Love Never Lies

by Rachel Donnelly

  His loud moan mingled with the sound of linen tearing as she sprang to her feet.

  Cold air rushed up her back.

  She gasped.

  Wearing the threadbare blue kirtle to shame Fortin before his guests had resulted in her own mortification. For now, her entire back was exposed, right down to the curve of her bottom.

  Fiery heat consumed her flesh as the ruckus at the tables increased.

  William stepped between them before Langley’s man could recover. But it was too late. Isabeau’s shame was complete. She turned on her heel to run for the stone stairs with lewd comments from Langley’s men flying at her back.

  By the time she reached the top of the stairwell, humiliation had turned to white hot rage.

  Fortin had to have seen what happened. Yet he had not lifted a finger to stop it. Mayhap he considered her mortification added entertainment for his guests.

  Rather than cooling her ire, the cold chill running up her back from the rent in her kirtle inflamed her temper further.

  She strode past the doorway of her bedchamber, making directly for Fortin’s solar.

  He had taken everything she had—including her dignity. Mayhap ‘twas time for him to lose something precious.

  She flung opened the great oaken door, her lips compressed in a hard line.

  A fire had been laid in the hearth.

  How convenient.

  Isabeau’s gaze roamed the ill-adorned room for something to burn. Just her luck Fortin was too tightfisted to possess only the most basic of furnishings. Her attention settled at the end of the bed. She strode across the flags to snatch up the clothes Fortin had flung there when he had hurriedly dressed to receive his guests. Not his best, but he would surely miss the garments when he returned to building his ships on the morrow.

  After tossing them on the coals, Isabeau dragged one of the oak armchairs to the window. What would not burn, could be thrown in the moat. The first to go was a pair of silver candlesticks at the end of the hearth, followed by an earthen goblet on the bedside table. A fine pair of leather shoes went out the window next.

  She had just put her hand on one of the wolf pelts adorning the bed when the loud boom of Fortin’s voice stopped her. “If you set fire to my bed-coverings I’ll take yours. Or mayhap that’s your wish, to sleep in my bed.”

  Isabeau spun round, clutching the fluffy pelt against her heaving breasts.

  Fortin stood in the doorway, legs braced, eyes narrowed, his angry presence all but filling the room.

  But she was too overcome by rage to heed the danger behind his words. With a bitter laugh she marched toward the hearth. “Ha! You would not wish me that close to you.”

  His voice grew quiet, bouncing off the stone walls in a soft threat. “I’d not be too certain of that.”

  She hesitated, the wolf pelt poised in one hand over the orange glowing embers.

  He walked slowly toward her, pinning her with his glittering blue gaze. “From the moment I saw you, I’ve imagined you lying naked across my bed.”

  The heat in his tone set her cheeks aflame. She took a wary step back, her heart pounding hard in her breast. “But, but you hate me,” she sputtered. “You’ve said so many times.”

  “Hate has nothing to do with desire,” he said softly. “‘Tis a very different thing.”

  Her throat constricted, choking out what anger was left there. “If you come any closer I’ll scream.” She continued to back away, her mind working frantically for some way of escape. “Do you wish your neighbors to know you’re raping me?”

  “Most likely they’ll think I’m giving you the sound beating you deserve, for dumping ale all over one of my guest’s.”

  Her mouth went dry. Serfs were beaten in her uncle’s household all the time, for much lesser transgressions.

  One more step and her legs met the edge of the bed.

  But she maintained her courage, despite the trembling in her knees. “He’s fortunate I didn’t smash his skull!”

  “You really should try to control your temper.” He stood inches from her now, shaking his head. “It’s liable to get you into trouble one day.”

  “More trouble than you’ve already caused me?” she snapped, too rattled by his nearness to control her tongue. “I doubt that.”

  She made to step around him, but he moved to block her path. “Nothing that I’ve done, cannot be mended.”

  She tilted her head back to stare into the depths of his crackling blue eyes. She could not force her voice past a whisper. “You’re wrong.” Her gaze remained steady, despite her shaking limbs. “But your deceit has taught me many things. I’ll recover.”

  Instead of meeting her gaze, his attention settled on her lips, sending a shiver through her. “My clothes however will not. They’re burnt beyond repair. And for that you’ll make amends.”

  “Use my dowry then.” She turned toward the fire, too flustered by his proximity to think.

  “Your dowry has already been put to good use building my ships.”

  She turned to stare at him. He said it so casually, as though stealing her future meant no more than tossing a piece of silver down a well. “Then you’ll have to wait for the ransom,” she said, her throat constricted with bitterness. “I have nothing else.”

  “And what should I wear until then? These fine rags? I think not. You’ll stitch me a new set of clothes, beginning this eventide.” He strode to the casket at the end of his bed. He threw open the lid to pull forth a folded piece of black linen. “If I don’t find a new tunic and braies on my bed come morn, I’ll seek my payment through other means.”

  Her mouth gaped wide. “’Twould be impossible to complete such a task ere I sewed all night.”

  “Then you’d better hope the feast lasts all night.” He tossed the fabric at her head, then strode for the door.

  She caught it in mid-air. “Wait!”

  He turned in the doorway, lifting one brow.

  “Why do you not petition my sister for ransom? Her husband, Lord Guilford, possesses great wealth and much land.” Seeing his closed expression at the mention of her sister, her words spilled forth all the faster. “I know he’ll come. He’s a very good man.”

  His lips curved in a cynical smile. “But not a wise one I think. Nay. My dispute is with your family, not his. He is burdened enough.”

  Her hands clinched into fists. ‘Twas all she could do not to run after him and pound them against his retreating back.

  Burdened indeed!

  He did not know the meaning of the word.

  Yet.

  Chapter Eight

  Sitting by the hearth in her solar sewing all night allowed Isabeau much time to think. When she finally drew the last stitch through the black linen of Fortin’s new braies, her mind saw clearly what her blurry eyes could not—a way to seek revenge.

  What Fortin wished for most was wealth, by way of her ransom and marriage to his buxom neighbor. But, ‘twas a heavy burden indeed to guard her virtue while attempting to woo Lady Anna. The question was, how could she ruin his plans without compromising herself.

  Of course, the best way would be to escape—cheat him out of his precious ransom. Mayhap his pursuit of the Lady Anna would prove the perfect distraction, giving Isabeau the chance she’d been waiting for.

  Tossing his valuable possessions in the moat had given her great satisfaction, but ‘twas not enough to appease her outrage, especially after getting caught.

  Nay, ‘twas his peace of mind she wished to shake—that cool control of his. ‘Twas high time he realized he could not play with people’s lives and emerge unscathed.

  Isabeau blinked, her eyes growing blurry against the strain of the dim candlelight. Why had she been so rash, allowing her anger to goad her to such an impulsive act? ‘Twould have been better to follow his lead—wait and plan for just the right moment. But, she had never been as calculating as that.

  The creak of the door put an end to Isabeau’s vengeful musings.

&
nbsp; Gwen, the maid from the village, poked her curly brown head around the door. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but I understand you’re in need of assistance.”

  Myrtle had come aloft earlier to check on her after the commotion in the hall. When Isabeau told her what she must do, and the short time she must do it in, the older woman shook her grey head and clucked her tongue, muttering all the way out the door.

  Still, she could not believe Myrtle would send the only pair of extra hands she had on such a night, with the hall bursting to overflowing with Fortin’s guests. “’Tis very kind of you.” Isabeau smiled in thanks. “But I fear Myrtle needs you more than I.”

  “’Tis not me what’s come to help, but my sister.” Gwen scurried around the door, dragging another young maid behind her. “Lord Fortin sent to the village for her. She has a talent with a needle, our Biddie does.”

  Isabeau blinked.

  Surely Gwen was mistaken.

  Why should Fortin send her help? He was the one punishing her in the first place. ‘Twas likely Myrtle who sent for the maid. Unless, the greedy devil feared she would not finish in time and he would have to follow through with his threat of ravishment, cutting his ransom in half. No doubt, that was closer to the truth.

  Her sister delivered, Gwen scurried out as fast as she came, closing the door behind her.

  Biddy colored, flashing an abashed smile as she hustled forward. Though she held a strong resemblance to Gwen, possessing the same luxurious chestnut curls, she appeared younger—her features finer. Her eyes sparkled more like large emeralds than dull moss in her oval face.

  For all her shy glances, Biddy’s tongue proved as fast and as nimble as her fingers as she bent her head over the sleeve of Fortin’s tunic. In no time Isabeau learned more about the maid and every recent scandal in the village than she had from her sister Gwen the entire fortnight she’d been at Highburn.

  Though ‘twas difficult to follow Biddy’s incessant chatter in her weary state, one particular piece of information caused Isabeau to jab her thumb with the needle and sit up straight.

  She shifted in her chair by the fire to regard the maid with interest. “Did you say Guilford?”

  “Yea, my lady. My betrothed lives in the North. He be the blacksmith at Lowglen, for Lord Guilford. We’d have never met if my Aunt hadn’t served in the hall when Lord Guilford passed through on his way to London. But my father would not let me marry then as my mother was expecting her sixth child—a boy, my brother, Harry. And it’s verily good that I didn’t. Harry howled from morn ‘til sundown, from the moment he was born. ‘Twas two months afore his squalling ceased.”

  Isabeau’s heart pounded faster.

  Prickles dashed over her skin.

  Highburn had belonged to one of her Uncle Royce’s retainers, so it was very likely Lord Guilford had stopped here on his way to London.

  Isabeau drew her tongue across the dry surface of her lips. “And you’re traveling there to be married?”

  “He can’t come here, my lady. Lowglen is a very large place and he’s the only blacksmith there. That’s why my brother’s to go with me—to find work. My father’s a blacksmith ya’ see. He’s passed on the trade to both of my brothers. But there’s not enough work here for the three of them, at least there won’t be after his lordship is finished building his ships.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “In two days time, if all goes well and my father is caught up on his work.”

  Isabeau’s mind raced with the steady thump of her heart. The sweet Lord had sent her a messenger. Unfortunately, she possessed the loosest tongue in all of Highburn. Still, she could not pass up this opportunity. “It seems we have much in common,” she said carefully. “My sister is the lady of Lowglen.”

  Biddy’s eyes widened.

  Isabeau paused for a moment to allow the implications of her revelation to sink in. “Yea, and if you were to bring news of where I’m being held for ransom, she’d be most grateful.”

  Biddy stared back at her, brow furrowed, needle poised in midair.

  “But you must not breathe a word of what I’ve told you until you reach Lowglen. Can you do that?”

  Biddy nodded, her mouth gone slack.

  Isabeau jumped to her feet, then hastened to the casket at the end of her bed. When she returned, the ruby amulet dangled from its gold chain in her hand. She hadn’t worn it since the day Fortin had revealed his deception, nor did she ever intend to wear it again. But it might be of some use to ensure Biddy’s cooperation and convince Nicola the young maid spoke the truth when she reached Lowglen. A serf would never possess such a fine piece of jewelry.

  If only Biddy could keep her lips shut until then.

  ***

  A bark of uproarious laughter echoed throughout the hall.

  Isabeau’s gaze strayed to the high table over the pile of linens she carried with her toward the stairs. When Myrtle informed her Fortin’s brother had arrived and she must prepare the third bedchamber, she had been sorely vexed. The prospect of living under the same roof with another dark cloud such as him set her teeth on edge.

  But she needn’t have worried. Fortin’s brother, Dominic, was spun from a different cloth.

  Their features were similar enough to distinguish them as brothers, except Dominic’s hair was brown, flecked with gold. Though he possessed the same blue eyes, they held the reckless gleam of a boy, rather than a fully grown man. Unlike Fortin, he was merry to a fault, swilling back ale as fast as it was set down before him. A devilish smile forever played about his lips.

  She wished she knew what they were saying, but they conversed in their Cornish tongue.

  Noticing her staring, Dominic cocked a broad wink her way and grinned.

  Isabeau sucked in a sharp breath, thrust her chin in the air, and marched toward the stairs, willing the fire to leave her cheeks. Fortin’s glowering looks were bad enough, without having to fend off his brother’s bold stares. The sooner the tournament was over and he was on his way, the better.

  Such events were banned by the church, but as they were so far from London, by the time word reached authorities, the tourney would be long over and anyone that might speak out well bribed.

  It seemed Beaufort had hired Dominic to fight under his banner, which had come as a surprise to Fortin—a pleasant one by the look of their boisterous reveling.

  It made her homesick to watch them. Their brotherly affection reminded her of how far she was from home. Her thoughts flew to Nicola. She was expecting another child in a few months time. Isabeau had hoped to journey to Lowglen to attend the birth, but as each day passed, she despaired at even gaining news of the happy event.

  There was naught she could do but listen with envy to Fortin and his brother. The tourney was a fortnight away. Until then, she was stuck with the pair of them.

  In the meantime, she’d continue to pray Biddy made it safely to Lowglen. She had sweated blood after giving Biddy the amulet for fear Fortin might get wind of it and guess what she was up to. But Gwen had assured her Biddy and her brother had departed without incident.

  Now, all Isabeau could do was wait.

  She hastened down the cavernous interior of the upstairs hall with the armload of linens, anxious to see the job done and seek her pallet. The room had been thoroughly cleaned after Beaufort had vacated it. It didn’t take long to spread fresh linens and light a taper beside the bed.

  Having accomplished what she set out to do, she headed for the door.

  The sound of male laughter greeted her as she reached the corridor.

  She hastened her steps.

  But before she could reach her bedchamber door Fortin and his brother were upon her, blocking her path.

  “Saints be praised!” Dominic expelled. “Is this the one?”

  “Yea.” The smile faded from Fortin’s lips. “The one I’ve been telling you about.”

  Isabeau stiffened.

  “You’re becoming generous in your old age. When I saw h
er in the hall, I assumed you’d keep her to yourself. Make haste,” Dominic said, grabbing Isabeau by the hand, “Before my brother comes to his senses and changes his mind.”

  Isabeau’s mouth flapped wide—too shocked to speak. After assuring himself of her virtue, guarding it so closely, Fortin was giving her to his brother? This could not be happening. But, they had been drinking all eventide and the strong smell of the ale on their breath told her it could.

  “Nay, you ass.” Fortin pulled her away from Dominic. “This is the other one, Lord Agnew’s niece.”

  Disappointment chased across Dominic’s tanned features, before he gave a short awkward bow. “’Tis a pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

  Isabeau dropped in a curtsey, controlling the urge to sigh in relief, but she could not stop her knees from trembling beneath her skirts.

  Upon rising, Dominic captured her hand and drew it to his lips. “I never thought to find an angel in this place. My brother was very fortunate to come by a prisoner such as you.” He grinned, causing a dimple to crease the side of his cheek. “Mayhap he’ll sell you to me.”

  Isabeau snatched her hands away, taking a step back from the wicked gleam in his eye, only to come up against Fortin’s hard chest. The heat of his body sent tremors shuddering through her limbs all over again.

  She would have turned and fled had he not grabbed her by the arms to keep her there. “’Tis not the coin I crave, but the satisfaction in obtaining it.”

  “’Twas not the kind of satisfaction I had in mind. Take it from me,” Dominic turned with a chuckle to swagger down the hall. “Wealth will never buy you that.”

  Fortin spun her around to face him, keeping a firm grip on her arms. “Stay away from my brother while he’s here. Do you understand? He tends to forget himself ere he drinks.”

  Her hackles rose at his accusing tone, but with some effort she kept her tone light. “Then mayhap you should advise him to limit his consumption.”