Love Never Lies

by Rachel Donnelly

  “What?” Was his mind so twisted he failed to comprehend her? “What do you mean? Of course, everything has changed! Are you not hearing me? I am ruined.”

  “You overrate your virtue, coz. Newbury’s no milk-sop youth. ‘Tis the alliance, not your maidenhead he craves.”

  Isabeau’s mind began to swim.

  The earth seemed to move under her feet.

  She had surrendered herself to Fortin—given herself to him for naught. All of the shame, all of the humiliation, in the end wouldn’t help her. She could hardly coax her voice past a whisper. “Did he know?”

  “Did who know?”

  “Fortin,” she almost screamed. “Did he know ‘twas not a condition when you came to the tournament to discuss terms of my release?”

  Barak shrugged. “’Twas not part of my demands.”

  Then he must have suspected. Yet he did not tell her. “I’ll kill him,” she breathed under her breath.

  A gleam of understanding lit Barak’s eyes. “So you thought by giving away your virtue you might cheat Newbury of a bride.”

  Isabeau was so distracted by the injustice of Fortin’s betrayal it took her a moment to realize Barak had taken her by the arm and was leading toward the far stand of pines.

  “Since you’re so free with your favors, you won’t mind granting me the same.”

  “What?” Her heart leapt in her breast, hearing the suppressed fury in his tone. “Take your hands off me!” She attempted to pull away, but his grip held fast, biting into her flesh so cruelly she cried out.

  “Come now, no need to be coy,” he said with a sneer, tightening his grip as he jerked her along, so hard she felt he might break her arm. “I knew you for a slut long before you knew it yourself.”

  Hesper’s warning whispered in Isabeau’s brain, like so many past dreams. As he pulled her through the pines, betwixt the feathery boughs, kicking up scented needles, she knew this was the danger it was meant to keep her from. ‘Twas not wolves or Fortin, but her own cousin, who had raped her sister and brought the wrath of Fortin down upon all of their heads.

  Her breath rasped past her lips in sharp gasps.

  She struggled and thrashed, and kicked out at him, but could not lose him.

  A few strides more and he stopped.

  His hands bit into her shoulders as he forced her to her knees.

  She attempted to rise.

  But he pushed her down again, this time knocking her flat on her back amongst the pine needles, holding her shoulders in a cruel grip.

  Musty dirt flew up as she thrashed and panted, blinking into the modeled light filtering through the boughs of the trees.

  “Stop!” She held up both hands. “You don’t want to do this, Barak!”

  His laugh rang harsh and bitter. “Think of it as compensation for half the ransom I shall have to give back.

  “Tis wrong!” She screamed, pushing with all her strength against his chest. “Can’t you see?”

  “Desire is never wrong.” He gave a harsh laugh. “‘Tis as natural as drawing breath,” he said, unbuckling his sword, “And I have been holding mine too long.” He laid it on the ground with care, then reached under his surcoat to yank down his braies.

  “Why do you hate me?”

  “You invaded my home, took what was mine.” His features contorted with anger. “My mother gave every precious moment she had left tutoring you and Nicola. But did you appreciate it? Nay! By the time I came to her solar each night she was spent. Because of you. Who was at her bedside when she died? You and Nicola!”

  “You weren’t home at the time!”

  “Yea, my father and I were out fighting for future generations—defending our lands. And did you appreciate that?” He said with a snarl. “Did you?

  “Of course I did.” She wriggled back on her elbows, keeping her eyes on him while adjusting her feet for leverage.

  Barak stomped a booted foot on the skirt of her kirtle to still her retreat. “Yet, you spent every waking moment pining for home.” His green eyes held an unholy gleam as his gaze licked over her. “But not to worry, you can thank me now.”

  When he made to fall upon her, she rolled away.

  In a trice she was on her feet.

  She had hoped his braies pulled down around his ankles would inhibit his movement, but he had the presence of mind to jerk them up.

  She got but two strides away before he scrambled to his feet after her.

  He grabbed her by one braid, pulling her toward him.

  Whether from fear, or the sharp pain in her scalp, her anger sparked like new flint. A terrible rage built inside of her. Just as Barak made to push her to the ground again, she sank her teeth into the fleshy part of his forearm, then brought her knee up hard.

  He gave a loud groan when it connected with his upper torso, then dropped on all fours to the ground.

  Hearing his groans and gasps for air felt so good, she wished she had time to gloat.

  But there was no time for that.

  She had knocked the wind out of him, but ‘twould not take him long to recover.

  She raced back toward the tower, clutching her skirts.

  She arrived panting for breath, to discover Talbot guarding the horses and Ram stamping out what was left of the fire.

  “Go! Assist your master!” she commanded between pants of air. “He’s hurt and in need of your assistance!”

  Ram left kicking the smoldering logs to run in the direction she pointed.

  Talbot made no move to go however, his gaze shifting from her to the grove of pines in the distance.

  “What are you waiting for?” she shouted. “The longer it takes, the worse his temper gets. ‘Twill take both of you to heft him up.”

  Mention of Barak’s temper sped Talbot’s feet.

  Isabeau grabbed the first reins her hands touched, which happened to belong to Ram’s big brown steed, instead of the smaller palfrey that had carried her there. It took some effort to catapult up into the saddle. The girth of the warhorse stretched her legs like a wishbone. But she kept her seat.

  A firm hand was needed to control the destrier with only a bit and no prick of spurs to tell him she was master. But Isabeau managed to wheel him around to the south just the same, squeezing hard with her knees against his flank.

  Rot!

  Why had she not taken the time to steal the palfrey instead? ‘Twas easier losing her virginity than being bounced up and down, spread across this great beast’s back.

  But, ‘twas too late to change that now, so she gritted her teeth and plunged onward down the dirt road, choking past the dust in her throat.

  With any luck, Barak and the monster twins would not emerge from the trees in time to see which direction she took.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The sweet smell of hay mingled with the sharp tang of leather, crowding out what little fresh air leaked through the loose planks of the stable. It mattered not to Isabeau. She’d had her fill of wind in her face.

  She was all but spent, but at the same time restless, prowling the confines of the small structure, despite the exhaustion she felt from the rigors of her perilous flight.

  Coming across the inn was a blessing, since she lacked the strength to cling to the destrier’s back one more furlong. ‘Twas a miraculous blessing in fact, as she had no idea where she was. She required directions before she might continue.

  Unfortunately, a score of mercenaries, seeking the same respite from their journey, kept the innkeeper occupied. Their boisterous reveling spilled out of every crack of the Inn. Laughter and song danced on the night air, giving evidence to their dulled wits.

  Isabeau dared not risk venturing inside. The memory of Barak’s near rape hovered fresh in her mind. Better to wait until the ruckus and laughter subsided to ask for assistance, or until a stable boy or some other servant appeared.

  In the meantime, pacing eased the cramps in her legs. Unfortunately, it did naught for the ache in her belly. She required substance
in order to make it to her parents’ home.

  Some form of padding for her bottom wouldn’t go amiss either.

  For now, the small stable, comprised of two stalls, provided warmth and shelter. The building must have housed animals at one time, but now held only a supply of sweet smelling hay and a stack of wood, along with a collection of bridles and bits, hanging against the rough plank walls.

  Isabeau fretted at leaving Ram’s ill-mannered destrier outside, tied behind the building, at the mercy of thieves, but there was no help for it. The stable wasn’t big enough for them both.

  The rattle of the latch on the door brought Isabeau up short, causing her to cease her pacing.

  Thinking a serf from the inn had come to fetch firewood, she released a sigh of relief.

  At last, she would eat.

  Or, mayhap not.

  What if it wasn’t a servant?

  The memory of Barak’s pawing hands, mauling over her body sent prickles dashing across her skin, firing her blood.

  As long as she drew breath no man would handle her so roughly again.

  She seized a pitchfork from the mound of hay, then hastened to the wall to press her back tight against the planks.

  The door creaked open on its sagging leather hinges.

  Isabeau held her breath.

  Hopefully the element of surprise would give her the upper hand.

  Alexander Fortin appeared before her brandishing his sword, ready to strike, eyes as cool as snow crystals, long black hair tossed back from his face in thick waves.

  Isabeau froze at the sight of the glittering blade, poised menacing above her head.

  Fortin was the last person she had expected to see—Barak mayhap, but not him.

  His dark scowl made her mouth go dry.

  Had he finally had enough of chasing after her for a bag of silver?

  Mayhap he meant to put an end to the game—finish her off once and for all.

  He lowered the blade, a wry smile twisting his lips. “My weapon is bigger than yours, I think. You cannot win.”

  Relief washed over her at the sound of his jesting tone, though she continued to clutch the pitchfork like a lance, unsure of her safety as yet, quivering as much from the glint of the blade as from the powerful magnetism bouncing off of him. How had he found her so quickly?

  Verily the smell of money had sped his cause, as it always did.

  He sheathed his sword in its leather scabbard. “If you intend to stick me with that thing, make haste. But, let me warn you,” His mouth flattened in a grim line, “I’m weary and not in the best of temper. If you do, you had better be prepared to run.”

  When she failed to answer, he strode forward to pry the pitchfork from her shaking fingers.

  “How did you find me?” She breathed in a long gulp of air, befuddled by his nearness, still shaking with reaction from his sudden appearance.

  He turned to stand the pitchfork against the wall.

  Her gaze flew past him to the door, the only means of escape.

  But before she could take a step he stood towering over her again. “I arrived at Barak’s camp just in time to spy you galloping off down the road.” His steady gaze pierced her like a hot knife. Clearly he was not in good temper. “I’d have caught up with you before this, if not for a stone in Mercury’s hoof, rendering him almost lame.”

  She took a step back, yearning to flee, but with him standing only an arm’s length, there was no chance of that. He would just drag her back. Frustration turned her tone sharp. “How did you get here then?”

  “He was fit to ride, though barely, at a plodding pace.”

  “And Barak?” She feared the answer, but had to know. Despite all Barak had done to her, he was still her kin.

  “Hot on our heels, no doubt.” Impatience edged his tone. “I had to make a choice—catch up with you, or send him to hell. ‘Twas no time for both.”

  Isabeau heaved a great sigh. “Praise God! Though he’s wronged me sorely, I’d not wish him dead—gelded mayhap, but not dead.”

  Fortin cast his gaze heavenward. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “’Tis likely you’d change your mind if you knew the whole truth,” she said, her tone turning weary.

  “Nay, I would not. Evil doesn’t rest in a man’s bollocks, though many a maid might think so.” He sent her a mocking look. “It lives in the depths of his heart.”

  “That may be true, but if Barak was a eunuch we would not be having this discussion right now. He’s sinned much more than trying to marry me against my parent’s wishes. In truth, none of this would have happened if not for him and Father Clarence’s unholy lust.”

  “What are you saying?” Fortin’s blue gaze narrowed only to widen again. “He’s the one who got your sister with child?”

  “Yea.” Isabeau sighed. “Him, or our Priest. Only God knows. He admitted as much. He would have raped me as well, if I hadn’t escaped when I did.” She shivered. ‘Twas shameful to admit one of her kin had committed such a foul act. As heir to an earldom, Barak would inherit great responsibility. ‘Twas frightening to think ‘twould pass to such shaky hands.

  “Then he has more to answer for than trying to cheat me.” Fortin’s tone came harsh, but held little shock. But, why should he be surprised. His opinion of her family could hardly get worse. “But for tonight, I’m content with disrupting his plans.”

  He might be content, but she certainly wasn’t.

  After all she’d gone through.

  Freedom had eluded her once again.

  If he thought she would allow him to drag her back to Highburn without a fight, he was much mistaken.

  He unbuckled his sword, then laid it aside, settling his backside down in the hay. “I suggest you get some sleep,” he said, regarding her through half-closed lids, stretching his long legs out before him while making a pillow with his arms behind his head. “We leave at first light.”

  “Rest?” Her voice rose to a fevered pitch. “How can I rest, when you and my cousin contrive to steal my future from me?”

  “Go to sleep, Isabeau,” he said, closing his eyes, sounding not in the least concerned. “Things will look brighter come the morrow.”

  Brighter?

  Yea, verily for him!

  The brazen rogue!

  As he had possession of her once again.

  Preventing the alliance put him in good standing with the King.

  Ransoming her filled his coffers.

  Either way he won.

  Isabeau’s throat tightened. How she regretted giving herself to him. She could see now, it meant nothing to him. He held no affection for her. He did not even care what happened to her. Surrendering her maidenhead would not save her from Newbury or Barak. When Barak paid the ransom she would be at his mercy again.

  It served her right. She had thought to use Fortin. Instead, she was the one who felt used in the end.

  But there was nothing she could do at the moment. Though her frustration ran high at finding herself a prisoner once again, Fortin’s relaxed pose brought to mind her own exhaustion.

  Hunger had long since fled, chased away at the first sight of him. She might just as well grab a few hours of respite while she could, wait to plan her escape with a mind well cleansed.

  She padded to a spot some feet away to make her pallet in a separate nest of hay. With her safety secured by his presence, she could finally get some rest. Her troubles would still be there come the morrow, but if she managed to wake before Fortin, she might gain the upper hand.

  She might finally escape.

  ***

  Morning came in faint strokes of pink, peaking through the slits in the grey planks, painting the golden hay. Isabeau rose on her elbows with a start, her heart racing, her breath coming hard. She blinked against the light, trying to discern her surroundings.

  No trees, no musty leaves, just sweet smelling hay.

  The old nightmare had returned, but this time the beast chasing her had a face.
‘Twas Barak haunting her dreams all along, only she had not realized it until he attacked her in the woods. Praise God she had had the strength to fight him off, or she wouldn’t be able to live with herself.

  His attack should have put an end to her fears, but instead, the dreams had begun again, only stronger—more frightening than before. Worse still, if Barak paid the ransom, the nightmare became real again. And if he didn’t pay it, what would happen to her then?

  There was no sense appealing to Fortin. Her welfare did not concern him, other than what profit she would bring. He had said as much to her on many occasions.

  The creak of the door brought her to her feet.

  Fortin strode in, carrying a bowl of steaming porridge.

  So much for getting the jump on him.

  He appeared well-rested, if not invigorated after a night spent nestled in the hay.

  Isabeau gazed down at her crumpled grey kirtle, feeling as though she had been dragged through a knothole.

  “Eat,” he said, shoving the bowl toward her, “We have a long ride ahead of us.”

  She accepted the wooden bowl, flicking him a resentful glare. Apparently he hoped to fatten her up before sending her to the chopping block again. Just the same, her teeth tingled at the sweet smell of the honey drizzled over the steaming porridge. Her mouth watered in anticipation before she sat down to begin shoveling it in.

  Not until she was halfway through the contents of the bowl did she glance up to discover him watching her.

  He stood some feet away, arms crossed in front of his wide chest, brows drawn together, his mouth curved in a half smile. “I’ve never known a woman who enjoyed food so well. You moan to that spoon like a lover does to a pair of lips.”

  Her gaze dropped to his mouth.

  Memories of how smooth and sweet his lips tasted, sent tingles rushing over her limbs. Her gaze fell back to the bowl. “I beg your pardon, my lord but I’ve not eaten since Ram and Talbot shoved me in a sack.”

  “’Twas convenient they knew where to find you.”

  The suspicion in his tone snapped her gaze upward again. “’Twas nothing to do with me! The last thing I want is to marry Newbury. Why else would I sacrifice my virtue? Had I known the matter held no sway, I’d never have relinquished it in the first place. But then you knew that all along, didn’t you?”