Devil take his pride, for it would be cold comfort in the years ahead. Rounding on his heel, Benedict left the library. He would have it out now. Anything was preferable to this agony of loneliness and indecision. When he entered Raine’s chamber and found it empty, he felt a lag in his determination to have all settled. But only a slight lag. The faint hope that she might still have some gentle feeling for him drove him on.
He called for Maeve. That wise soul seemed to read his intent the moment she entered the chamber, and he could not help seeing that she was pleased. He ignored this, asking, “Have you any notion of where my wife has gone?”
She nodded. “Aye, my lord, I saw her pass through the hall some time ago. She was wearing a cloak, thus I assumed she might be taking a walk.”
He nodded and left without answering the questions he saw in her gaze. He made his way directly to the stables and collected his stallion. He wished to speak to Raine before talking to anyone else of this matter. This was their relationship, and should have been something they addressed together since the beginning.
It was only when he was unable to find Raine about the castle grounds or at the beach that he began to grow concerned. Returning to the keep, he had it searched from top to bottom. It soon became apparent that she was not there.
With a growing sense of unease he questioned Aida, who could do little but sputter incoherently past her tears. Trying his very best to be calm with her in spite of his own anxiety, Benedict learned only that there was nothing missing from Raine’s belongings but the garments she had been wearing.
The suspicion that had begun to insinuate itself into Benedict’s mind was untenable. Yet it would not go away.
Was it possible that, even after giving her word that she would not run away again, Raine had done just that? His chest ached at the very thought. But would she leave without William? He could not credit it. Yet she was gone.
Raine had been angry with him after the things he had said to her, the despicable way he had behaved, shouting and thrashing about the library like a madman before ordering her out. He clearly recalled the one request she had made on agreeing to come back to Brackenmoore—that there would be no more orders.
Again he was beset by a pain in his chest, this time in realizing just how wrongly he had behaved. How could she be blamed for leaving, under the circumstances?
Yet even as he thought this Benedict knew a sense of doubt. Raine had given her word. Was it not true that no matter how difficult or untenable keeping her word might be, as in the case of protecting Will even if it meant marrying a man she did not love, she had done just that?
A great wave of fear swept over him, as he was suddenly and painfully certain that she had not run away. Something had happened to her. Or, God forbid, someone had taken her. As soon as the thought entered his head Benedict knew that was exactly what had happened. The castle and grounds had been searched. If she were the victim of an untoward accident there would have been some sign of it.
Who would have taken her? A picture of Denley Trent as Benedict had last seen him at Abbernathy rose in his mind. The man was crazed, convinced for no reason that Raine was betraying him by her marriage to Benedict.
With a cry of rage, he spun around, the guilt of his own fault in this riding hard upon his heels. He had been nothing short of a fool himself to underestimate the man. Obviously that bumbling air had too easily distracted him from Trent’s rigid and unwavering determination to have Raine at all costs. No more would he play the fool. This time Denley Trent would pay with his life. And if he had harmed her in any way? Benedict’s stomach clenched at the thought.
If he had, only God could help him.
Benedict garbed himself for travel, then hesitated only to inform his steward of his departure. Understandably, the man was horrified by his cryptic explanation of where he was going and why.
“My lord, there will be no one of the Ainsworth blood here. I cannot recall such a thing ever occurring.”
Benedict met his troubled gaze. “Kendran was to return on the morrow. You must send for him. Beyond that I can do naught but find Raine. She may be in grave danger.”
Benedict then left the keep without a backward glance. For the first time in his life Brackenmoore did not figure foremost in his mind. All he could think about was getting on a horse and finding his wife and their child.
Only as several of his men and William’s entered the stables and began to saddle their horses did he realize that the steward or possibly Maeve must have ordered them to accompany him. Benedict made no effort to slow himself to accommodate their preparations for the journey. But he was pleased to find them right behind him as he passed through the castle gate.
The journey to Trent’s holding passed in a blur of anger and impatience. Benedict was grateful that William’s men had accompanied him, for they knew the most direct route there and were willing to keep up the pace he set in order to rescue their mistress.
He could not hide the agony he knew was written on his face. There was no point in attempting to disguise his feelings any longer. Raine meant more to him than his dignity or even his position as overlord. Nothing mattered but that he find her.
They arrived at the wood-frame house in the heavy darkness that presages dawn. Benedict leapt to the ground before his horse had come to a full halt. He strode to the door, pounding upon it with a tightly clenched fist. “Trent!” he bellowed.
The door was opened after only a short time by a sleepy-eyed serving man, who peered out, his gaze clearly still adjusting to the glow of the lantern he held high. When he took in not only Benedict but also the men who had moved to stand behind him, his gray eyes rounded. He stepped backward, making to close the door. Benedict pushed past him, demanding, “I will see your master now.”
“But—”
“Fetch him, ’ere I order my men to burn this pile of tinder to the ground.”
The man rushed behind the curtained partition at the far end of the room nearest the hearth. A moment later he heard Denley exclaim, “Tell him I refuse to see him.”
Benedict followed the serving man. He found himself in the bedchamber. Trent was sitting up, glaring at his servant. A woman huddled at his back, her eyes wide. Her hair, which hung about her in a golden-brown tangle, did not disguise the fact that she was not uncomely. The fear in her gaze made Benedict hesitate. He had no wish to terrorize anyone but the man who had taken his wife. That need pushed him on.
He strode to the bed. “Where is she?”
Trent stared at him in puzzled amazement. “You mean Raine?”
Benedict bent over him, his heart beating like a drum in his chest. “Of course, Raine, but you know that better than anyone.”
Denley stared at him in utter horror. “I do not have her.” There was no mistaking his fear and shock.
Utter despair pierced Benedict as he realized that the man was telling the truth.
If she were not here…Dear God, where could she be? A great yawning chasm of anguish and uncertainty opened up inside him as he realized that he did not know what to do, where to go.
He had been so sure, had convinced himself so thoroughly that it was her cousin who had taken her. No other possibilities had even entered his mind. He ran a trembling hand over his face.
Denley spoke up quickly. “I swear it is true, Ainsworth. I have not seen her.”
Benedict heard him as if through a wall. It was all he could do to form a sensible reply. “I believe you.” Now that he knew Raine was not with her cousin, he had lost interest in him. He could fully focus on nothing save his own pain and dread.
He turned and left the hall without another word. Mounting his horse, he looked out over the road before him, his mind a whirl of torment.
Raine!
Raine knew not where she might be, for the round, stone, windowless chamber was in no way familiar to her. That did not astonish her greatly, however, for it had taken a short time to reach it and she was not acquainted with the area a
bout Brackenmoore. She was surprised that Denley was.
The room bore no furnishing but the bed, which was made of a heavy wood frame and an ancient fur. The rush-strewn floor offered up no secrets.
It was not until the third day of her imprisonment that Raine saw another human being. Previous to that her food and water had been passed to her through a narrow aperture in the heavy oak door, which could only be opened from without. All of her cries for Denley to speak with her had met with silence.
Thus it was with some surprise on the morning of that third day that she saw the door itself open. Quickly she rose from the narrow bed. Even as she searched the bare chamber for the hundredth time in the hope of finding a weapon of any sort, a man stepped inside, closing the portal after him. He was a strange man, his shape distorted in a way she had never seen, his shoulders and chest incredibly wide for his stature, his shoulders uneven in height. His face was equally distinctive, his head large, as was his nose, his wide mouth crooked. It was his eyes that she found most arresting; wide and fine, they were of an amazing and beautiful sea green.
The shock she felt at seeing not her cousin, but this squat, misshapen figure standing there in a long robe could not be measured. It was a very long moment before she found her tongue. “Who are you and where is Denley?”
The man frowned. “I know not who this Denley you call for might be.” He pointed to his own disproportionately wide chest. “I am Alister Harcourt, lord of Treanly.”
“Alister Harcourt?” Her brows knit in confusion. “I have heard the name through my husband, but do not understand why would you bring me here. I do not even know you, sir.”
He shrugged, his heavy-featured face cruel. “That you would even wonder why I would seek revenge only serves to further convince me that I have done what is right in taking you from your husband.”
Even as Raine saw that cruelty she could not help noting that his unusual eyes bore an unmistakable trace of pain. But she was in no position to worry on this, as her own safety and the safety of her unborn child might well hang in the balance. She spoke as gently as her pounding heart would allow. “Please, my lord, you speak in riddles.”
He shrugged those uneven shoulders. “Do I? Why would you be so surprised that I might take the righting of the wrongs done to my family into my own hands?” He raised one amazingly large hand and closed it into a fist. “Do you think that the wrongs done me are of such little import that you cannot imagine I might wish to take my own revenge for them?”
Raine ran her hands over her face as she tried to think. The last thing she wished to do was insult her captor and further enrage him. Yet she knew his need for vengeance was not justified. Benedict had told her what had occurred with Tristan and Lily. She also knew that Benedict had been reluctant to reveal the whole truth to this man because of his desire to protect those he loved from gossip and scandal.
Raine hesitated to tell her captor the facts as she knew them. She was not sure that revealing their secrets would change anything, for she did not believe the man was in any state to heed anything she might say.
She looked up at him, her eyes unconsciously pleading. “What do you mean to do with me?”
His piercing green gaze raked her. “That, my lady, I have not yet decided. Suffice it to say that whatever I decide, I wish for it to make the most painful impact possible upon your husband. He will be suffering even now at the loss of his lovely new bride, but not nearly as much as I would have him suffer.” His voice became rough with emotion. “He will know the agony I have known in the death of my brother.”
Again Raine was aware of the pain in him, and earnestly told him. “I know that my husband is very sorry for your loss.”
His expression hardened. “Sorry for my loss? He has done all he can to set my very existence aside, to appease me with lands and money.” He glared at her. “Do not think that I am blind to the fact that it was he who convinced King Edward to become involved in this matter. His influence with this court is no secret.”
What he said about Benedict’s having asked the king for aid was true, and there was be nothing to be gained in denying it. Yet the man did not understand that Benedict had not been attempting to misuse him, only to protect his own family. Benedict had said that Harcourt had brought his troubles with Tristan upon himself, and Raine believed him completely. Her husband had proved honest no matter what his other faults might be.
Her captor went on coldly. “Your husband will suffer the loss of you as I have my brother.”
She would not attempt to disabuse Alister Harcourt of his erroneous notion that she would be greatly missed by her husband. The fact that she was gone, and with her his babe, would pain him, for the child meant much to him. And for that reason, if no other, she must get through this intact. Although Benedict felt no love for her, her own feelings for him made the notion of his suffering over the loss of the babe too distressing for her to contemplate.
Somehow she would survive.
Studying the misshapen man before her, Raine thought about the agony he had suffered. Clearly he had loved his brother, no matter what his character. Sympathy stabbed at her heart. She faced him. “Pray believe me, my lord, I am sorry that you lost one whom you loved. I have only just recently lost my own father, and I understand how hurtful it is to know that you will never meet him in the hall, never hear the sound of his voice, his laugh, never feel an arm about your shoulders. It is painful to understand that he is gone for always.”
He looked at her for a long, long moment. “Do you think my grief as paltry as that? Do you imagine that I would go to such lengths simply because I miss him?” He lurched toward her, and Raine took an involuntary step backward. “I do not miss him, my lady Ainsworth.”
For a long moment she could think of nothing to say, for words seemed meaningless in face of the agony she saw in his eyes. He watched her in return, then finally turned his back on her, going to the door to lean his forehead against it. He spoke harshly to someone without. “Trevor.”
Raine saw the slump of those shoulders, felt the pain of all he had said sink into her bones. Acting on impulse, she went to him, putting her own slender arm about those wide shoulders.
He stiffened and jerked back, even as the door swung open. In the next moment he was gone, but not before Raine had seen the unadulterated longing in those green eyes.
She stood staring at that closed door, her heart heavy with sadness. That longing had had naught to do with any masculine need, but something deeper, and she thought perhaps far more terrifying to a man bent on revenge.
Perhaps, she mused, there was some way to make him see that Benedict had meant him no harm. Benedict had taken so many under his wing—herself, William, his ward, Genevieve, his brothers. He would never misuse a misshapen, sad man like the one who had just left her.
Would Alister Harcourt ever believe that? Yet what would happen to her, to her babe, if he did not? Her hand went to her belly protectively. This situation had made her realize that she loved her child, wanted it with every fiber of her being. Even if Benedict did not love her, her love for him meant that the babe had not been conceived in pain and misery, but in love.
The child must survive. It was living proof that she and Benedict were indeed something to one another, if only on her part.
There was one thing that did give her some cause to hope. Clearly Alister Harcourt had not yet decided what he intended to do with her. Perhaps, if he delayed long enough over his plans for vengeance, she could escape. The possibility was remote, of course, given where she was being held, but she had to cling to it.
She could not allow herself to believe that Benedict might come for her. He would have no way of knowing where to search.
Benedict pushed on through the night, his mind so filled with confusion and pain that he hardly knew what to do. He knew only that he must go on, must find Raine and bring her home, beg her to forgive him for all the hurt he had brought her. He had refused to give of himself, tim
e after time, and all for the sake of protecting his own closed heart.
In the early morn, when Brackenmoore Castle at last came into view, Benedict felt no rise of happiness or relief. He felt numb, dead inside, as he had never before felt in his life. Even when his parents had died he had had his brothers to live for, their needs to pull him through the pain.
As Raine had said, they were now men, with their own lives to live. They no longer needed him as they had. And the two people who did need him most—his wife and his child—were gone, leaving this emptiness that would never be filled without them. For he realized that even more than they needed him, he needed them. And he had no idea of where to even begin to look for them.
The moment he arrived at the keep, Kendran, with a white-faced William in tow, hurried out to greet him. His expression was grim as he held out a roll of parchment. “This arrived not more than hours after the steward summoned me home. After overhearing your conversation with Raine that night and realizing your troubles with Alister Harcourt, I took the liberty of reading it.”
Benedict felt dread wash over him anew, the sickness of fear in his heart telling him what Kendran would say even before the words were uttered. “He has her, Benedict. It is he who has taken Raine.”
Benedict threw back his head and shouted incoherently into an indifferent and cloudless blue sky, which surely should weep as he did inside. Frustration and pain gave him the voice of a caged beast. When he could speak, he said only, “Tell me.”
Kendran went on, his face grim. “He sends you a challenge and says that he will not release her unless you meet with him in mortal combat. You alone are to come to the tower on Mayberry Knob or bring about her death.”
Benedict’s heart felt as if it had turned to ice in his chest, and in that instant an unexpected and deadly calm settled over him. “Aye, I will meet with him.” He rubbed the hilt of his sword with a now rock steady hand. He would meet with him and Harcourt would die.
The Bride Of Spring Page 24
