinning some yarn to satisfy them? Perhaps you will be wrested from me by a band of villains, robbers and thieves. Yes, I rather like that. I struggle of course, valiantly, but in vain. I stumble back to Acton March on foot but by that point you will have been at their tender mercies for a matter of hours. Who only knows what will have become of you? I will be distraught at your cruel fate, of course,” he added as an afterthought. “But since the war, there have been some desperate, dispossessed men who roam the countryside, looting and taking what is not there’s. The story will have a ring of truth to it.”

  Would it? wondered Mathilde. After all, the household at Acton March were loyal northerners all. They would probably take the word of one of their own trusted countrymen. Except possibly for Prudie. Prudie was loyal to her. And Robin, of course.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked with an idle curiosity that disconcerted her.

  “I’m wondering what everyone will say,” she answered truthfully. “If you return without me.”

  “Precious little against me, I assure you. People are rather stupid like that.”

  She thought back to his expression that day when she had thoughtlessly remarked she had seen him at court. He had denied ever setting foot in the southern court. But he had lied. At the time she had been so distracted, she had not really thought through the implications of this. It had not really seemed her business. She had been heartbroken, forlorn. She had cared nothing of what he was about. But this one comment it seemed had sealed her fate. She remembered his look of regret. At the time it had struck her as strange, but now she realized he had contemplated this moment. This moment where he was going to have to do away with her!

  “I don’t understand,” she said through teeth that chattered slightly, and not just from the cold. “How can you be in the employ of Lord Vawdrey? You are a northerner.”

  “I am,” he agreed. “But there are always traitors, on both sides.”

  Traitors? Mathilde’s blood ran cold. “I am sure you are not that!”

  “Oh, but I am,” he said. “I am the ultimate traitor. For I am in the pay of both the north and the south.” He gave a soft laugh. “As dear Julia noted only the other day, I have no loyalty whatsoever.”

  Mathilde gave a muffled gasp as yet again, he shoved her forward, and she half stumbled over a loose rock before righting herself. “B-but what is that to me?” she asked. “The war is over now. I lost no kin. I bear you no grudge.”

  He was quiet a moment. “You don’t understand. It is more what could fall from your lips at any moment that concerns me. I must silence that pretty mouth forever, you see. Although you may not care, there are many in Karadok who would kill me as easily as draw breath for the role I have played over the years. You must not think,” he added in a kindly tone. “That it is in any way personal. I like you Mouse. You are refreshing, quite wasted on all these grim northerners. In truth, I like you far better than I do my own flesh and blood.”

  Mathilde’s heart began to beat louder as she came to the horrible realization that though Tristan liked her, he was going to kill her. That was why he had looked that way before, so regretful. He had known then that he was going to have to do this, to take this dreadful step to ensure her silence. She felt sick, as her brain scrambled to cope with these terrible facts.

  Her thoughts turned to Guy’s blade she wore at her hip. It was wickedly sharp. Did she really have what it took to stick a knife into a man? A man she liked. For the awful thing was, she did like Tristan. But her every instinct shrieked at her, that he was not only a traitor, but a killer. From the casual way he talked about it, he had likely killed before and would again. Being fond of her, even regretting the necessity, would not stop him.

  She swallowed as she thought of Guy, her friends, Robin, Fenella, Prudie and her mother even. I have people who love me, she thought, feeling her resolve stiffen. People whose lives would be affected by the discovery of her dead body, perhaps years from now in this secluded cave.

  And what of Guy, what would he think after their argument the previous night? That she had been fleeing him and had a foolish accident? She turned cold all over. He would blame himself for her grisly fate.

  I have to fight, a small cold voice told her. The dagger she wore was not the same as a necklace or some other decorative ornament. It had a purpose. It was there for her defense not decoration.

  They had come out into an open area again, a section was missing from overhead and the light streamed in. She watched as Tristan approached her with feigned casualness. It was the way you would approach a skittish animal to win its trust. She had to fight him. But her body was small, she definitely did not have the strength to go toe to toe. Which meant she would have to use cunning.

  “Please Tristan,” she said in appeal even as she discreetly dropped her hand to her knife. “I won’t tell anyone. You can depend on my silence.”

  “Ah, Mouse,” he said sadly, drawing closer. “I wish that I could believe you. But depending on the word of a woman, in my experience…” He let his words trail off. “Even if you did not intend to let it slip, at some point you undoubtedly would.”

  Swiftly he closed the gap between them, his eyes boring into hers, not noticing her hand as it unsheathed the dagger beneath her cloak and held it pointed toward him. Instinctively she took a couple of panicked steps backward as he loomed over her, his hands seizing her upper arms in a painful grip, his eyes blank and expressionless. Somehow in this moment, he no longer looked like Tristan at all, but some frightening stranger who wore his semblance like a mask.

  Then she felt a sickening give in the tension between them and something was running down her hand and wrist. Something warm and forbidden. She looked down and all she could see was the hilt of the blade and her hand covered in blood. She stared a moment, and then looked up in dawning horror. Tristan was blinking at her, his own expression returning to his face. He was looking down too, in disbelief.

  “My gods,” he whispered. He sounded utterly astonished. Then thrust her away from him and staggered back, falling against the rock wall. Mathilde released the knife, with a stifled cry, as he sank down to the ground. She covered her mouth with her hands, then realized she was getting blood smeared on her face. His blood.

  “You’ve done for me,” he said accusingly, looking up at her. “Why?”

  “Because,” she said in mounting panic. “It was you or me! Wasn’t it?” Panic clawed at her throat. Had she misread the signals? Had she willfully murdered him? Oh gods!

  He watched her a moment, and then a look of wry amusement passed over his face. He raised one arm and let her see the blade that was concealed at his wrist. “It was,” he admitted. “But I was going to slit your pretty little throat. I wasn’t going to give you a mortal wound and then let you bleed out for hours.”

  “H-how kind of you,” she stammered, dashing the back of her hand across her eyes. Tears were coming thick and fast now. She had be
en badly frightened for a moment there.

  “Come now, don’t cry,” he tutted. “You’ve defeated the nasty wolf. Now is not the time for tears, my brave little Mouse!”

  “But your wound!” she wailed.

  He glanced down at it. “There’s nothing can be done about that,” he said regretfully. The dark red stain had spread out across his entire stomach area. Extracting his own knife from his sleeve, he flung it away from him. The thought crossed her mind that he could very easily have chosen to throw it at her. She suspected his aim would be lethally accurate.

  “No point crying over spilt milk,” she said shakily, through numb lips.

  He grinned, though he was quite alarmingly pale. “Sensible girl,” he said bracingly. “Now pick up my knife and put it in your sheath, so you feel safe.”

  Mouse stared at him, before retrieving his dagger and slipping it into her black leather sheath. She did not test the blade for she already knew it would be very sharp. “Men are always giving me knives,” she said with a small sob.

  “Is that so?” He sounded genuinely curious. “Who else made you a present of one?”

  “My first husband,” she said through chattering teeth. “M-my friend Willard, and then — then Guy.” Her eyes returned to Guy’s knife which still protruded from Tristan’s gut so horribly.

  “And now me. How many benefactors can one girl have?” he drawled, with a wan smile. “We doubtless all thought you defenseless, and in need of protection.”

  “Really?” she quavered. “Even you? Even though I—”

  “Mouse,” he cut in sternly. “Do not disappoint me now.” He beckoned. “Come sit down next to me.” He winced, as he adjusted his position to pat the ground.

  She dropped down onto her heels next to him. “Should we try to take it out?” she asked hesitantly, pointing to the knife.

  “Not unless you wish to hasten my end,” he said cheerfully. “Pass me a twig, or a sharp little stone. Something good for drawing with.” Mouse scanned the floor of the cave, and passed a few such to him for his inspection. After casting away her first two finds, he settled on a piece of flinty stone. “This will do.” Then he started drawing in the dirt.

  “What are you drawing?” she asked, though she suspected already.

  “The route you must take to get out of these caves,” he explained. Mathilde closed her eyes a moment. When she opened them, he was watching her. “You must not mind overmuch,” he said. “That you were the cause of my demise. It was bound to be someone, sooner or later. I would rather it was you than any of the others. At least you, I like.”

  “I don’t understand how you can—”

  “I know.” He sighed, forestalling her. “I think,” he said ruminatively. “That there is a piece of me that is either broken or perhaps missing altogether.” He turned his head to look at her. “Please don’t trouble yourself over it. I would only ask that you try to remember my good points, and not the bad.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “Or is that asking rather too much?”

  She shook her head. “No. No, it’s not.”

  “Will you be sad when you think of me, little Mouse?” he asked, sounding strangely wistful.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Because I liked you. Even now.”

  He smiled, his lips looking rather pale and bloodless. “That’s nice,” he said. “I feel the same way. Or…” he added conscientiously. “As close to such a sentiment as a cold-blooded creature such as I, can achieve.” He held his hand out to her, and she took it, clasping it firmly. It felt cold to the touch. “You must follow this route,” he said, gesturing to his diagram with his other hand. “It will lead you out of the caves. Then you must head down southerly, retracing our steps. You remember where I tethered the horses?” She nodded. “Now study the drawing, until it is imprinted on your memory.” They sat in silence a while, as Mathilde’s eyes travelled over the lines and squiggles in the dirt. His head jerked up. “Have you memorized it?” he asked.

  “Not quite,” she prevaricated, clinging tighter to his hand.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said sternly. “Not after seeing that intricate tapestry pattern you devised.” She did not answer. “I do not want you to sit here in the cold, standing vigil and waiting for me to die, little mouse.” His voice sounded thick and like it was forced.

  “I don’t want to leave you alone here,” she admitted.

  He was silent a moment. “Think of it this way,” he said at last. “The sooner you get back, the sooner you can send help to find me.”

  They both knew he was lying through his teeth. By the time a search party was organized and rode forth from Acton March, he would be dead. Mathilde ducked her head and took a shaky breath. “Very well.”

  “And don’t go telling any lies,” he said. “Trying to defend my honor, or some such nonsense. If you tell them we were set upon or attacked by robbers, you’ll get some poor tramp or travelling tinker hung.” Mathilde swallowed and nodded. “We both know I don’t give a damn about my sister’s feelings on the matter.” With a great effort, he pulled his hand away and shoved at her shoulder. “Go!”

  Mathilde climbed stiffly to her feet. “Tristan,” she said in a wobbly voice.

  “Go!” Wearily, he leaned the back of his head against the cave wall. “Hold!” he said suddenly, seeming to change his mind. “Let me fix you in my mind a moment.” Then smiled at her. “I have you. Leave now.”

  Mathilde nodded. “Goodbye Tristan,” she said in a choked voice.

  He did not speak, but let his eyes drift shut, still smiling. Then, turning on her heel, Mathilde fled.

  Quickly, she traversed the narrow tunnels, following Tristan’s directions until she found herself in the flooded chamber. She was forced to wade through the cold waters, feeling them seep into her ankle boots. Finally, she caught sight of the shaft of light that marked the entrance. With a muffled sob, she plunged through it and started running down the slope on legs that shook. She didn’t even notice the collection of figures that had arrived and were looking over their horses. A tall figure detached itself from the rest and stepped quickly forward, just as Mathilde realized she could not slow down and cannoned into him.

  “I’ve got you,” said Lord Oswald Vawdrey, catching her in a surprisingly strong grip. Mathilde’s legs gave way, and she sagged against him, winded as he said sounding relieved. “I was just starting to get seriously concerned about your welfare.”

  Mathilde lifted her face from his shoulder. “Please, you must help him!” she said in a low urgent voice. For the life of her, Mathilde could not fathom why the king’s chief advisor should be here at Braeburn Heights, but for the moment, she just knew she had to get help. She clutched at his hands and tried to hold back her sobs. “He— He’s dying! I’ve killed him!” She could hear the note of hysteria in her voice, even as she sought to suppress it. She heard some startled murmurings from the group of men behind him.

  “Calm yourself, dear Lady Martindale,” Earl Vawdrey said soothingly. “I’m sure all will be well.” Then he checked his words, and Mathilde saw the direction of his gaze. Her cloak had fallen back, and he was following the bright red bloodstains that streaked down her skirts. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand and concentrated very hard on not screaming.

  “Do not say anymore just now,” he said in an urgent undertone. “Let’s get you to this tree-trunk and sit you down.” Mathilde found herself deposited carefully onto the large trunk of a fallen tree.

  Oswald Vawdrey knelt down before her, his compelling gaze trained on hers. She wanted to look at who was with him, but could not quite tear her gaze away.

  “Kerslake is up there? In the caves?” he asked quietly. She nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. “But you are not injured?” She shook her head. “Can you check for me now?” Mathilde gazed at him a moment and then looked down at herself. Her skirts were rather a blood-splattered mess.

  “It’s not my blood, you see” she whispered. At last he gave a s
wift nod and straightened up. “Anderson, you will lead a search party up to the caves to recover him,” he said. “You two, go with him. Kerslake is injured,” he said briefly.

  Mathilde looked up quickly. “They’ll get lost, the caves are very treacherous for strangers.”

  “Anderson is from around these parts,” he assured her with a quick smile. “You must not fret, Lady Martindale. All is well now.”

  But how could all be well? She gazed up at him hopelessly, and then to her consternation, burst noisily into tears. A man had died by her hand.

  XXXVII

  It was not until they were halfway to Woodcote House, where it seemed Lord Vawdrey was staying, that she thought to ask why he had not taken her back to Acton March. No doubt the entire household would now be looking for her return. She was mounted on Sabrina, but Lord Vawdrey rode very close by, and bringing up the rear were two more men that he had not left at the caves.

  Oswald Vawdrey had looked apologetic at her enquiry. “You see,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “There is a concerned party at Woodcote that needs to be assured of your good health.”

  “A concerned party?” Mathilde asked in bewilderment.

  “Yes. And one or two others who are merely consumed with vulgar curiosity,” he said wryly.

  Mathilde was too exhausted to react properly to this news. The ride had taken longer than she had realized, Woodcote lying some seven miles to the west of Wickhamford. She felt annoyed with herself that she had allowed herself to be shepherded away like this when her guard was down. But then, she thought, suddenly stricken, perhaps Lord Vawdrey was looking to prepare some charge against her for her crime? After all, she thought wearily, had not Tristan confessed to being some agent of Lord Vawdrey’s? Indeed, she rather thought that he had mentioned something about communicating with Lord Vawdrey only recently. She eyed the Earl warily, but he was smiling affably back at her.

  “I do not think I shall allow you any visitors until you are rested,” he said with sudden decision. “It would be a mistake, I think, to deliver you up to them while you are vulnerable.”