For sure, he preferred to see her married than dead. Guilabert’s argument had been most convincing. Marry her and lose her, or refuse and watch her die the most ghastly death. Simple choice.
Gautier tore through a dense copse of evergreen and emerged by the riverside. Rain made its surface a rippling mesh. He looked left and right. His wool uniform hung heavy against him. He swore as he tugged on the tight collar. Where was she?
Despair gnawed at his heart. Why had he not helped her before? What if he had lost her and caused her death? He would never forgive himself. A good woman might die today because of his pride. He ran both hands through his hair and pulled.
A strangled cry echoed somewhere to his right.
He tore off running, skidding over rocks, skinning his ankles and splashing in the shallows. Two forms on the embankment some distance ahead broke the dreary gray and green. A great struggle seemed to be taking place for the two forms thrashed and rolled about in a snarl of limbs.
Gautier’s heart leaped. She still lived!
And she was giving the knight trouble too from what he could see. He realized just how much when he ran close enough to hear her cursing like a sailor. Foulest words he had rarely heard.
Not slowing down, Gautier chose the quickest route to the pair—knee-deep in cold September water. Carving right through bends in the narrow river cut time significantly. He could make them out now. Her clawing at him while the knight tried his best to roll away. Bloody marks slashed his face and hands while she wore bruises and a tangled mess of curls.
“You betrayed him, you son of a whore!” Charlotte screamed while she kicked the knight as he floundered to his knees. A metallic sound was heard when she kicked him again, this time in the chest. “How could you?!”
Gautier jumped over the last boulder. Barely a couple of steps now… However, before he could get within reach, Guilabert tackled Charlotte down and cocked his elbow far behind him. Such violence would do irreparable damage to a woman’s face.
With a roar that surprised him, Gautier leaped.
The sudden weight and force as his body impacted with the knight’s sent both rolling down toward the river. Gautier cringed as metal plates ground his chest and shoulder, pinched skin on his forearms. He let out a yelp of surprise when Charlotte came tumbling down the bank, half on him, half on the moaning knight. She clutched Guilabert’s hair and pounded his head on the ground.
Somehow, the sight of her savagery awed Gautier into stillness. Good God, she would kill the man. Out of some remnants of humanity, he grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back enough so she faced him. He couldn’t let her become a killer. She was too good for such methods. The knight fell limply on his side.
“He won’t cause more trouble. Not for a while,” he said gently. He was just so relieved to see her alive and relatively well he did not mind the askance look she sent his way.
“He’s a traitor,” she spat before turning to Guilabert and kicking him in the back. “He deserves to die.”
Gautier must have looked as puzzled as he felt for she pointed an accusing finger at the prone form beside her. “It was him.”
“Him what?”
She coughed. “Guilabert told me…” she faltered and sat on her heels. Blood dribbled down her chin. A great tremor shook her. Tears or rain beaded her cheeks.
Gautier wanted so much to press her to his chest but was afraid in her great anguish she would push him away. Instead, he let a hand rest on her knee. “He told you what?”
“St. Augustine. It was him. He let them in then he finished whoever had survived.” Charlotte hid her face behind her dirty and bloodied hands. “He killed Jean-Louis.”
Chapter Ten
The veil of grief parted wide enough to let some sense drift into her mind. She wiped her eyes and looked into Gautier’s face. What she saw there congealed her blood. He was looking down at Guilabert, who still lay on his front, his hair a matted mess of mud and blood.
“He told you that?” Gautier asked in a gravelly voice. Gone was the rich intonation. It fell flat as a blade and just as cold.
She nodded, still unable to tear her gaze away from the icy blue orbs. For the span of a moment, she forgot her own pain, her own sorrow, to focus on this man’s almost palpable rage. It was all there in the exceptionally pale eyes. Anguish. He had suffered this one, just as she had—more so, no doubt. The ruined skin on his chest came to mind. Charlotte reached out and let her hand rest over his. Through the hose, she could feel the warmth of his palm.
“This man can’t be allowed to die. He has to pay for his crimes,” Gautier remarked coldly. He pulled his hand out from under hers so he could roll Guilabert onto his side.
She felt cold and miserable now that his hand was gone. Her skin tingled where he had touched her. “He doesn’t deserve clemency.”
His mouth twisted in a sardonic sneer. “Oh it’s not clemency that awaits him but the rack.”
The vision flashed across her mind. She mentally recoiled from it. Guilabert on the rack, as much as she loathed him, was too much cruelty for her. She looked down at her hands.
“Can you help me get him up?” Gautier asked as he hoisted the unconscious man up by his arms.
Nodding, she tugged and heaved until Guilabert rested in what must have been the most uncomfortable position ever on Gautier’s strong shoulders. Slowly, they made their silent way back to the horses. In her flight, she had paid little attention to where she was going but together they managed to find their way back. By that time, midday had come and gone. The mounts had moved very little, if by the side of the road to munch on some sodden leaves. Gautier unceremoniously dumped his load to the spongy ground.
“Are you well enough to make it in one spell?” he asked, turning back and offering what strove to be a composed face.
“I’ll rest when he’s turned over to the seneschal.”
Gautier nodded and turned toward his horse. She noticed for the first time there was a fourth horse there. The one he must have ridden here when he arrived at dawn. The poor beast looked tired and cross. With a handful of grass and leaves, she gave the twitching beast a quick rubdown. It whinnied its thanks at her.
She looked down at Guilabert’s pitiful form. Traitorous, murderous dog! Jean-Louis’ jovial face flashed before her eyes. That big smile of his. Tears rolled down. Why did it have to be this way? She knuckled the tears away.
Gautier took the knight’s sword and slid it in the sheath strapped to his saddle.
As they prepared for the road, it occurred to her Lussier was gone. “Where’s the other one?”
“Dead,” replied Gautier without stopping.
Though she would have wanted to know more, she was loath to ask and just nodded. At the price of ending up in hell, she felt quite satisfied the vicious little man was gone. If only Guilabert had met the same end, there would be no need for the drama his trial would cause. After all, she would never be able to prove he had let the enemy inside St. Augustine. He would deny it with his usual charm and poise. It would be her word—that of a woman—against a knight’s. Charlotte gnashed her teeth. There would be little chance of getting justice, even if Gautier, as a man of God, would testify for her.
Behind her, Gautier gasped loudly. Charlotte turned to him but her words died on her lips. Cringing, hugging himself, he collapsed.
Before her brain could register the scene, Guilabert sprang for his horse and slapped it hard on the rump. It took off with him hanging on and swinging a leg over the saddle.
“Guilabert!”
The knight’s treachery traversed her mind and left within a heartbeat as fear for Gautier’s life filled her chest with butterflies.
“Oh God, no.”
Would she lose him too? Taken by the same man who stole Jean-Louis from her?
She rushed to him and knelt by his side. “What did he do?” she asked, placing both hands on his shoulders, trying to straighten him.
“I’m fine,” he replied,
patting himself down. One of his hands returned bloodied from its exploration. He stared at it in shock.
Panic rose in Charlotte’s throat. “Let me help.”
With her assistance, Gautier slowly sat on his heels and flattened the habit over his front so they could see where he had been injured. There, down by the hipbone, protruded a slender, golden hilt.
Snarling, he pulled it out. Charlotte flinched at the sight of the crimson blade yet she pressed her hand to the wound in an effort to stifle the bleeding. Blood like red wine seeped through her fingers and soaked the cuff of her undertunic.
“I shouldn’t have let him see where I hid it,” Gautier snarled, sounding both miffed and surprised. “He must have taken it while I was carrying him. Stabbed with my own blade.” He wiped the blade on his sleeve then slid it back up inside.
Charlotte meant to tear off one of her sleeves for bandages but Gautier stopped her. “No time. We must catch that traitor. Help me up.”
She did, pulling him up by the back of his habit. He stood gingerly, a hand on her shoulder, the other pressed against his hip. Together they neared the horses where, huffing and puffing, she helped the much heavier Gautier climb into the saddle. Blood soaked the hand she placed on his knee.
“Make haste,” he urged. A flick of his hand and the horse shook into a light canter.
When she was mounted, she easily overtook Gautier, behind which she’d tied Lussier’s mount, and stayed by his side.
“Ride on, Charlotte,” Gautier said through clenched teeth. “Get help and catch him. I’ll only slow you down.”
She could have ridden on, could have made it to the house and overtaken Guilabert somewhere on her way back. Revenge already tasted sweet in her mouth. Everyone would know the cowardly, backstabbing, cheater he was as she would tell anyone who would listen about Guilabert’s treachery in the Holy Land. She might even sink a blade in his back, the murderous liar, if the chance presented itself. Justified revenge.
Her mental wrath on Guilabert stopped there, in her head. For doing so would mean leaving Gautier behind. A bleeding, wounded Gautier…
“We ride together.”
Gautier’s whole face brightened for just a moment before he winced and leaned forward. “When this whole thing is over, we need to have a long talk.”
“When this whole thing is over, we need to have a long bath,” she countered.
When he grinned wider than she had ever seen him, the bleakness of her surroundings felt not as heavy or as miserable. As if the smile alone could have forced clouds away.
He sobered. “Lead the way.”
Charlotte edged her horse in front, often checking back to make sure the man did not topple from his saddle. He looked pale but strong. She prayed for him he would recuperate from this injury. She prayed for Guilabert as well. If Gautier never recovered, God help the knight.
Afternoon turned to dusk as an already gray sky deepened to brown. Rain had stopped a while back but everything was still sodden and cold. And the temperature dropped by the moment.
Charlotte could see her breath roiling in thin tendrils in front of her face. The horses too began to show signs of weariness as they had cantered hard for most of the time. After a quick break, they rode on. When she checked back for the hundredth time, she noticed how Gautier had begun to slump in his saddle.
“Can we ride a bit faster?”
He just waved and motioned for her to turn toward the front. She did, but not before taking a good look at his leg. Something dribbled off the tip of his boot. Blood, rain or mud? Hard to tell in the poor light.
Trees grew thinner and wider apart around them. They rounded a sharp bend in the path she recognized well. Home. Charlotte prayed silent thanks. Once there, she would get them something warm to eat and drink then would gather a party and hunt Guilabert down. Surely he could not have gone very far. They would have stayed close behind at the decent canter they kept. Perhaps someone had seen him. Charlotte chanced a quick peek back. Gautier’s head snapped up as if he had sensed her eyes on him and now would like her to believe he felt just fine.
A jumble of emotions assaulted her. He was a brother, granted. Yet his tender embrace was the most exquisite thing in her life. Ever. Her childish infatuation with Guilabert felt immature and absurd compared to the searing passion that spread to every part of her. How could she not yearn for his touch when he had showed such gentleness, such consideration?
Heat radiated up from her belly at the memory of his hands on her, of his tongue in her. She shook the notion away. Nothing would come out of it. He would return to his duties and she to hers. Feeling bereft in more ways than she could count, Charlotte pulled the opening of her tunic tighter about her neck. They were both cold and wet—not a good combination for a bleeding man. What if rot settled in his wound? What if he bled to death in her arms? She shook the distressing thoughts away.
Finally trees became sparser with undergrowth practically nonexistent. Tiny dots of light peppered the night down the hill from where they rode. The mansion. Her heart leaped. She turned back and watched Gautier maneuver his horse near hers.
“He can’t be far,” she said. “His horse’s a destrier, so he can’t have galloped all day.”
“Here,” he said, weakly passing over his dagger. “I won’t be much use. You keep it, in case he turns back or waits for us somewhere.”
She took the weapon by the tip of its blade, knowing it had earlier been planted deep in his flesh. Goose bumps prickled along her arms. She slid the weapon in her boot without meeting his gaze.
After a tired nod, Gautier clicked his tongue and resumed the canter. The trailing horse neighed its frustration. Charlotte could not help but feel for the man. The constant movement must have been pure agony.
She looked into the darkening sky and sighed. She was home. It would all be better now.
Something caught her attention. There to their left beyond the trees shone an orange glow. Then smells hit her and Charlotte gripped the reins tighter.
“Please, no,” she murmured.
Without further thought, she drove her heels into her horse’s tired flanks. The beast did what it could to respond. Galloping chaotically through the field and toward the line of trees edging her property, Charlotte’s eyes filled with tears. The smell of smoke hung thick in the air. She could not hear Gautier behind her. Was he still conscious or had he toppled from his horse? Charlotte could not go back to check. Not now. Not with this.
A massive horse burst out of the forest to her right. She cried in alarm but the frantic animal only rushed by, riderless. She slapped the reins on her mount’s neck as she tore through her land and when she crested over the hill, Charlotte yanked back on them. Her horse whinnied and spun in place from the sudden command. Shaking, it pawed to a fussing halt.
Smoke stung her eyes. The orange glow now shone against still-wet trees. Here the sky looked speckled with ginger and saffron stars. Unable to tear her gaze away from the spectacle before her, she slid off her mount.
“No, no, no,” she repeated the word as though the force of it would unmake what had been done.
Charlotte stared in horror as flames licked one corner of the distillery’s façade.
Movement from within the building made her stare hard past the flames. Yes! Right there where the office was. The cowardly…
Charlotte sprinted up to the massive building, dismissing people’s cries as they ran up the hill far behind her. She thought she could make out Armand’s deep baritone among the rest but did not stop to check.
With flames dancing all about her, she dove for the doorway and yanked open one of the doors. It slid on its rail and thumped against the wall. Wood was already beginning to blacken inside the structure. All her bourbon, all her work! It would all be lost. Because of him.
“Guilabert!”
Movement to her left alerted her to a presence. Diving aside, she just avoided a length of chain bearing down where she had been a heartbeat befor
e. It banged and clattered to the ground a few feet from her. Guilabert erupted from her left with a demented look in his eyes and a wicked-looking cargo hook in his hand.
Charlotte reacted on pure instincts. She rolled away and crawled under the closest barrel, emerging in the narrow alley behind. From there, she dashed up to the main aisle and retraced her steps back toward the front. Guilabert was still looking for her in the direction she had disappeared.
“You want to play hide and seek, Charlotte, my wife, like old times?” he asked, raising the hook above his head before checking under another barrel.
Charlotte tiptoed closer still, flattened against a rick of barrels. She retrieved Gautier’s dagger in a trembling, sweaty hand. Guilabert’s back was to her but she would have to run almost twenty paces before she reached him. A whole lot of space and time for him to hear her and turn around.
“I always managed to find you, even back then, you know,” he went on, pouncing up to the next barrel and swinging the hook at empty air. He cursed. “I’d make you laugh so I’d know where you hid. I knew how you loved it when I found you. Do you remember, Charlotte, how flushed and giggly you’d be when I’d tickle you until you yielded?”
Fear made her legs thick as lead. The dagger felt so heavy and awkward in her palm. Her insides twisted and heaved. She was afraid of being sick. A low moan escaped her.
Guilabert tensed visibly. He turned around, making a complete rotation on himself. “Come out, dear wife. I know you want to.”
She felt like screaming she was not his wife, this travesty of a marriage was not real. But Gautier was a man of God, albeit a strange one, and had been granted permission by a cardinal to perform the Sacrament of Matrimony. The vows were real. She gritted her teeth when Guilabert prowled a little bit closer to the center aisle. Lovers’ Lane according to Armand. She could have laughed at the irony.
Outside, the voices grew louder. With a resounding bang, the doors were closed to deny any wind to stoke the fire, unknowingly trapping her inside between a lunatic and an inferno.
“Come on, Charlotte. Come out and I’ll forget you slept with a brother and tried to kill your husband.”
Sinful Page 16
