Why, of all the people she could have met on the road to London, did it have to be Lord Montayne? She could have met thieves or murderers, loners or secret lovers, even a wild animal or two. No, she had to come across the one man, other than Henri, that could jeopardize her plans, ruin them before she’d even had a chance at survival.
Lady Montayne, indeed! Why had the man allowed her to continue her charade? Oh, yes, he was Sir Garrett, simply a gentleman ready to aid a lady in distress. She wished that Henri had never mentioned doing business with the man. It would have been better if she’d simply pulled a name from the air, rather than a potential business associate of Henri’s.
She sat up abruptly, brushing hay from her hair, and sneezed again. She tried to stand but became entangled in the cloak—his favorite cloak—and promptly fell back into the pile again. The sweet rush from the hay filled her nostrils, causing them to tingle. Another loud sneeze escaped.
Madeleine attempted to stand again. She succeeded this time and exited the shed.
The smith’s wife rushed up to her. “Oh, my lady, he was an angry one, that dark devil!”
“Yes,” Madeleine agreed. “I owe you my life, good woman.” She took the older woman’s hands in hers and squeezed them gently. “’Twas wonderful how you stood up to him. You are a brave woman, indeed.”
Madeleine relaxed for the first time since she’d left Henri. “He’s mad that his heiress fled his clutches,” she continued. “Now I hope that he will drown in his debts and have to marry an ugly second cousin.”
She and the smith’s wife giggled companionably and headed for the cottage. They tied a handkerchief filled with a wedge of sharp cheese, an apple, and a generous slice of bread.
“Best be on your way, my lady. I’d hate for you to run into the likes of that one again.”
Madeleine nodded in agreement. “I would like to avoid the two gentlemen. I’m sure you understand. I thought first about going to my brother in London, but I’m afraid they might spot me before I reach him.” She paused and then added, “I have an uncle who lives just southeast of London. Mayhap you could tell me which road to take to seek him out?”
The smith’s wife gladly explained to Madeleine the best passage to take then she headed north again, waving goodbye. Best to take her time and avoid both London and Lord Montayne for now. He was the last person she wanted to see now. She would take a day or two and enjoy her newfound freedom and then make her way to the famous city and its waterfront. Her only trip there with Henri had been short and far from pleasurable. Perhaps this time would be different.
The sun had now fully risen. Warm sunshine melted into her, and she slipped the cloak off, draping the heavy fabric over her arm. The loss of her beloved lute saddened her. Mayhap she could trade the cloak for another instrument. She stopped to go through the pockets and found several loose gold coins within.
She smiled, slightly mollified that Lord Montayne had lost both his cloak and coins. His trick canceled any regret she might have about appropriating his property. He knew she was a liar, but he had played along, taking her almost all the way to London. What would have happened when they arrived?
Yet she remembered his small acts of kindness. He had generously wrapped the cloak about her on both the cool ride of last night and again this morning as they walked after dismounting the horses. And, for a brief while, she felt so safe and secure in his arms as she rode atop Ebony.
Madeleine closed her eyes, imagining for the moment being enclosed again within Garrett Montayne’s embrace. She could feel the hard muscles of his chest against her back, his arm tight about her, holding her near him. He smelled of soap and horses, his breath light and fresh in her ear. She had an immense longing to be back on Ebony with him, the sweet ache filling her.
Then Ashby’s voice popped into her head. Married to Lynnette rang in her ears, and Madeleine’s eyes flew open. That black-hearted lord was married, she thought bitterly. A sigh escaped her lips, breaking the morning quiet.
“As if I were not,” she mused aloud. It was interesting that Garrett Montayne’s wife apparently made him as unhappy as Henri made her. “Could never be,” she murmured, fingering the pebble in her pocket, and continued down the road. Her heart, though, still ached at the waning memories of the dark, handsome devil.
Henri de Picassaret pushed the matted hair off his brow. He finally dared to open his eyes. Harsh light streamed through the dull windowpane. As often was the case upon awakening, his head felt ready to burst, as did his bladder. He struggled to sit up, the pounding in his head almost unbearable. He was in a foul mood. He’d lost in cards to his host, Lord Ancil. Didn’t the English have the decency to lose to a guest?
Henri massaged his temples lightly, hoping to still the roaring noise. He rose and shrieked for Bertrand. The man lurked behind every crack and cranny.
“You wish to dress, my lord?”
Henri let loose a stream of profanity, finally quieting when the thunder in his head became too loud to hear his own words. “Yes. Dress me, you fool. I must get to mass.”
Once there, he would feel better. He always did. Henri knew he was one of God’s chosen ones. By doing this daily duty to God, his Father honored him with riches beyond his dreams. Now if only God would see about finding him a wife that would give him children. It was his own cross to bear that none of his wives could get themselves with child.
And this latest one! Why, she could do nothing but look pretty and speak well. Granted, his guests loved her singing and the games she invented. They even enjoyed the little sketches she did of them. A good time was promised at Henri de Picassaret’s, and he always delivered. Now he tired of hearing her praised by his guests.
“How talented she is, Henri. How clever of you to find such a jewel.”
But she was not the jewel for which he had hoped. She was barren. He had already begun searching for a new wife. One more docile and more fertile than Madeleine Bouchard.
She had been a spoiled child and was now a spoiled woman. He’d had to discipline her much too often. He no longer thought it worth his trouble. He would ask God this morning how He wished Henri to handle the heavy burden He had placed upon him.
Henri held still as Bertrand finished. Dressed and perfumed, he headed for the chapel to lose himself in his reveries. Before he realized, mass was over and he hadn’t heard a thing God might have told him. ‘Twas all that bitch’s fault. If she and her unacceptable behavior hadn’t lain so heavily upon his mind, he could have heard what God wanted him to do with such an unruly wife. Now he would have to discipline her over it before they left for his business in London with Lord Montayne.
Henri walked carefully down the corridor to his room. Control was most important at these times, he had learned. He did not punish her when he was enraged. No, that was wrong, to hit in anger. He only did so to teach his wife a lesson.
Yet how he looked forward to this. A tremendous pressure built within him each time he disciplined a wife; Madeleine, in particular. It was as if God continued to punish him by giving him such resistant wives time and again. God eased him, though, and brought him a sweet release of peace once the lesson had been taught to his headstrong wife of the moment. Other men might experience guilt over such lessons, but serenity filled Henri after such a session.
Henri paused in front of the door, breathing deeply, regaining his poise before he entered. When ready, he slowly turned the knob and walked into the chamber, closing the door quietly behind him.
An empty room awaited him. Lord Ancil’s servants had made the bed and tidied up while he was gone. He crossed to a chair and sat.
Henri waited for half an hour, then an hour. He tried to stay calm, knowing God must be testing his limits. He could not disappoint Him. He cracked his knuckles slowly, the loud crunch the only sound besides his slow, measured breathing. As the time passed, his anger grew. The unruly emotion started in his stomach and slowly rose through his chest until it boiled throughout him. The tic that
pulled at the corner of his mouth when Madeleine tried him began twitching.
“Bertrand!”
His manservant opened the door at once.
“Find Lady de Picassaret,” Henri said evenly then sat back to bide his time.
Bertrand returned a quarter of an hour later. “There’s no sign of her ladyship, my lord. I have searched everywhere inside the castle. Mayhap she has gone for a walk or out for a ride?” he suggested hopefully.
Henri slowly shook his head. “She would not do so without asking my permission. Was she at mass, Bertrand?” Oftentimes Madeleine attended mass, but Henri rarely saw her, so strong was his devotion to His Lord.
“I did not notice her ladyship there, my lord. In fact, I have not seen her all morning.”
“Then find her,” Henri ground out through clenched teeth, and Bertrand left to search once again.
When he returned, Henri watched as his valet would not meet his eye and shifted from foot to foot.
“I have asked everyone, my lord. No one has seen her. My lady did not leave the grounds to walk nor ride. She is in no room in this castle.” Bertrand paused a moment, and Henri spotted the sweat that had broken out upon his servant’s forehead and above his upper lip.
Suddenly, Henri’s mouth twitched rapidly. His felt his anger building to frenzy, yet he remained in tight control. God would be proud that he held his temper.
He remained seated but eyed Bertrand carefully. “You have more to add?” he asked, his voice calm but deadly.
“Only that late last night one of the guards thought he spied a woman just outside the castle. There was little moonlight and the shadows can play tricks, you know.”
Henri watched the sweat drip off Bertrand’s lip, and the servant visibly trembled now.
“And?” Henry prodded, his foot tapping on the stone floor.
“The guard thought he was mistaken, my lord. The shadow was there one moment and gone the next. He decided there was no reason to be alarmed. That it was nothing.”
“Nothing, you say?” Henri stood, his fists clenched, his voice rising. “Nothing? That my wife has left without permission? In the dead of night? In a strange land?”
His anger was white—hot, heat searing his flesh. “She has abandoned her husband and her vows? She has gone into oblivion and never wants to see me again?”
Henri rose from his chair, towering over his portly servant. He grabbed Bertrand by the shoulders and drew him close, his forehead resting next to his servant’s.
“I will find her, Bertrand. I will find her. I will make her wish she never set her eyes upon me.”
When Bertrand remained silent, Henri continued. “God wants a wife to submit to her husband,” he explained. “I will have her yield. She will long for death. And then, only then, will I kill her slowly. And I will take pleasure in it. God would not ask me to remain faithful to a disloyal whore.”
Henri released Bertrand, who staggered back from his master. Satisfied, Henri could see the great fear on his valet’s features. Bertrand had witnessed Henri meting out punishment before and he knew his servant would do anything to keep his master’s wrath from descending upon him.
Madeleine arrived on the waterfront in the late afternoon after waiting two days before entering the city’s gates. She had spent most of the day there, searching for news of departing ships to France. She had just secured passage on one that would sail within hours. The high price surprised her, but she would have sold all her jewels and paid all she had to reach home, if only for a little while.
She knew her parents would be shocked to see her, but she would make them understand what she’d been through. She loved them more than anything on God’s earth. She would explain how cruel Henri had been to keep them apart. Then her brother would help arrange for her to enter a convent.
Madeleine knew liberation lay almost within her grasp. She had traveled many back roads to reach London. She wanted no more encounters with Lord Montayne. She remembered he’d mentioned having business here in London, and she knew he would be meeting at some point with Henri. The thought chilled her. Lord Montayne seemed a very clever man. What if he figured out who she was? Would he tell Henri?
She took her small bundle and held it more tightly to her, even as she tugged the black cloak around her. She still had pains of remorse for having taken such a fine garment. She had not meant to, but things had happened so quickly at the smith’s house that she had not realized she still had it about her when she’d put her plan into motion.
She wondered idly if there was a way to return it to Lord Montayne, perhaps with a note thanking him for his kindness.
Suddenly she was rooted to the spot. No, it couldn’t be. Dread filled her as she stared at the man not twenty paces in front of her, his back turned toward her as he conversed with another man. The bald pate. The portly, barrel-shaped body. The all-black clothes that Henri insisted every one of his servants wear.
The man gestured as he spoke, and she caught a glimpse of his face in profile.
Madeleine’s gut clinched in fear.
Bertrand. Why was he on the wharf? It was far too early for Henri to be returning to France.
It didn’t matter, she told herself. If Bertrand was here, then Henri could be, too. What if they were taking the same ship as she? How could she steer clear of them?
Madeleine fought the growing sense of panic and the wild urge to run, to scream, to lash out at the first person crossing her path. Instead, she remained calm despite her pounding heart. Turning, she hastened in the opposite direction along the dock at a brisk pace, in spite of her limp, even as she heard Bertrand and the man he spoke with coming her way. She turned abruptly, ducking behind a stack of cartons placed haphazardly, and waited, not daring to breathe nor even look up.
The men paused directly in front of the boxes that concealed her.
Bertrand spoke, his English flawless, though colored with his native French accent. “So you see, Monsieur de Picassaret is anxious to find her. He will pay a great deal to have her returned to him safely.”
The other man grunted. “I’m sure she’s the one, but she gave a different name. Your description is too close not to be the same woman.”
Madeleine heard the shifting of papers. “Yes, here it is. She’s listed as Bouchard. Madeleine Bouchard. Sailing on the evening tide tonight.”
Merde! But there was no time to spout “Our Fathers” as penance. She must hear what else that snake said about her.
Bertrand snorted. “Her family’s name. Nevertheless, she is my master’s wife.”
“What shall we do when she boards?”
“Let her suspect nothing. Simply post a man outside her cabin. Confine her there until I arrive with additional help.”
“And if for some odd reason ‘tis not whom you seek?”
“I have paid for several men to watch the harbor. If she seeks passage on any ship from London, I will know of it.”
“Very good,” replied the other man.
Madeleine waited as the men shuffled off in the opposite direction. Her heart sank. Tears spilled silently down her cheeks. What was she to do? She could not board that ship, nor could she reclaim the vast sum the captain had charged to take her as a passenger.
She huddled on the ground, her growing despair clouding her mind. She tried to think of a new escape plan, but she couldn’t focus. Her fear was too great. The bitter taste of defeat began closing in.
She was startled when a young boy rounded the corner and ran smack into her. His eyes widened first with surprise, and then they glowed with mischief.
“Evan! Evan, come out at once before I throttle yer bones, and ye know I will.”
The boy put a finger to his lips, his eyes wide and playful.
Madeleine started to rise, but he placed a hand upon her wrist and tugged her back down.
“Evan, ‘tis the last time I take ye anywhere with me. Oh, go hop in the water and swim away with the mermaids, for all I care.”
> The boy burst out laughing at her words, and immediately a petite woman leapt from around the corner. She took a step back when she saw Madeleine crouched there. Then she spotted her son.
“Evan, me boy, ye are the bane of me existence. If I could give ye back to God in His heavens, I would. I’d say to Him, ‘Mister God, me Lord, sir, ye’ve made a dreadful mistake. Ye meant to give me a good boy, I’m sure, but somehow me good lad was replaced. Instead, I’ve got the silliest rascal, a tyke descended from elves, no doubt. Could ye please let me return this imp?’ And Mister God will say to me, ‘Now, Gwenith, I only give ye what ye deserve.’ So of course, I’d say back to Him, ‘Mister God, I . . .”
The boy squealed, throwing himself into his mother’s arms.
“There, now,” she cooed to him. “Maybe God didn’t make such a mistake after all.”
Madeleine watched all this in bewilderment. She rose, wiping her tears, then blurted the first thought that entered her mind. “You’ve got the most gorgeous hair!”
The woman before her laughed heartily. “I’m delighted to find out ye like this red mop o’ mine. Gwenith’s me name.”
Madeleine smiled at her. “I am Madeleine Bouchard.”
Gwenith grinned at her. “Pleased to meet ye, Madeleine Bouchard.” She poked Evan in the ribs.
“Pleased ta meet ye,” the young boy echoed. “Mama, can we go now? Ye said ‘twas a nasty place here.”
“And then why’d ye run off from me, lad?” Gwenith scolded.
Evan considered this. “Why, to protect ye, o’ course. Ta keep all the bad ‘un’s away.”
Gwenith’s rich laughter tinkled musically. “Ye are a scamp, me little one. A charming one, but a scamp, nonetheless.” She squeezed his shoulder affectionately as she glanced across at Madeleine.
“Well, we must be off.” Gwenith began to turn as a tear slowly trickled down Madeleine’s cheek.
Music For My Soul Page 4
