Love Never Lies

by Rachel Donnelly

  “’Tis not hate in his gaze when he looks upon you. Hate brings a different light to men’s eyes.”

  Isabeau straightened, a flutter of unease settling in her belly as she brushed the chafe from her hands.

  Could Myrtle be right?

  Did Fortin desire her?

  Had their kiss affected him the same way it had affected her?

  Though she hated to admit it, she felt a certain glow of pleasure whenever she saw him. But, what woman wouldn’t when confronted with such a man? His wide shoulders and great height commanded notice. There was a stillness about him—an aura of confidence that demanded attention. The depths of his blue eyes held you transfixed.

  Her animosity melted away, or any clear thought for that matter. He stole her wits. She could think of only him—how firm and smooth his lips felt—how she longed to feel them pressed against hers once again.

  She blinked.

  What on earth was wrong with her?

  He was her captor for heaven’s sake.

  She had no right to feel thus.

  She was betrothed.

  Hopefully Myrtle was mistaken. Hopefully Isabeau had imagined Fortin’s interest from the high table as she moved about the hall last eventide—the way his eyes followed as she trod from trestle to trestle, refilling horns and tumblers with ale.

  ‘Twas verily suspicion that sparked his interest.

  He could not desire her.

  Nay.

  Fortin’s greed was too great. He wouldn’t touch her. Why else would he have gone to the trouble of checking to see if her virtue was intact? Clearly he was intent on preserving her virtue, not taking it.

  This pleased her more than a little. ‘Twas sweet justice that his greed stood in the way of his lust. One sin would protect her from the other. If he only knew what a favor he was doing her—taking on the task of guarding her virtue. Though a prisoner, she felt strangely free, not having to look over her shoulder for a change. Like a watchman after a long night of sentry, there was only relief.

  Isabeau followed Myrtle up the stairs to tidy the upstairs chambers with a light and nimble step, pleased that in some small way her presence might cause Fortin some torment that day.

  ‘Twas less than he deserved.

  ***

  A brisk wind snapped against Isabeau’s cheeks. The muddy scent of the river beyond the confines of the courtyard smelled of freedom, bringing the desperation in her heart to a fevered pitch. Fortin had slipped out of the hall that morn before she could question him, but as soon as the palisade gates opened and he and his men trotted in, she planned to force an answer from his lips. She could not abide another moment of waiting, without knowing when her captivity would end.

  It shouldn’t be long now. She’d spotted them from the battlements, returning after helping the villagers with the harvest. From the talk she’d heard in the hall, Fortin was anxious to get in what remained of the crops so that he could begin building his ships.

  The river gave him the advantage of trading north and south. He planned to be ready come spring to peddle everything Highburn could offer—mainly timber and wool, as a dense forest surrounded the plowed fields and meadows dotted with grazing sheep. ‘Twas a shame he only saw the bounty and not the beauty of this place.

  If Highburn were her home she’d explore every forest path, every glade by the shimmering river, and wander up and down every green rolling meadow, picking daisies and marsh flowers as she went.

  It galled her to think Fortin went about his merry way, planning his future—his life moving forward, growing brighter like a windblown flame while hers slowly sputtered out. And there was naught she could do about it. It set her to grinding her teeth.

  If her uncle had been detained fighting in the north, why had he not sent her betrothed? Surely if Lord Hogan knew where she was he’d come for her. Mayhap he didn’t know. If he thought her uncle had not upheld his end of the bargain, he might have married another by now.

  The more Isabeau pondered it, the more desperate her thoughts grew.

  She paced the flags in the courtyard, cursing under her breath. Was it so much to ask for—a little happiness—a place where love and laughter lived, like her parents’ home.

  Only this time ‘twould not be snatched away after a brief holiday. ‘Twould be her home, where she would settle in and raise a family—her own, cozy, familiar nest.

  To think Fortin might have ruined her dreams—all that she had planned and hoped for, made anger build inside her, until the heat pricked her ears.

  By the time the gates swung opened and Fortin and his men cantered in amongst shouts and laughter, hot ire burned her from head to toe.

  The moment Fortin leapt down from his destrier before the stables Isabeau was there to confront him. “What news? Tell me? Have you heard from my uncle?”

  His smile faded, and his tanned features darkened beneath his straight black brows. “‘Tis the same as every day you ask me. I have no reply. When I do, I’ll tell you.”

  His impatient tone set her blood to roiling. “Mayhap you haven’t told me because there’s nothing to tell!” She braced her hands on her hips. “I would know the truth. Have you sent word to my uncle or not?”

  “A messenger is on his way.”

  A gasp tore from her lips. “What? More than a month has passed and you have only just sent word now! Sweet mother of God! Do you know what you’ve done?”

  “Your uncle was fighting in the north,” he said with a dismissive shrug. “There was no need to send word until now. He would not have received it.”

  “No need? There was every need!” So, all this time he’d been stringing her along, just to keep her happy and shut her up. “What of my family—my betrothed? They’ll be sick with worry. Did you not think of them? Or is your greed so great, you can only think of yourself?”

  His thick-lashed gaze changed from sky-blue to midnight. “Your sister should have thought of that before she named me as the father of her child.”

  “Nicola was young and afraid. Can’t you understand that?”

  “I understand how a maid who gives her favors to many men knows not which to blame.”

  Her hands clinched into fists. How dare he call her sister a whore! He knew nothing about her. “You shouldn’t say such evil things, especially when you have no proof.”

  His lips twisted in a wry smile. “You’re right, Cheri. Who should know that better than me? But under the circumstances, it’s the most reasonable conclusion.” He threw his reins to William to lead his steed away, then turned on his heel to stride for the hall.

  “Nicola was raped.”

  He stopped, then, very slowly turning around, as though he did not wish to hear, but couldn’t help himself. “Is that what she told you?” He arched one dark brow, apparently not believing her claim. “Then why didn’t she name her attacker?”

  “I…I don’t know?” The intensity of his gaze sent her stumbling over her words, making it sound more like a lie than the truth. “As I said, she was afraid. He must have threatened her. She…she would not say.”

  His lips curled in an almost smile. “A stirring tale, but not enough to change my opinion. Look to your sister, if you wish to place blame. I refuse to shoulder the burden of her mistakes again.”

  “What burden? A brief moment of shame you cannot shake? You lost nothing in the end, while Nicola lost her reputation and eventually the child she was carrying. I may have lost my marriage—the greatest happiness of my life.” Isabeau sucked in a quavering breath, her hand going instinctively to the amulet, which for once she had not bothered to tuck inside her kirtle. “For what? Wealth? It won’t preserve your manhood, but mayhap forgiveness will.” With that, she strode past him toward the door.

  His hand closed around her arm to stop her, while his glittering gaze bore into hers. “What makes you think marriage is such a happy state?”

  Isabeau blinked up at him, her thoughts scattered by the unexpected contact of his hand, sending
a frenzy of tingles straight through the linen of her kirtle to her flesh. “What makes you think it’s not?”

  “’Tis only a contract.”

  She twisted away from him, then took a deep breath to clear her head. “To you it may be. But to me it’s not.” She raised her hand to the amulet to rub her fingers across the letters on the back.

  “’Tis hardly a love message in your hand.”

  She lifted her chin to slash him a haughty glare. “’Tis all in the way you interpret it.”

  He smiled back at her, a gleam of what looked like satisfaction lighting his eyes. “You don’t read Arabic, do you, Isabeau?”

  She hesitated, ruffled by his arrogant tone, but the need to know was too strong. “Nay, I do not.”

  “Do you wish me to tell you what it says?”

  She nodded slowly, wondering if she dare trust him, but at the same time so filled with anticipation she held her breath. Finally she would learn what the words meant—what heartfelt message Lord Hogan had etched on the gold behind the ruby stone. Hopefully, ‘twould give her some clue as to the sort of man he was.

  “Love never lies. That’s what it says.” Fortin tilted his head to one side, offering a mocking look. “More of a warning than a lover’s message, don’t you think?”

  “What?” She tossed her head, expelling a loud huff of disbelief. To think he should have the gall to twist her betrothed words into something sinister—into something they could not possibly mean. Obviously it had been sent as a token of good faith and affection, not what he took it to mean. Why should her betrothed send her a warning?

  ‘Twas ridiculous.

  What a bitter, distrustful creature Fortin was.

  “How would you know? I’m sure you’ve never loved anyone in your life,” she said turning away, not willing to let him destroy her dreams—to undermine what hope she had left.

  “I know, because I am the one who sent it.”

  Chapter Seven

  Isabeau turned to stare at him aghast. “What?” She searched Fortin’s features for a sign of that he was lying.

  But there was none. His voice came calm and sharp, slicing her heart like meat. “How did you think I knew Lord Agnew’s niece was marrying and there would be such a hefty dowry? I knew, because I negotiated the terms.”

  Her limbs went weak. The clatter of steel-shod hoofs and the raucous voices of Fortin’s men entering the courtyard faded to background. A tightness in her throat made it impossible to speak.

  “‘Twas very easy to do—send a messenger using my mother’s family name. What I don’t understand was why he was so desperate to marry you off. Anyone can see had he taken you to court, there would have been many suitors vying for your hand.”

  Something shattered in her breast. Whatever flattery he intended failed to permeate her brain. It had gone numb. All she had hoped for and dreamed of came crashing down—love, security, independence. And before her stood the man who had accomplished it.

  All of the air seemed to have been sucked from her lungs.

  She could not breathe.

  Much less bear to look at him. Her disappointment was so great, it crowded out every other thought. All she could think of was getting away, to hide her humiliation and pain.

  She started to run.

  Blindly at first, but as it turned out, she headed straight for the stable—the most direct path away from him.

  William and one of the grooms were busy removing saddles and bridles from the steeds left by Fortin’s men, still filtering in.

  Before either could stop her or even call out, Isabeau leapt up onto the back of a big bay destrier waiting to be unsaddled. One dig of her heels in its flanks sent her thundering toward the open gates.

  Shouts rose up behind her, but it was too late. There was not enough time for them to fully close the gates.

  Isabeau plunged through the gap without looking back.

  The big warhorse raced across the meadow, eating up the distance between the fortress behind them and the forest beyond. Isabeau’s heart beat in time with its pounding hooves. The braids she wound so tidily on her head that morn tore free to fly behind her. Her chest burned as hot as the red glow of the fading sun.

  She didn’t know where she was going—only that she must get away, so she let the horse have its head.

  She didn’t hear Fortin thundering up behind her, until he was almost upon her.

  By then it was too late.

  He came alongside her, reached over and grabbed the reins of her mount, pulling him to an abrupt halt.

  After leaping down from his own horse, he reached up to drag her from the other horse’s back. “What are you trying to do? Kill yourself?” Hands biting into her shoulders, he gave her a little shake. “Or mayhap, ‘tis this fine beast you wish to maim.”

  “Nay!” She blinked at the hot tears pricking her eyes. But despite her efforts, one escaped to slide down her cheek. Only then did she notice her surroundings—how uneven and rocky the ground was and how close she had come to disaster. She began to shake.

  If Fortin had not stopped him, the warhorse would have plunged down the narrow path crowded on either side with pines, likely breaking its leg and killing her in the process.

  Her voice came in a shattered whisper, “I only wished to get away from you.”

  He released her, dropping his hands to his sides. His voice softened. “There’s no place to go, where I won’t find you.”

  She stared up at him, frustration building in her breast. Her third failed escape, with each time away from him shorter than the last. ‘Twas too much to bear. She swung her fist without thinking. It connected with the side of his jaw with a loud crack.

  The force of the blow set him off balance, forcing him to take a step back. A spark of anger lit his eyes when he recovered.

  Isabeau braced herself, feet planted firmly on the ground. In her fury, she did not think to run. If he wanted a battle she would gladly give him one.

  But instead of retaliating as she expected, he brought his hand up to rub his face, flashing a wry smile. “I suppose I deserved that.”

  “You deserve more,” she said. “But I’ll leave that to my uncle.”

  “I understand your anger.” His voice turned quiet, almost gentle. “‘Twas not my intent to cause you pain.”

  She turned away, not wishing him to see the fresh rush of tears gathering in her eyes. She wanted to believe him—to forgive him as a good Christian should, but the wound was too new—too raw to be lanced with a quick apology.

  What did he think?

  No one would get hurt by his scheming?

  That a promise of marriage meant nothing to a maid?

  Apparently so.

  He believed marriage to be a mercenary act. Most matches started out that way, but some led to love, as in the case of her parents. Why should she not hope for the same? All she wanted was a happy home—a safe place to lay her head where love might bloom. Was that too much to ask?

  He continued in the same even tone. “I’m sorry for your part in it, but I don’t regret what I’ve done.”

  His calm words closed around her heart like frost coating a spring bud. How could he be sorry without regret? ‘Twas only half an apology, certainly not enough to warrant forgiveness. She turned to regard him steadily. “Then I shall make it my task to see that you do.”

  His blue eyes narrowed. “Be careful what you promise, Cheri. I’m not the forgiving kind.”

  “’Tis much too late for threats, my lord,” she said tightly. “You have thrown down your challenge, and I, have picked it up.”

  ***

  “Where is your fair prisoner this night?” Beaufort’s gaze scanned the hall from where he sat at the high table. “Agnew could not have acknowledged your tardy summons this soon.”

  “Nay, he has not,” Alec replied in clipped tones, unable to contain his ire. “I bade Myrtle tell her to seek her pallet. I’m weary of her dark looks.”

  Beaufort chuckled
. “It pricks your pride sorely that she doesn’t swoon at your feet like every other maid you’ve ever met.”

  “She doth hate me, that is certain.”

  “Can you blame her?”

  “Nay, but neither will I abide it.” In truth it was not her hate, but the sorrowful glances she continually sent his way causing him disquiet of late, to the point where it interfered with his digestion. After a long day’s work he wished to relax—enjoy himself. Instead, he looked up from his trencher to find her dove colored eyes upon him, only to flick away when his gaze met hers, as though she could not bear the sight of him.

  ‘Twas his own fault.

  He should never have revealed the false state of her betrothal. Now he was condemned to suffer her accusing looks whenever he entered the hall. You would have thought he’d broken her heart—stole her one true love. When in fact, she had never met the man—he did not exist.

  “Your charm is slipping.” Beaufort slanted him a questioning glance. “I would have thought your smooth tongue would have cooled her ire by now and you would have had her hanging on your every word.”

  Having been his squire and pupil in the arts of chivalry, the bite of Beaufort’s censure turned Alec’s tone brusque. “I have no interest in the maid past collecting the ransom to replenish my coffers.”

  “So you keep saying, and yet it took you a verily long time to send word to her uncle?” Beaufort tilted his head, flashing a mocking grin. “Admit it. You’re smitten with the maid.”

  Alec cast him a dour look. “Her beauty cannot make me forget what I suffered at her family’s hands. Nor will she forget what I’ve done to her. You’re wasting your time playing matchmaker.”

  “Ahhh, so she knows of your trickery.” Beaufort lifted both brows, sending a low whistle past his lips. “What witless fool lacked the foresight to spill that?”

  “Me.”

  A hoot of laughter burst from Beaufort’s lips. “You cannot be serious! What were you thinking?” His eyes widened in disbelief. “When she’s near, you’d best not turn your back.”