Love Never Lies

by Rachel Donnelly

  Alec leaned back in his chair, tumbler of ale in hand, his voice turned thoughtful. “There’s no need to worry on that score. She appears more saddened by the news than angry, though I can’t think why. The man isn’t real. He doesn’t exist.”

  “You have much to learn of women.” Beaufort sent him a long look beneath his golden brow. “He may not have been real to you, but to her, he was her champion—the stuff of dreams. ‘Twould have been wiser to allow her to imagine he was real rather than to crush her hopes completely.”

  “’Tis crueler to allow her to believe he might ride to her rescue at any moment. She had to know the truth eventually. Better she learns it now and be done with it.”

  “Or did you grow weary of competing with your own myth?”

  Alec choked on a mouthful of ale. “You think me jealous?” His voice squeaked as he attempted to catch his breath. “You’re mistaken, my friend.”

  “Ha! So you keep saying.” Beaufort reached behind Alec to pound him on the back. “You tell me you would marry to increase your lands. But each time I mention your neighbor, Langley, or his two daughters, one of whom is of marriageable age, you dance around the subject. Best you don’t wait past the tournament he’s holding, ere someone else snaps her up.”

  Alec gave one last cough then held up his hand before Beaufort could open his mouth again. “Your efforts at matchmaking are wasted. I’m not ready to marry. When I am, you’ll be the first to know. ‘Tis your knowledge of shipbuilding I’m in need of right now.”

  Beaufort gulped back the rest of his ale, then slammed the empty tumbler on the table. “Then you’re in luck. I’ve brought the best carpenter in all of Christendom.”

  This was sweet music to Alec’s ears. The planning could begin on the morrow. ‘Twould be a welcome distraction while he awaited news of the ransom. There would be no time for him to bemoan his actions with regard to the maid or for her mournful gaze to plague him to an early grave, as she would be far too busy with the hall filled to overflowing with Beaufort’s men.

  Still, Beaufort’s words nagged at the back of Alec’s mind the remainder of the eventide. His plans for retribution had not included breaking a young maid’s heart. But it was too late to repair the damage he’d done. ‘Twas her own fault for constantly throwing the threat of her betrothed up in his face. Marriage was no romantic dream. ‘Twas a serious contract to increase one’s wealth—advance the security of one’s family.

  If she did not realize that, ‘twas high time someone set her straight.

  God’s teeth! If anything, he had done her a favor.

  One day she would thank him.

  In the meantime, he’d do as Beaufort suggested and watch his back.

  ***

  Isabeau regarded the large casket in the middle of her solar like a hungry wolf, considering fresh meat in a trap. The prospect of wearing clothes that were neither stained nor torn made her fingers itch to throw open the lid, yet the motives behind Fortin’s sudden generosity gave her pause. What prompted him to send her her belongings after such a long time?

  Guilt?

  Nay he had shown little of that.

  ‘Twas more likely Beaufort had something to do with it. He was ever eager to offer a kind word when he saw her. He had offered his praise several times after the transformation from squalor to tidy comfort she and Myrtle had accomplished in the hall, while Fortin had failed to notice, or if he had, saw it as his due and said naught.

  Ungrateful wretch!

  Mayhap Beaufort had commented on her shabby attire and shamed Fortin into seeing her decently clothed.

  She shrugged. ‘Twas foolish to waste time contemplating the reason, when the only tenuous connection she had with home sat before her on the flags. She padded forward in her thin, linen chemise, then dropped to her knees to throw open the lid.

  The familiar smell of lavender assailed her, mingling with the rose scented soap Maddie had packed. Fearing her uncle had betrothed her to some barbaric heathen, Maddie had stuffed enough cakes beneath her clothing for a year of fragment baths.

  At the very top sat the pale yellow kirtle that Isabeau was to wear to exchange her wedding vows. Her belly tightened at the sight of the intricate rows of flowers embroidered along the neckline and the edge of the sleeves that she and Maddie had spent so many hours laboring over until their eyes almost bled.

  If not for the waste of fine silk, she would have lifted it up and flung it upon the coals in the hearth. Instead she dug past it to produce a soft gray kirtle of sturdy wool—a more practical garment for everyday use.

  She yanked the thin linen chemise she’d slept in over her head, then tossed it on the bed to dress hurriedly before Myrtle came pounding on her door to assist her in the hall.

  Finally, dressed and scrubbed and feeling more like her old self, Isabeau ascended the curved stairs to set about her day’s labor.

  The men had begun to file out by the time she reached the hall. The unexpected pleasure of an entire wardrobe at her disposal had caused her to linger over her dressing longer than she ought.

  She sent Myrtle an apologetic look, then hastened forward to begin gathering empty porridge bowls and spoons from the trestle tables.

  When the trestles were cleared and wiped free of crumbs, she and Myrtle converged on the high table to tackle the mayhem together.

  “Your duties are to be changed from this day forward,” Myrtle said, popping up from under the table after diving for a runaway boiled egg. “His lordship has sent his squire to the village for reinforcements.”

  “Changed?” Isabeau turned with an armload of wooden bowls, a note of suspicion creeping into her voice. “How?”

  “’Twould seem his Lordship feels we are overly taxed, and rightly so. Now that Lord Beaufort has come, ‘tis unreasonable to expect us to cope with the running of the hall as well as keeping the chambers tidy aloft.” Myrtle continued piling bowls on top of the precarious tower in her hands. “He wishes me to oversee the household and you to see to the upstairs chambers. A maid from the village will do the serving in the hall hence forth.”

  Up until now Myrtle had seen to the bedchambers. Isabeau did not relish the idea of cleaning Fortin’s solar. ‘Twas not the work, but the thought of entering his private lair each day, surrounded by his smell, gathering sheets still warm from the heat of his body. “I’d prefer to continue serving in the hall. Could not the maid from the village see to the upstairs chambers instead?”

  “‘Tis not up to me,” Myrtle threw over her shoulder as she headed toward the kitchen with an overloaded tray. “I’m simply the one doing the telling. If you don’t like it, you must take your complaints to his lordship.”

  Isabeau ground her teeth in exasperation.

  That she would.

  As soon as she clamped eyes on him.

  ‘Twas bad enough to be shut up all day in this great pile of stone with only Myrtle for company. There was not even a priest to take confession. He had fled before the siege. The small chapel in the courtyard stood hollow and empty.

  Isabeau went each morn to say her prayers, but no Mass was said. There was no one there to hear her sins or speak so passionately as Father Clarence.

  Mayhap that was just as well. ‘Twould curl the ears of a priest to hear her thoughts. How she wished to murder Fortin one minute then feel his lips pressed to hers the next. She would no doubt be shut up in convent and declared mad.

  Now she was to be closeted aloft with little or nothing to do save tidy three bedchambers. At best that would not keep her occupied past noon. What would she do with the remainder of the day—prowl the ramparts, scouring the countryside for any sign of rescue? Sweet torture indeed.

  She was accustomed to riding, hawking, and entertaining guests in her uncle’s hall. ‘Twas painful to be shut off from the world without the company of people her own age—her own station. Learning her betrothal was a jest didn’t help. Having to return to her parents, unwed, with no prospects of a prosperous match tied
her stomach in knots.

  ‘Twas likely Barak would renew his campaign for her to marry Lord Newbury. She shivered at the thought. To be married to a cruel, battle-hardened man twice her age, after pinning her hopes so high, ‘twas a bitter draught to swallow.

  Few people married for love. She was no fool. She did not hope for that— just a fighting chance—a husband who was kind, one that did not make her skin crawl. Was that too much to ask?

  She would live close to Nicola if she married Newbury. But, each busy managing their own households, how often would they see each other? Certainly not enough to warrant marriage to a man she despised—one that made her flesh crawl.

  If only she could get word to Nicola. She and Sir Guilford would surely put up the ransom, if they knew where to find her. Sir Guilford owned vast holdings in the north and often traveled to court to discuss defenses along the Scottish border with the King. Nicola had told her of his many connections there.

  Mayhap he could procure her a match—if Nicola could convince him to help. And why not? He had saved Nicola from ruin in her time of need. Their marriage may not have been a traditional match, but Sir Guilford was a good man. He had proven that.

  Her uncle had yet to arrive with the ransom. If she could convince Fortin that he was wasting his time—to appeal to her sister instead, she might avoid marrying Newbury yet—have some hope of a happy match. If only she’d thought of this before. ‘Twas the perfect solution.

  With that thought, Isabeau’s steps lightened. All was not lost, despite Fortin’s best effort to destroy her future. With any luck, she would snag a husband with great wealth and power—one who would make Fortin repent his villainous ways.

  ***

  Alec emerged from the bathhouse rubbing his head with a towel, feeling refreshed after a long day of hefting oak planks by the river. The unexpected sight of Isabeau pacing in the courtyard brought him up short.

  No matter what time of day, she never failed to look as fresh as spring, skin glistening, glorious crown of blonde braids alit with gold fire. ‘Twas a torment to look upon her—to see those lush lips curve into a smile and know it was not meant for him.

  Though she declined to speak to him, the husky laugh Beaufort coaxed from her last eventide when they entered the hall robbed him of sleep, haunting him well into the night.

  What would cause her to seek him out now, after a week of avoiding his gaze? Mayhap sending the casket of clothes had relieved her sulks. Women usually put great store in their appearance. Yet she had chosen to wear a grey wool gown, the plainest of the lot. Rather than detract from her comeliness, it emphasized her vivid coloring, like a hot coal glowing against a grate of pale ash.

  Upon spotting him, she ceased her pacing and strode forward. “Good eventide, my lord. Might I speak with you a moment?”

  Whether from her downcast eyes or her delicate hands clasp so demurely in front of her, he turned impatient. “For a maid who wishes to keep her virtue, you put yourself at great risk.” He threw the damp towel over his shoulder, then sat down on the stone step to pull on his boots. “Loitering at the entrance of the bathhouse is not a safe practice.”

  “Why should I fear for my virtue, when you’re so bent on protecting it?”

  He glanced upward, annoyed at her deliberate mild tone, another ploy to make him feel guilty no doubt. “If you wish to speak with me,” he said, coming to his feet. “Come to my solar ere I leave in the morn.”

  “Is that when your temper is best?”

  He regarded her steadily. “Do you mean to test it now?”

  “Nay, my lord.” She did not open her mouth, but he suspected a smile lurked beneath her bland stare.

  “Then speak your piece. The hour grows late. I would seek my supper.”

  “That’s what I wish to speak to you about.” Her lashes fluttered upward, affording him a brief glance of the velvet depths of her gray eyes. “I wish to continue serving in the hall, rather than cleaning the bedchambers.”

  “Is that all?” he said, harsher than he ought, attempting to squelch the surge of desire that turned his blood hot. “I thought the kitchen had caught fire and the fresh haunch of pork I’d ordered was burnt to cinders.”

  “Nay, my lord.”

  “Then the answer is nay.” He turned on his heel to stride toward the hall, smiling to himself at her look of amazement.

  “What?” She caught up with him before he reached the door, her normal spirit seemingly restored. “Why ever not? What difference does it make who does which chore, as long as ‘tis done?”

  He came to an abrupt halt. God’s teeth! He was doing her a favor— lightening her workload. Sassy vixen. ‘Twas a gift, not a punishment. How dare she throw it back in his face! He sucked in a long breath in an attempt to rein in his temper. “If it was so important, you’d have looked me in the eye and asked.”

  Her gaze flashed upward.

  Their eyes locked.

  “Is that your only objection?”

  He reached out his hand to slide one finger down her silken cheek, resisting the urge to draw her close and taste her sweet lips again. “Nay, but it gave you cause to look at me, did it not?”

  Her eyes grew wide. She jerked her hand away, then looked as though she might say something, or hit him, but apparently changed her mind. Instead she turned and marched past him into the hall.

  He chuckled, watching her stalk toward the stairs. ‘Twould almost be worth losing half the ransom to feel such a beautiful creature writhing beneath him atop the furs on his bed—to wrap himself in that magnificent hair and watch those soft dove eyes smolder to coals.

  ***

  Isabeau’s gaze bore into Fortin like a hot spit through a goose. He appeared far too content from where she stood at one of the trestle tables pouring ale. If only she hadn’t let her temper get the better of her outside the bathhouse last eventide. She might have had an answer by now.

  If she had to wait one more day shut up as his prisoner without knowing when it would end, she would loose her good sense.

  Come what may, before this night was out, she would remind him of the fortnight that had passed since he had sent word to her uncle. She would demand he send a messenger to Sir Guilford at once. But that was not possible until the guests in the hall dispersed.

  Fortin sat entertaining his neighbors this eventide with a feast to celebrate the completion of his first ship.

  When Myrtle came to Fortin’s solar to tell her she was needed in the hall to help serve, she had been tempted to refuse. After all, her pleas to work in the hall as opposed to cleaning the bedchambers had fallen on deaf ears. ‘Twould serve him right if his guests had to wait for their supper.

  So she delayed, using the excuse that she had forgotten to shake the rush mats in Fortin’s solar. In truth, ‘twas pure stubbornness that kept her so long. Her pride rebelled at the thought of playing serf to nobles of her own rank—watching them whisper behind their hands.

  But in the end, the temptation to expose Fortin’s ruthlessness had been too great.

  ‘Twas only fitting his neighbors should see what kind of man they were considering aliening their family with in marriage. ‘Twould serve Fortin right if she marched right up to the high table and demanded he explain how she came to be his prisoner in the first place. Mayhap the fair ladies would be interested to know what perverse methods he had employed, especially if one of them was contemplating a marriage contract.

  According to Myrtle, the village reeked with gossip concerning the match. It seemed Lord Langley offered a sizable dowry in the form of a large chunk of land for Fortin to take his eldest daughter off his hands. No doubt Fortin itched to get his paws on it, as well as the winsome, auburn-haired Lady Anna. Why else would he have shed his usual sober black attire to drape himself in blue, if not to impress the maid?

  And it appeared to be working. She drooled and hung on his every word, leaning forward to press her ample bosom against his arm at every opportunity. Apparently she had wish
ed too long and too hard for breasts. If her feet were any smaller, she would tip right over from the weigh of them.

  The younger daughter, Lady Daria, a wee slip of a thing, did not seem to suffer from the same affliction under the influence of Fortin’s charm. She gabbed unabashed, tilting her flaxen head between Fortin and Beaufort, laughing at their jovial discourse.

  Isabeau had a feeling that under any other circumstance she would like the Lady Daria. She appeared to be down to earth, with a spirit as light as air and a sharp wit, judging from the laughter her banter stirred.

  The feel of a warm hand on her backside shocked Isabeau back to the present. In her distraction over the antics at the high table she had let her guard down. She swung round with a gasp, ready to smash the ewer of mead in her hand over the culprit’s head. But coming face to face with him, she saw that he was one of Langley’s men and would not realize she was no ordinary serf, free to fondle whenever he wished.

  So, instead of lambasting the black haired, leering knave, she emptied the contents of the ewer over his head.

  His roar of outrage echoed throughout the hall, gaining curious looks from every corner.

  Seeing the gleam of malice in his brown eyes, Isabeau wished she’d brained him instead.

  Before she could step away, he made a swoop with both meaty arms to pull her up against his wet lap. “You like to play rough, do ye?”

  Isabeau squirmed and twisted in an attempt to break free, but his arms were as tight as shackles. The smell of his ale-soaked breathe made her want to gag. When his hand crept up the inside of her thigh, she let forth an outraged screech, so loud it numbed her own ears.

  Whoops of laughter rose up around the trestle tables from the rest of Langley’s men.

  William jumped up from his seat at the trestle across from them. But he was too late to save her from further humiliation.

  The sweaty beast squeezed both of her breasts painfully beneath his hands, then attempted to plant his lips on hers. Only with a great deal of writhing was she able to avoid them. When his lips attached like bloodsucking leech to her neck, Isabeau dropped the ewer, pulled back her elbow and jabbed him hard in the ribs.