Love Never Lies

by Rachel Donnelly

  When the door closed, Isabeau was still grinding her teeth.

  His arrogance sorely chafed.

  No one else indeed!

  Why, plenty of men would be grateful for such a chance.

  Mayhap he thought her so proud she would only couple with a man of noble blood. If so, he underestimated her desperation. It made no difference to her who it was, so long as it kept her from Newbury’s grasp.

  She sprang from the bed to pad to her coffer. If she were to succeed, she needed to look her best.

  She pulled forth her favorite kirtle made of pale blue damask, trimmed with silver thread. ‘Twas a gift from her parents last Michaelmas. She had not worn it since Fortin returned her belongings for fear of ruining the garment, as the long trailing sleeves were not meant for menial tasks. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

  Once dressed, she sat on the bench by the hearth to plait her hair.

  Myrtle entered the chamber as Isabeau stood, having completed the task. She carried an ewer of water for washing in one hand and clean towels in the other. “There be a fine mess in the hall, but naught can be done ‘til the lot of them clears out.”

  “Tell Gwen I’ll be down directly to help.”

  “I would if I could find her,” Myrtle bit out sharply.

  “She’s not in the hall? But where could she be?” ‘Twas not like Gwen to shirk her duties. “Mayhap she’s ill.”

  “Cuddled up in some corner with one of them mercenaries from the tourney more like.” Myrtle gave a loud huff of disapproval. “Hot-blooded and free with their coin they be. But ‘tis no excuse. If I had my way she’d be sent packing back to the village. ‘Tis likely his lordship will agree.”

  “She must be about somewhere.” Isabeau hustled past Myrtle and out of the room to look for Gwen before Myrtle’s temper worsened. They had few enough hands as it was to keep Highburn running smoothly. She did not relish it returning to the filth and squalor of when she first came.

  Isabeau traversed the corridor with all speed, then ascended the stairs in time to find Gwen coming through the hall entrance under the arm of a knight, his companion staggering behind them, still tipsy from their night of debauchery.

  The two men were a sorry sight, rumpled and unshaven, stinking of sour ale. ‘Twas a wonder Gwen did not gag. Her companion’s cheek bore a fresh scar from the previous day’s melee. The other knight’s blonde hair was liberally streaked with dried blood from a graze on his head. ‘Twas safe to say he had sustained his wound at the festivities, since all of the combatants were carefully tended after the tourney.

  “Good morn, my lady,” Gwen offered, looking abashed if not crumpled in her brown woolen kirtle as she disentangled herself from under the man’s meaty limb.

  “Who’s this then?” The hazel eyes of the second knight grew bright as he ambled forward. He reached a hand toward Isabeau’s hair to stroke one of her braids.

  “She’s the Lady Isabeau,” Gwen said, giving his hand a sound slap. “Keep your hands to yourself if you wish to keep ‘em.”

  Isabeau grabbed Gwen by the arm to lead her away for a private word. “Where have you been? Myrtle is beside herself over your absence and the state of the hall. ‘Twould be wise if you made yourself useful with all haste. Positions in the Lord’s hall don’t grow on trees.”

  Gwen eyes widened at the reminder, then, as her gaze swept the hall, taking in the catastrophe around her they grew wider still, her mouth turning down in dismay.

  “Come, I’ll help you,” Isabeau offered. If the hall was put to rights before Fortin returned, Myrtle’s complaints would hold less weight.

  “Many pardons, my lady.” Gwen leaned closer to whisper against her ear, “But ‘twas an opportunity I could not refuse.” She opened her hand to reveal three silver coins.

  Isabeau nodded, understanding the pressures of poverty Gwen faced. How could she condemn Gwen when she herself planned to shed her virtue in the name of freedom.

  It wasn’t until the hall was half cleared that it stuck her, the opportunity she had passed up. The combatants from the tournament would not know her or what she was doing there. They came to fight from furlongs away. Why hadn’t she thought of that?

  But nay.

  She shivered.

  To lose her virtue to a sour-breathed far-dweller such as that was too nightmarish by half.

  But what choice did she have, an unshaven oaf now or Newbury later?

  For the deed to be done, she must thrust her pride aside.

  ***

  Alec tossed Mercury’s reins to one of the grooms who came running across the moonlit courtyard from the stable. After many hours in the saddle and a day at Gilling’s Cross spent judging disputes and handing out fines, all he wished for was a nice soft bed.

  “’Tis well I’m leaving for Lombardy,” Dominic said, dismounting beside him. “Or you’d see me bow-legged racing home for a tumble with that maid.”

  “I wish to sleep in my own bed ‘tis all.”

  Dominic stepped in front of him, blocking his path to the hall. “Ha! A man doesn’t bust his spleen for a bed, but the maid who waits in it.”

  “She’s a prisoner not a mistress.”

  “What a pity? When you’ve done naught but pamper the wench since she’s been here.” Dominic let forth an all knowing chuckle. “’Tis hard to conceive.”

  “It’s none of your concern.”

  “Forgive me.” Dominic attempted to compose his features. “‘Tis no time to jest.” His lips gave a suspicious twitch. “Not often do your charms fail you.”

  “What makes you think I’ve failed? What makes you think I wish to bed her at all?”

  “Anyone would have to be blind to believe that.”

  Alec gave a non-committal grunt and turned to stride for the keep, while he could still resist the urge to rearrange Dominic’s face. He did not wish to discuss Isabeau with anyone let alone his brother, now or ever. ‘Twas none of his concern.

  “Mayhap another has caught her eye.”

  Alec’s heart gave a thud.

  He swung back around.

  “Don’t look at me!” Dominic threw up his hands, appearing as though he might bust his guts. “I haven’t touched her. Though I must admit I was sorely tempted. Most men wouldn’t be able to refuse such a proposition.”

  Alec stared back at him, attempting to digest what he was hearing. “She asked you to bed her?”

  “Begged would be a better word for it,” Dominic said with a laugh. “But being the loyal brother that I am, I refused.”

  Alec endeavored to keep his voice smooth and cool, though he was shaking inside. “‘Tis a good thing, or I’d have broken your neck.”

  “Your mistake lies in giving her a choice. She’s your prisoner, or have you forgotten?”

  “Nay. She does her best to remind me every chance she gets,” Alec said, still not quite willing to believe that she’d propositioned his brother but refused him. If she had approached Dominic, who else might she have asked? Beaufort? If so, he would never hear the end of it. She was fast making him look the village idiot.

  “I’m not suggesting you force her, just make it clear you’re the only stud available—there’s no other choice.”

  “Many thanks.” Alec’s tone turned dry. “Your flattery will soon swell my head.” Was it his imagination or was Dominic enjoying this a little more than he aught?

  Dominic lifted one brow. “There was a time you could coax a maid to your bed with no more than a wink.”

  “’Tis not that simple,” Alec said, vexation rising within him. But Dominic was right. He could wait. When she realized none would help her spoil herself for Newbury, she’d have no choice but to come to him.

  “Nay, but you’ll save her from Newbury out of the goodness of your heart anyway.” Dominic gave a loud chortle. “Such kindness. If she’s as grateful as Hilda, you’ll surely go deaf.”

  Alec stiffened. “Beaufort’s tongue runs more rampant than my lust.�
� He sucked in a long breath in an attempt to control his temper. Dominic could laugh all he wanted, but he would prevail.

  “And you fear I’m hell-bound, when in truth you’re a worse rogue than I. Admit it. You want her for your mistress.”

  “I only take what she’s willing to offer,” Alec blurted, finally goaded into an admission. “If not me, ‘twill be someone else. She’s determined in this.”

  “Or, you could save her in a more honorable way—put an end to the alliance once and for all.”

  “Why? She’s convinced the loss of her virtue will be enough. I need not use a club to squash a flea.”

  “What if she’s wrong?” Dominic spread his hands in the air. “I don’t recall Barak questioning you about her chastity.”

  Alec shrugged. “That’s not to say he wouldn’t have asked for proof before he handed over the ransom.”

  “If I were Newbury, ‘twould be easy to forget another came first, gazing upon that winsome face.”

  “Newbury’s no love sick fool. ’Twill depend on how badly he’s in need of Agnew’s protection.”

  “Ah ha!” Dominic pointed a finger at him. “So, you think he’ll marry her anyway.”

  “God’s teeth, Dominic!” The ire rose in Alec’s chest. “How should I know? Press me no further! ‘Tis all I’m prepared to do.” Alec strode past him toward the hall, refusing to feel guilty. After all ‘twas her plan. He was doing her a favor. If it did not turn out as she wished, and Newbury wanted her anyway, ‘twas naught to do with him.

  He took the stairs two at a time, envisioning Isabeau as she was that morn tucked beneath the furs upon his bed. A stab of desire crept from his belly to his loins. Never had he gone so long without sating his lust. He told himself ‘twas the demands of his newly acquired holdings, but that was only half the truth.

  ‘Twas her.

  Isabeau of Dawney.

  She had cast a spell over him the moment he pulled the hood from her head. He pushed open his bedchamber door, then closed it as quietly as a churl.

  A fire glowed in the hearth, casting gold shadows across the flags to ignite the pallet where she lay.

  She appeared to sleep, yet the silky line of her lips curved in a faint smile. With her hair drawn back from her face in two neat plaits, her delicate features lay exposed to the flickering blue light. She looked innocent, sweet, and exotic all at once.

  He turned away, yanking his tunic over his head as he went. She might not have come to him yet, but he could be just as patient as she could be stubborn. He could wait.

  ‘Twould make victory all the sweeter.

  But once shrouded beneath the pelts, she was all he could think of.

  He heard his own heartbeat in his ears—imagined it echoing against hers.

  His blood sizzled like sap on a blazing log, sliding through his veins to pool between his legs until he broke out in a cold sweat.

  Sweet Jesu!

  How much more could he take?

  “My lord?”

  His heart gave a loud thump.

  His eyes popped open.

  Was he dreaming?

  Or was she actually standing beside his bed?

  Chapter Eleven

  Isabeau hugged her body for warmth, trying to ignore the wild thump of her heart. After waffling all day, pride had finally won out. In the end, she could not bring herself to confide in Gwen or anyone else.

  ‘Twas one thing for the whole castle to suspect her shame—quite another to admit having a choice in the matter. Dominic’s rejection was shameful enough. She dared not risk a greater blow to her courage. Or, she would never be able to go through with it.

  In a quiet voice, she tried again, “My lord? Are you awake?”

  Fortin rose on his elbows to regard her with an artless look of disbelief. “Mayhap I should ask you the same.”

  “I…I wondered if you would, I mean could…” Her words trailed off as her courage fled.

  “Yea?”

  “Spare another pelt?”

  He sent her a long look, the faint edge of a smile clinging to his lips. “Is that all?”

  She nodded, her whole body trembling, not just with fear but with something else. Why must he look at her that way—so intensely, as though he would pluck the words from her mouth?

  “If you’re cold,” he said in a mild tone, patting the bed. “Sleep here with me?”

  Her skin grew hot.

  Sleep?

  They both knew she would not be sleeping if she climbed beneath the pelts with him.

  She sucked in a long ragged breath, then took a step forward.

  But that was as far as she got—one step before her courage fled.

  Nay, she could not.

  She spun back around, intent on retreating to her pallet, away from the hungry look in his eyes—away from him.

  But once there, encased beneath the furs, she could not sleep. His presence seemed to call to her from across the room—every breath, every creak of the bed, made her body grow tense.

  When his breathing settled into a regular rhythm, signaling he slept, she rose to curl herself in the chair by the fire under a wolf pelt.

  What was wrong with her? ‘Twas foolish to allow her fears to rule her head. Hilda made much of her living sharing her body with men—happily it seemed, with little conscience. Lara held the freedom to choose a worthy mate, and was quite determined to do so. Why should she not take her future into her own hands? How difficult could it be? After all, she must only do it once.

  Her gaze strayed to the bed.

  ‘Twas empty.

  She sat upright in the chair.

  The fresh scent of wind mingled with leather alerted her to his presence before she turned her head. Fortin stood behind her in the shadows, his golden skin glowing in the firelight cast from the clear blue flames, gaze steady—as still as a beast of prey.

  Isabeau’s breath hitched in her throat.

  She froze, stricken with awe at the sight of his sleek body and the hard muscles, straining beneath his golden skin. He oozed strength and power and something else that made delicious prickles dance over her skin.

  His deep chuckle yanked her back to reality. “We both know why you can’t sleep.”

  She sucked in a quick gulp of air, averting her gaze to the glowing embers. The little blue and orange flames seemed to leap from the logs to lick over her flesh. Her heart tapped loud in her breast.

  “’Tis the same reason that keeps me awake.” He reached out a hand to fondle one of her long braids.

  She edged away, unsettled—confused by his touch. “’Tis not the same.”

  “Mayhap for different reasons,” he said, tracing one long finger along the nape of her neck and down her shoulder. “But we both want the same thing.”

  She shivered.

  He was right.

  They did want the same thing, so why not take advantage of what he was offering—get it over with. According to Maggie, losing one’s virtue could happen in a blink, as fast as eating a piece of cake—popping a sweetmeat into your mouth. Had she not warned her of that many times? Hopefully ‘twas true, for she was anxious to see it done.

  Ever so slowly she rose from the chair to face him. “Very well,” she said on a trembling breath, squaring her shoulders. “I’m ready.”

  He moved closer into the firelight—close enough to touch.

  Her gaze flicked downward to his manhood standing thick and hard to his belly. She had never seen a man fully naked, though she had often wished she possessed the same body which afforded them so many privileges. But now she wasn’t so certain. As impressive as it looked, an appendage such as that must surely prove awkward, like a confused tail, poking out in the wrong direction.

  Her gaze darted back to the bemused smile on his face.

  “Not to worry, my lady. I’m fully intact and capable of seeing the deed done.”

  “Yea, Hilda told me,” she blurted, taking a step back.

  He lifted a brow, closing
the distance between them in a thrice.

  “Told you what?”

  She swallowed past the lump in her throat, dropping her gaze to his chin.

  Rot!

  Now he would think she spent her time nattering about him, like some lovesick fool. “That you and she... that you were quite capable.”

  “Humm.” He tipped his head to one side, a faint smile curving his lips. “Is that all?”

  “Yea.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Hilda had spoken of many things, most of which at this moment Isabeau could not recollect, other than Hilda had called him a wizard of the flesh, whatever that meant. That he preformed magic betwixt the sheets, she supposed, hopefully that meant he got down to business and accomplished it quick.

  “Let’s hope our joining doesn’t produce the same effect,” he said with feeling. “I have an aversion to screaming.”

  “What?” She cast him a fearful glance, her heart picking up speed. Hilda had said naught of that. If the act was painful, why had she been so determined to bed him again? Why had her gaze forever followed him about the hall? Why had she sent him such rapturous looks? It did not make any sense.

  “’Twas a scream of pleasure,” he explained straight-faced, though the twitching of his lips suggested he found some humor in her inexperience.

  “Ohh…” She had never heard of anyone screaming with pleasure—squealing mayhap. “You need not worry,” she said with a lift of her chin. “It won’t affect me that way.”

  He chuckled. “You sound very certain of that.”

  “Of course. You’re my enemy. ‘Twould be impossible for me to gain pleasure from anything you do.” ‘Twas a lie of course. But, now that he had said so, she would rather bite off her tongue than give him the satisfaction of making a sound.

  A knowing smile spread over his lips.

  Her heart gave a leap.

  But before she could protest, he took a step closer, reached out his arms, and drew her close.

  When he placed his smooth lips to hers, her fears took flight under the heat of his mouth. A strange fluttering in the pit of her belly traveled downward, drawing warmth to where her thighs met. The pelt she clutched slipped to the floor as her hands crept up to his shoulders, causing her to shiver, more with delight than with the cold crawling up her back.