Love Never Lies

by Rachel Donnelly

  When his mouth covered hers, all sense sailed away. There was a hunger behind the silky feel of his lips that sent panic snaking through her limbs, yet at the same time, held her transfixed. All manner of delicious sensations darted through her. When his tongue grazed hers, she moaned, clutching his chest rather than pushing him away, wanting more, wanting to float away on the swirling current of ecstasy his smooth, cool lips churned up inside of her.

  Instead of twisting away as a chaste maid should, she leaned into him, enjoying the hard feel and heat of his body, willing his mouth to spin her closer to what she craved most—some yearning at her very core, needing to be satisfied.

  When he lifted his head, reality rushed back like a cold bucket of water in the face.

  She stared up at him, mouth slack, limbs weak and trembling. How was it that there could be such magic in his touch after all he had done to her? It did not make sense. “If your lust tests you thus,” she gasped in amazement, taking a step back, “Why do you wish me to sleep in your bedchamber?”

  “It may test me,” he said with firm assurance. “But it won’t sway me from my course.” A wicked grin spread over his lips. “You’re the one who moaned, remember.” He turned on his heel to stride down the corridor toward the stairs that led to the hall.

  Isabeau stood rooted to the spot, vexation growing in her breast.

  Moaned?

  She hadn’t moaned!

  Had she?

  Oh Lord, she had.

  Rot!

  Now he would think her overcome by lust for him.

  Brazen rogue that he was!

  His arrogance rubbed her raw.

  If that loggerheaded knave believed he could toy with her in such a way, he had another thought coming. She was no weak-kneed milkmaid to be fondled at his leisure.

  She might have moaned!

  But what of him?

  He boasted of his control, but his kiss contradicted the loose hold he had over his senses.

  If they were forced to share a bedchamber, ‘twould surely happen again.

  He was so determined his lust should not overtake his greed—that he should have every last coin of the ransom.

  But what if he couldn’t.

  He put such store in his self-control.

  But, what if his control should begin to falter, if he felt her presence too much of a temptation, that certainly would not please him.

  He would have no choice, but to banish her from his bedchamber with all haste.

  A bubble of laughter rose in her throat just to think of it.

  He was so arrogant—so sure of himself.

  What joy it would be to prove him wrong.

  Of course, she would have to tread lightly, taking care not to test him to the point that he lost all control.

  Chapter Nine

  Alec paced the corridor outside pf his bedchamber, gritting his teeth. What in the name of heaven could be taking her so long? He could see now allowing Isabeau the luxury of a private bath in his chamber had been a mistake. After tonight he would put his foot down—no more special treatment. She was a prisoner for God’s sake, and it was bloody well time she started behaving like one.

  He stopped to pound his fist once again on the thick oak door.

  “Coming, my lord!” Isabeau called from within.

  Coming? That was the third time she’d promised to unbar the door. She had to have been in that tub for hours—long enough to resemble a swollen dead carp.

  Damnation and Hell fire!

  He should have allowed Dominic to sleep on the pallet in his chamber when he’d offered instead of paying heed to Abigail’s accusations that he had grown soft—treating a prisoner with more consideration than his own kin.

  Not that he cared what she thought, ‘twas his father’s raised brow that had decided the matter. If his father weren’t so blind to Abigail’s faults, he might have guessed her true motives for wanting Dominic to sleep alone. But Alec could hardly apprise him of that. ‘Twould break his father’s heart.

  The scraping of the bar on the bedchamber door ceased Alec’s steady assault on the flags.

  He pushed the door opened.

  The cool smell of mint assailed him as he strode into the chamber.

  Isabeau stood by the fire, drawing a comb through her sun streaked hair.

  He sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of her.

  Her cheeks glowed pink from her long soak in the tub. ‘Twas not only the color of her skin, but the curves of her body illuminated by the fire through the thin fabric of her white chemise that made his blood rush like a river in spring. Such a tiny waist, the like he had never seen. Long legs, tapering down from a pert derrière. His hands ached to reach out and touch every soft curve of her glowing flesh.

  Sweet Jesu!

  A monk would tear off his robes if faced with such temptation.

  How was he to sleep, knowing she lay but an arms length away?

  She turned from the fire, comb in hand to offer a pretty smile. “Many thanks, my lord. ‘Twas pure heaven to bathe at my leisure without fear of discovery. I’m greatly indebted to you.”

  He grunted then strode to the bed. After putting up with Abigail all eventide his patience was sorely tested. The thought of suffering through a night of temptation with Isabeau half naked, an arms length away, fairly put him over the edge. “You’ll have to take your chances at the bath-house in future,” he threw over his shoulder before yanking his tunic off over his head. “Abigail doth tax this household enough with her demands.”

  Isabeau sat on the bench to braid her hair, lifting a delicate brow. “You don’t like your step-mother very much, do you?”

  “Nay, I do not.”

  “Why?”

  “She isn’t worthy of my father.” Why he was telling her this, he did not know. But her question came so sudden and without guile he let down his guard. It just came out. She could not possibly care what trouble plagued his family. Still, ‘twas safer to answer her queries than become so enraptured by her beauty that he forgot himself and did something he would regret.

  “Yet he married her?”

  “For her dowry.” His tone turned cynical. “’Twould have been a sound bargain, had she not come with it.”

  Having woven her hair into two smooth plaids, Isabeau rose from the bench to pad to the straw pallet under the window. “Your father appears to dote on her. Mayhap he married her for the dowry, but now it has turned to love.”

  “Love? Ha! He loves how she sates his lust, and looks no further than that.” He sat on the edge of the bed to pry his boots off. “If my father really knew her, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. He would have already turned her from his bed.”

  Isabeau stretched on her side on the pallet, propping her head in her hand to regard him steadily, her gray eyes glowed soft and luminous in the firelight. “And you won’t tell him.”

  “I’ll not be the one to break his heart.” He stood to unlace his braies.

  She hastily adjusted her position to face the other way. But he could hear the smile behind her words as she spoke. “So, you’re not as cold-hearted as you would have me think.”

  He climbed into bed, jerking the pelts up over him as he went. She would be of a different mind if she knew where his thoughts strayed. The call of her soft womanly form curled upon the pallet below him made his cock swell in answer. ‘Twas all he could do not to leap up, scoop her up in his arms, and throw her down on the bed to bury himself deep within her.

  He took a long cleansing breath, then let it out slowly to ease the tension in his body.

  Just as he felt his limbs relax and was about to close his eyes, she rose from her pallet to add another log to the fire, bending to present a clear view of her sweetly rounded backside.

  His breath caught in the back of his throat. “If you’re cold,” he bit out harshly, unable to help himself. “Come and fetch another pelt.”

  She spun round so fast at the sound of his voice one side of her
chemise slipped off of her shoulder, exposing the round curve of one blushing breast. “Thank you, my lord.”

  He watched her pad forward, swallowing hard at the sight of her nipples straining against the thin fabric.

  Sweet Lord have mercy!

  Did she know what she was doing to him?

  Obviously not, else the knowledge would send her fleeing for the door.

  Right now, he would forfeit a hefty purse to ease the ache in his loins. After all, half the ransom was better than none. He had only wanted the dowry in the first place. She was his prisoner, body and soul—his to do with whatever he wished.

  Was she not?

  “My lord?”

  The sound of her voice made him blink. His gaze shifted upward to the bemused look on her face. Remembering what he was about, he grabbed the first pelt his hand came in contact with, then shoved it at her. “There.” His voice constricted in a croak. “Now get to sleep. There’s much work to be done on the morrow.”

  Though how he would get any, he did not know.

  ***

  The hall boomed with raised voices above the strum of the minstrel’s lute. Isabeau murmured her thanks as Dominic held out her chair at the high table.

  Fortin turned his head, fixing his blue gaze on her from where he sat to the right, flanked by Abigail and Darcy.

  Beaufort, who sat to the right of Darcy, beamed a big smile her way.

  Isabeau slid into the chair, trying to ignore Fortin’s attention, but ‘twas as impossible as a hare ignoring the shadow of a hawk.

  When Fortin insisted she dine with them, her first instinct was to laugh. Surely he jested. What business did a prisoner have sitting at the Lord’s Table? But his fierce scowl quickly vanquished her mirth.

  ‘Twas the night before the tournament and since Lord Beaufort had much coin riding on the event, Fortin hoped she would distract Dominic from drinking himself blind and throwing the competition.

  How he proposed she accomplish that, she had no idea.

  ‘Twas true, Dominic showed great courtesy in her presence, but she did not think it extended past that. In fact, she dearly hoped it didn’t. One Fortin to contend with was quite enough. Her nerves were already stretched taunt sharing Alec’s bedchamber, though her ploy to tempt him had obviously worked since he had not slept in his chamber this past week.

  Still, fear that she might have gone too far, that he might appear at any moment, robbed her of sleep.

  In a perverse mood, she had chosen to wear the yellow kirtle which was to be her wedding apparel. What better place to display it than at Fortin’s table. It reminded her of why she was there—that she should not trust him or read too much into his kindness of late.

  She was no less a prisoner in his spacious bedchamber than the day he captured her in the woods. Her own clothes and a bath in a tub did little to change that, nor the sumptuous fare spread out before her on the table.

  Still, ‘twas a welcome change from brown bread and cold barley stew.

  She meant to enjoy every last bite of it.

  Her mouth watered at the sight of apple and pear tarts drizzled with thick honey, flaky meat pies, crusty white bread to dip in rich gravy, sweet red wine, greens of every kind. It made her belly churn. She quivered drinking in the heavenly aromas.

  Dominic filled the trencher they shared with juicy bits of roast capon, venison, and cheese, overloading it to such a point she had to laugh.

  “’Tis like magic when you do that,” he whispered against her ear. Mischief danced in his eyes. “The more you smile, the more Alec frowns. God’s teeth! What bliss.”

  Isabeau peeped out from under her lashes to encounter Fortin’s scowl directed at her from the other end of the table. She hastily lowered her gaze to the goblet in her hand. ‘Twas difficult to play the gay strumpet under the heat of his glowering stares, not to mention Abigail’s hot looks, who had somehow managed to plant herself at Dominic’s other elbow.

  But what did it matter?

  They could squabble and fight until there was nothing left but a big ball of fur.

  She was here to fill her belly—to savor every last drop of wine and morsel of food, as ‘twas the first good meal she’d had since her capture.

  And why should she not?

  After all, Fortin was the one who had forced her to his table.

  “Mayhap we should both take Alec’s advice and ignore the censure of others.” Dominic winked. “Come, let us drink a toast.” He reached for his chalice of wine. “Forgive and forget.”

  She lifted her chalice to his, thinking that he was almost as handsome as his brother when he smiled. “’Tis good advice.” She took a sip of wine, rolling it over on her tongue to savor the sweet taste before finally giving in and swallowing it, “You should share it with your brother.”

  “Yea, he’s stubborn—a vile trait passed down in our family for generations. But don’t worry, one day he’ll see the error of his ways.”

  Isabeau sobered, her gaze flicking to where Alec sat, tall and dark at the other end of the table. “He’ll never forgive me.”

  “Don’t be too certain. He’s not as hard as you think. Have you not seen how he pesters me like a second mother? He’s really an old woman in a man’s skin.”

  Isabeau laughed out loud and had to cover her mouth.

  “There.” Dominic said, “I made you laugh and Alec frowned again. This is so much fun. The power makes me giddy.”

  Isabeau’s mirth faded. “He holds me responsible for what my family did to him.”

  Dominic flashed a rueful smile. “Well, that might take awhile. Men in general, not only our family, are especially fond of their manhood.”

  Isabeau’s cheeks grew hot, but she could not help but smile at the wicked gleam in Dominic’s eye.

  “What are you two whispering about down there?” Darcy demanded. “’Tis rude not to allow us to share in the jest.” He turned to Alec sitting on his left. “Dominic has a way with the wenches. He’ll cheat you out of half your ransom, if you’re not careful.”

  Alec shrugged, appearing not in the least concerned. “He knows better than to waste his strength the eventide before a tournament. You taught him that.”

  “I taught you both the importance of restraint,” Darcy declared stoutly. “Had you listened better, Agnew would not have been so eager to geld you I’ll warrant.”

  “Yea, but he didn’t.” Beaufort Reached behind Darcy and slapped Fortin on the back. “And now look, he possesses the most winsome prisoner a man could wish for.”

  Isabeau’s cheeks grew hot at the turn of their discourse. Being discussed as though she was not present—as though she was a mere possession, played havoc with her appetite as well as her good temper.

  She was about to open her mouth and agree with Darcy that Fortin should have shown more restraint, when Dominic squeezed her hand under the table, whispering against her ear, “Beaufort is right. And one day Alec will admit to it.”

  Isabeau did not wish Fortin to admit to anything. She only wished to be set free, so that she might begin to forget everything that had happened, including the feel of his lips—the taste of him, the tingles that ran up her spine each time his eyes met hers.

  Isabeau looked up to find Abigail’s green gaze pinned on her. She shivered at the malice lurking there. It sank through her, tightening her skin like a wet sheet hanging in the sun.

  Did Fortin realize what risk he put her in?

  She had seen what jealousy wrought between the ladies-in-waiting at her Uncle’s hall. ‘Twas not a pretty sight. Women could be single-minded, if not vicious, in the competition for love, especially the pampered kind, as Fortin’s stepmother clearly was.

  She spoke with the silky confidence of one accustomed to being obeyed. ‘Twas easy to see why. She was a beautiful woman, with shiny brown hair arranged to perfection in a regal coil atop her head, full lips forever puckered as though expecting a lover’s kiss. Her voice never rose in excitement, though one got the impr
ession she was keenly attuned to everything discussed at the table, cunningly storing it for use at a later time.

  Abigail was a force to be reckoned with—not the sort to cross.

  Isabeau breathed a grateful sigh of relief when the meal ended and she was free to seek her bed. So much rich fare and the heat of Fortin’s censure had left her spent. All she wished for was to crawl beneath the furs and close her eyes.

  She was not aware Abigail trailed after her, until she caught up with her at the top of the stairs. “I admire your fortitude,” Abigail said, falling into step beside her down the hall. “Not many women weather captivity so well.”

  “Life is always changing for better or worse.” Isabeau repeated Maddie’s words as firmly as they had been delivered to her. “One must bend or be broken.”

  “But you,” Abigail said, positioning herself before Isabeau so that she had no choice but to halt her steps. “Have managed uncommonly well.”

  “I’ve survived and will continue to do so.”

  “You’re very sure of yourself for a maid so young.” ‘Twas hardly a compliment, coming from Abigail’s thinly stretched lips.

  “Tis not arrogance, only the knowledge that I can do nothing else.”

  Abigail’s eyes glittered in the torch-lit corridor.

  Isabeau almost took a step back, then caught herself. It would not do to show fear. A predator like Abigail smelled blood and went for the kill as soon as your back was turned.

  “If you think Dominic will help you, you’re wrong.”

  Isabeau blinked, but managed to keep her features neutral despite the candor of Abigail’s attack. “You’re right. I’ve yet to meet kin as loyal as them, excepting my own of course.”

  “Then why do you persist in throwing yourself at his feet?” Abigail curled her lip in distain, her voice holding a sharp edge. “Your virtue won’t buy your freedom.”