Love Never Lies

by Rachel Donnelly

  But she could not turn around and speak with him now, feeling rattled as she did.

  She needed time to collect herself.

  Rot!

  Why did she allow him to turn her into such a milk-livered sop?

  She yanked her blue kirtle over her head, smoothing it down with the palms of her hands, then marched across the yard to the hall, braiding her damp hair as she went.

  She arrived at the hall to find a score of men sitting at the trestle tables swigging ale, voices raised so loud they might have been one hundred. It did not take her long to discover why, as she threaded her way through the tables with her ewer of ale to replenish their cups.

  “The constable has all but given it up,” one man said.

  “I give him two days,” another replied.

  “Two? Why say you two?” The first barked a loud laugh. “We’ll be drinking Highburn’s ale come the morrow.”

  Apparently the siege neared an end, giving them cause to celebrate. Isabeau’s spirits rose at the news. Mayhap with the siege over, Fortin would turn his efforts toward claiming her ransom. In the meantime, she must continue her pleas to hasten him along, while at the same time, endeavoring never to be caught alone with him again.

  As if that wasn’t enough to worry about. On her way back from the kitchen with a heavy platter of boiled roach, Edric appeared before her, blocking her path. She gazed up at him through swirls of steam curling above the platter of fish, willing him to speak before her arms gave out.

  “Forgive me, my lady,” he said in a gush. “For what happened at the gatehouse. I meant no insult. But whenever I see you...”

  Isabeau cut him off to save him any further embarrassing disclosures, saying with a tight smile, “’Tis of no consequence. Now if you’ll forgive me, I need to deliver this platter, ere it grows cold.”

  He stepped aside, allowing her to pass, but she continued to feel his eyes on her as she moved about the hall. Between his unwelcome stares and the dark glances Fortin shot her way from the high table, ‘twas a wonder she could go about her labors at all.

  By the end of the evening, her nerves had stretched so taut, ‘twas difficult to breathe.

  Finally, just when she thought she might snap, Hilda bid her retire. Isabeau did not argue, though she hated to leave Hilda with the remaining mess. Her fortitude was good, but not as great as Hilda’s, who had been born to such labor, especially on an empty stomach.

  Too exhausted to disrobe when she reached the small bedchamber she shared with Hilda, she collapsed on the straw pallet fully clothed, drawing the woolen blanket up to her neck.

  She had barely closed her eyes when the creak of the door snapped them back opened.

  Isabeau groaned. For Hilda to have retired so soon could only mean one thing. She was intent on putting a little coin in her pocket, entertaining one of the men. Usually Hilda warned her and Isabeau slept in Fortin’s bedchamber. But tonight, it was occupied. She supposed she would just have to wait in the corridor until they were through.

  But when she threw back the blanket she found Fortin towering over her. “Come,” he commanded. “You’ll sleep in my bedchamber hence forth.”

  “Wh… what?” She sputtered, dumbfounded at finding him there.

  “I don’t trust you here alone.”

  She struggled upward to crouch on her knees, but did not move to leave her spot. “A fortnight has passed and I haven’t attempted to escape. What makes you think I’ll try now?”

  “You won’t escape from here.” His lips twisted into a grim smile. “Tis your dallying with my men I object to. If I’m to obtain the best ransom, I can’t turn you over to your uncle big with child.”

  She sucked in an outraged breath. “’Tis your men who accost me. Mayhap if you gave them leave to visit the village more often they wouldn’t behave like untrained hounds.”

  He folded both arms across his chest, giving her a long look. “A visit to the village won’t protect them from a temptation such as you.”

  ‘Twas difficult to know whether to be insulted or flattered by his claim. Her reaction fell somewhere in between. “If you’d but return my dagger, I could defend myself.”

  “You’ll have no need of it in my chamber.” Now that, was an insult, plain and simple—his way of telling her, he wouldn’t touch her with a twenty foot battering ram.

  She shrugged. “I have no need of your protection. I’ve survived thus far.” She plunked down on her pallet, pulling the woolen blanket behind her as she went. She pressed her eyes tight and held her breath, hoping her show of anger would dissuade him and by some miracle he would change his mind and leave her in peace.

  The next thing she knew, she was being lifted high in the air.

  A strangled screech burst from her lips.

  She struggled and flailed, but did less damage than a sack of kittens, only causing him to tighten his hold. However, she managed to wriggle one clinched fist from between her body and his hard chest, just as he kicked opened his bedchamber door. She landed it against the side of his jaw with a loud crack.

  Her smile of satisfaction was wiped clean by the murderous look on his face. He strode to the bed to drop her like a deranged wildcat amongst the furs. He scowled down at her with fierce intent, blue eyes alight with sparks. “If you ever hit me again, I’ll make it difficult for you to sit for a week.”

  She leapt from the bed intent on putting as much distance as she could between him and her tingling behind, searching frantically about the room for something to defend herself. But the only weapon in sight was his sword. That was of no use. Even if she could get to the end of the bed to reach it before he did, she could not lift it.

  Isabeau edged her way to the empty hearth, keeping her eyes on him all the while, feigning courage, though she felt certain her legs would give out and she would crumble to the flags at any moment.

  But the fates were against her, as her empty belly chose that time to rumble in protest.

  “God’s teeth!” His blue gaze widened in comical disbelief. “Is that your belly growling?”

  She folded her arms in front of her middle, feeling her cheeks go hot. “Yea, my Lord.”

  He narrowed his gaze on her, then turned and strode from the chamber without a word.

  He returned in no time with a heaping bowl of stew. “Eat it,” he said, shoving it into her hands, which she had been warming over the fire. “If you think to cheat me out of my ransom by starving yourself, it won’t work. I’ll feed you myself if I have to.”

  Isabeau glared up at him with indignation. “If I had been given any supper, I assure you I would have eaten it.” With that, she turned her back on him to plunk down on the bench and eat her stew.

  A moment later she heard him stalk from the chamber.

  When he returned, some time later, he appeared to be seething with anger, features grim, his body as stiff as a corpse.

  Isabeau rose from her perch on the bench, her heart clutching in her breast, having no idea what to make of his behavior.

  His lips twisted in a wry smile. “Have no fear. I’m too weary to beat you tonight.” He scooped up two pelts from the bed, then tossed them her way. “Trust me, I have no wish to touch you at all.”

  The asperity with which this was said made her blink. Why should she fear violence at his hands when his words and his looks cut so deep? “You say I should trust you, yet the only thing greater than your hate is your mistrust of me, else you would not have dragged me in here in the first place.”

  He pulled his black tunic off over his head then turned, presenting a full view of his sleek muscular chest. The light from the hearth set aglow every hard bulge and hollow, from his neck to the dark curls which spread below his navel then disappeared beneath his braises.

  The sight of so much skin sent delicious tingles rushing up and down Isabeau’s limbs to converge at her thighs. The shock made her take an instinctive step back. The thought that he could make her shiver from head to toe was unsettling
to say the least.

  She had no wish to desire him.

  If only she was as immune to him as he was to her.

  Realizing she was staring, she adjusted her gaze upward to his chin.

  “You’re right,” he said in dispassionate tones. “I don’t trust you. Nor do I hate you. In truth, I have no feelings for you at all.”

  She stiffened. “How strange,” she said, turning her back on him to spread one of the pelts by the hearth, “Because I don’t like you at all.”

  She could feel his eyes on her as she lay down to gather the other pelt around her. Let him stare all he wants, she thought, cradling her head in the crook of her arm. I’ll be dreaming of better things.

  Soon she would be reunited with her family, finally meet her betrothed, and Fortin, would become just another unpleasant memory—another one of life’s little lessons.

  Don’t chase after thieves, or at least if you do, don’t get caught.

  Even if Lord Hogan was not as finely made as the image in her dreams. What did she care? What good was a handsome face with no heart to match?

  Isabeau reached for the ruby amulet under her kirtle.

  But her hand could not find it.

  ‘Twas gone.

  Something sank in her belly like a stone.

  Where could it be?

  Had she lost it in Hilda’s bedchamber during the struggle?

  Nay, now she remembered. She had removed it in the bathhouse ere she got into the tub.

  Rot!

  And now she could not leave to retrieve it. Fortin would suspect her of sneaking out for a tryst with one of his men. And yet, she felt bare without it—vulnerable. It acted like a warm hand resting against her heart. She felt alone without it. Had she not been so distracted, she would have noticed it missing long before this—another grievance to lie at Fortin’s door.

  But why should she need that?

  There was no shortage of reasons to hate him.

  His handsome dark looks.

  Hard muscled body.

  Sky blue eyes.

  ***

  A damp mist hung over the courtyard. Isabeau’s footsteps echoed loud in her ears in the hollow silence of the early morn. The pungent smell of manure sailed past her nostrils from the stables nearby.

  The bathhouse appeared deserted as she cautiously pushed opened the door. She propped it opened with a block of wood to let in the light, then hastened to the bench in search of the amulet.

  As luck would have it, when she reached down, ‘twas the very first thing her fingers touched.

  She scooped it up, a surge of joy rushing through her as she pressed it to her lips. Her heart beat a little slower after she slipped it around her neck. She could not face her betrothed without it.

  She had barely stepped out the door when William came rushing toward her from the direction of the hall. He stopped before her, chest heaving for breath. “There you are, my lady. My lord bade me come and fetch you. You’d best return to the hall at once. He’s not in a very good temper this morn.”

  Isabeau did not care what temper Fortin was in, only that he should break his fast and be gone, hopefully never to return. But the distress on William’s face was such that she felt compelled to offer some explanation. “Forgive me. I left something behind in the bathhouse last eventide and had to retrieve it.”

  He slanted her a skeptical look, most likely wondering what in God’s creation she had left behind, since she only possessed the clothes on her back. “Very well, but in the future when you leave the hall you must tell someone where you go.”

  “You don’t believe me?” It pained her to think William, who had been so kind to her, might distrust her as much as his master. She pulled the amulet from beneath her kirtle to offer proof. “’Twas a gift from my betrothed. I couldn’t bear to lose it.”

  An expression akin to guilt passed over William’s face. Or mayhap ‘twas regret. It came so fleeting, she could not tell. His voice rasped deep and gruff when he spoke again. “Come. I best get you back inside before there’s hell to pay.”

  Isabeau dropped the amulet beneath her kirtle, then followed William at a leisurely pace, in no way as anxious to ease his master’s mind as he was. In fact, the thought of pricking Fortin’s ire gave her great satisfaction. She smiled imagining his irritation to have awoke and found her missing.

  Just the same, she avoided the high table while serving in the hall that morn, leaving Hilda to see to his needs.

  In her haste to speed Fortin and his men on their way Isabeau carried two platters of bread and porridge at a time to the trestle tables instead of one. This proved a mistake, when hurrying from the kitchen with an especially heavy load the top tray began to slip.

  Edric, who was sitting nearby, leapt to his feet to grab it before it toppled to the flags. “Now do I deserve a kiss?” he said, close to her ear.

  When he smiled at her like that, with such boyish candor, she could not stay angry with him. But she kept her tone firm, not wishing to encourage him. “Nay, but you have my everlasting thanks.”

  His continued attention drew nudges and chuckles from the men sitting at the trestles nearby.

  Heat rushed to Isabeau’s cheeks.

  Fortin rose from his chair at the high table, cutting short their exchange—a signal that it was time for him and his men to depart.

  Isabeau watched with relief as his men rose to file out behind him.

  Then, she remembered.

  She had failed to gain the information she most wished.

  She picked up her skirts and raced across the hall, fearing Fortin would have reached the stables before she could catch him.

  But as luck would have it, he was conversing with Edric in the courtyard.

  Edric did not look happy when he strode for the gatehouse a few moments later.

  “My lord!” Isabeau called, close on Fortin’s heels as he turned to go. “I would speak with you ere you depart.”

  He turned, slaying her with his sharp blue gaze. “Well?” Impatience edged his voice. “What is it?”

  “Have you word from my uncle?”

  “Nay, I have not.”

  Her heart sank. Disappointment crept into her voice, though she wished it had not. “But it’s been many weeks. Surely he’d have answered by now.”

  “Strange as it may seem, the world does not move for only you,” he said in a mocking tone. “‘Tis likely it has something to do with one of his more important strongholds being under siege in the North.”

  She ignored his jibe, searching his face for answers. But his tanned features remained inscrutable under the slash of his dark brows. “What of my betrothed? Have you not heard from him?”

  Something flickered in his blue eyes before his features closed. “If I were you, I’d not count on it.” He turned to go, then halted. “Don’t worry. Your uncle will pay the ransom.”

  She watched him stride away, biting her lip to keep it from trembling. Had she imagined the softening in his tone? He spoke with such certainty.

  But what if her uncle did not pay?

  What if her betrothed cast her aside?

  What would he do with her then?

  Their exchange in the courtyard played over and over in her mind throughout the remainder of the day. Each time it did, it struck her that something was amiss. Fortin had not told her the whole truth.

  And if she were wise, she would not wait upon his return to discover which part he was leaving out.

  Chapter Five

  A sharp wind lashed against Alec’s unshaven cheeks, whipping his surcoat like the sail of a ship. But, from where he stood on the wall-walk overlooking the ramparts of Highburn Castle, the world looked uncommonly fair.

  For once in his life, it felt as though he was sailing with the tide rather than against it. After many long years of fighting, he finally had a place to call home.

  His gaze shifted past the village to the river, meandering through the green meadows below, imagining the ships
he would one day have moored there and the prosperity they would bring. But first, he must see to the harvest. Stores needed to be replenished if he were to feed his men. Ships were not built on empty stomachs.

  The thump of familiar footfalls turned him around.

  “‘Tis a pity your father isn’t here to see it,” Beaufort said, coming up beside him, a smile as bright as a sunbeam lighting his face.

  Alec expelled a huff. “’Twill take more than this crumbling pile of stones to impress him.” Highburn’s shell keep with its high curtain wall provided adequate protection, but it lacked the grandeur of his father’s fortress in Cornwall. The buildings within were sadly neglected and in desperate need of repair. The two wall towers built close together on either side of the entrance afforded little defense. There was much work to be done before he would invite his father here.

  Beaufort slapped him on the back. “Do you remember the day he left you in my care?”

  “’Tis something I’ve tried hard to forget.”

  “He thought you too small to ever become a knight, but swore you’d make a good and loyal squire.”

  “Yea, he said as much to me, ere he left me with you.” Alec loved his father and knew his father loved him, but Alec held no delusions about his place in the pecking order. His elder brother, Christian, had always been the apple of his father’s eye. But then, he was the heir, and so, required more grooming than Alec and Dominic.

  A chuckle rumbled deep and low in Beaufort’s chest. “But you grew taller and heartier than your two brothers. The look on your father’s face the day you beat Christian at the tournament in Le Mans will burn in my mind forever.”

  “Yea, his chin sagged clear to his knees.” Alec sent forth a depreciative snort. “But his new wife found no pleasure in my victory.”

  “A stepmother’s jealousy. Why do you persist in allowing her to get under your skin?”