Secret Heart

by Speer, Flora

  “Well, my lady, some of the crew had a bit too much ale and became – well, boisterous, ye might say. They thought to enjoy a bit of sport with her.”

  “Sport?” Sanal repeated, staring in shock at the seaman, who looked increasingly uncomfortable. “Are you saying that common sailors laid lustful hands on a noblewoman?”

  “It wasn’t me what laid a finger on her, my lady. I never touched her. And the men who did the deed have been whipped for it.”

  “But in any case, captain,” Walderon inserted himself into the debate, cutting off any response his wife could have made, “you do swear to me that Lady Chantal is now dead?”

  “Aye, my lord, without question or doubt, the lady is gone. I done what ye hired me to do. An’ now I expect to be paid as we agreed. In full, and without delay.”

  At these revelations Sanal gasped, then clamped her jaw shut to prevent any further outburst. She knew she was going to pay at Walderon’s hands for everything she had already said and for what she had heard. She didn’t want to make her own situation worse by continuing her objections.

  “So you shall be paid, exactly as you deserve,” Walderon told the captain. “The man-at-arms who brought you to me will see to it. You will find him waiting in the great hall. I want you to return to your ship at Calean City and wait there for my next orders, which will very likely reach you within a day or two.”

  “Thank ye, my lord. Yer servant, my lady.” The captain bobbed his head in Sanal’s direction before addressing Walderon again. “After that terrible storm, I’ve a few repairs to make before me ship’s seaworthy again. The work won’t take long. Any time ye want another job done, my lord, I’m yer man.”

  “So you are,” Walderon agreed, waving one hand in a sign of dismissal.

  “They raped her,” Sanal said as soon as the door closed behind the captain. “Or they would have, if she hadn’t chosen death over dishonor.” Frightened of Walderon though she was, she simply could not restrain her revulsion. Bitter tears stung her eyelids as she regarded the husband she loathed.

  “Who is to know what really happened? What difference can it make to you?” Walderon asked with a shrug of his shoulders. He didn’t look at Sanal. But then, he seldom favored his wife with a direct gaze. “Chantal will never be seen again, never interfere with my plans again. That is all that really matters. I suggest you take note of what happens to females who refuse to obey me.”

  Sanal knew better than to make any answer to his threatening statement. She watched Walderon preening himself, tugging down his embroidered blue silk tunic so it hung more elegantly on his shoulders, smoothing his sleek, dark hair. She ground her teeth together in disgust at his vanity. Always Walderon must be the finest dressed noble, the most admired man at any gathering. Her dowry had made his grandeur possible.

  Sanal knew she was homely. She was too short to be graceful and too plump for beauty. With her pale brown hair and grey eyes, and her face as uninteresting and colorless as the rest of her, she was not at all the sort of female that Walderon considered worthy to be his wife. His mistresses, all of whom Sanal had met at one time or another while at court, were invariably tall and willowy of figure. Sanal’s huge dowry had overshadowed her physical shortcomings, leading Walderon to accept the marriage contract her dying father had offered.

  No one had bothered to ask Sanal’s opinion of her prospective bridegroom. The men who arranged her life had not cared that she was an unwilling bride. On her marriage night, when she had prayed that a bit of gentleness and patience would be vouchsafed to a shy virgin, Walderon had used force. He said it was to teach her wifely obedience. And he’d told her how fortunate she was that he had been careful not to inflict any bruises that would show once she was dressed again.

  After that night, Sanal had never denied him anything he demanded of her. During the fifteen years of their marriage she had tried to be the docile wife he wanted. She had borne him a single son, who, to Walderon’s frequently expressed satisfaction, was being fostered at the castle of one of King Henryk’s greatest noblemen. He had insisted on more sons, of course, but Sanal’s womb had rebelled where she did not dare. Two other babes were stillborn and she had suffered several miscarriages. Walderon had blamed her for all of it.

  Now she had just learned the very worst of her husband, and she discovered she was unable to remain silent about his crime.

  “How could you order the murder of your blood kin?” she cried.

  “Leave it be. I’ll hear no more whining from you,” Walderon interrupted before she could complete her accusations. His voice sounded all the more deadly because he did not raise it much above a whisper. “It’s over. The troublesome wench is gone at last, and I am almost certain to be granted this estate of Thury as my own. I was Chantal’s guardian after all, and I have taken excellent care of Thury. King Henryk will feel honor bound to reward me for my devotion. I deserve Thury.” Walderon paused to smooth down his hair again, as if his irritation with his wife had disturbed its neatly brushed perfection.

  “As for you, Sanal, let me remind you that a man ought to possess all of his wife, to command her complete and unquestioning loyalty every day and every night, even when she kneels in prayer. I don’t care whether you love me or not, whether you are shocked by my deeds or not, but I do expect total obedience from you. If you do not offer it, I shall force you to it.”

  “What you have done is wrong,” Sanal persisted in spite of her fear of him. She owed that much to the poor, dead girl who had been her niece by marriage. She only wished she were braver, so her voice didn’t tremble so badly. “Chantal’s death was murder. And what about-”

  She got no further. Walderon’s hand connected with her cheek, the blow sending her stumbling backward until she fetched up against the wall and leaned there, unable to move for fear of what he would do next. Then, as often happened when Walderon beat her, he became aroused. She saw the growing bulge just above the embroidered hem of his blue silk tunic.

  “I will join you in your bedchamber shortly,” he told her. “Undress and prepare yourself to receive me.”

  “Whatever you wish, my lord,” she murmured, too cowed by his violence to offer any objection at the prospect of his always swift and dispassionate embrace. He’d use her and, if she was fortunate, he would not hit her again. After he was finished, he’d leave her alone for several days.

  Walderon jerked his head in the direction of the door and Sanal, obeying the signal, left the room with alacrity. But she didn’t go directly to her own chamber. Holding her hand against her stinging cheek, she moved slowly along the corridor. As she expected, Walderon shouted to Burke, his favorite man-at-arms, who had been standing guard outside the office door.

  As soon as Burke entered Sanal crept back to listen to their conversation. Eavesdropping was unworthy of a noblewoman, but Sanal had learned over the years that it was the only way she could discover what her secretive husband’s intentions were. What she heard on this occasion chilled her blood.

  “The rough-looking sailor and the friend who came with him, who are both about to depart from Thury, are bound for Calean, where their ship is berthed. It is such a pity that bandits lurk on the roads hereabout.” Walderon’s voice hardened. “Those two are not to reach their destination. Take a few men and make certain that both of them are permanently silenced somewhere between here and Calean. You may keep the coins they carry.”

  “Won’t their crewmates miss them?” Burke asked.

  “I doubt it. They are all drunkards, scum with no allegiances and no loyalties. When the captain and his mate don’t return in good time, the ship’s crew will most likely elect a new captain and then take to the sea without the old one, in search of a likely target and a new load of booty. How sad,” Walderon said with a nasty laugh. “The sea is every bit as dangerous as the roads. That particular ship, as I recall it, is poorly built and improperly caulked.”

  “Aye,” Burke agreed in a tone that suggested he was grinning at h
is master. “Most likely, any ship those two sail on leaks like a sieve. I’ll see to it that she does leak, my lord.”

  “I knew I could depend on you,” Walderon said.

  At that point Sanal fled down the corridor and up the stairs to her room. Once there she quickly drank three large cups of unwatered wine in preparation for Walderon’s visit.

  Later, after he left her, she was very sick, but at least the wine had made her compliant enough not to weep during the precipitous and always uncomfortable embrace of her murderous husband. The only new bruises she had sustained were on her thighs and her breasts. She had borne worse from him in the past.

  She rinsed her mouth, washing away the last traces of Walderon’s lust before she crawled back into bed, to lie there sleepless with horror at the news the ship’s captain had brought.

  Something must be done about Chantal’s death. But what? How could one thoroughly frightened woman stop a man as unscrupulous and ambitious as Walderon? Though he seldom employed his corrupt Power, preferring instead to command underlings to do his bidding, Sanal had never doubted he’d use it if anyone got in the way of his ambition.

  As for her own untrained Power, the most she could do with it was conceal it from Walderon. Sanal quaked with fear at the notion of opposing him over anything important. She suspected that Chantal had stepped into Walderon’s path, either deliberately or inadvertently, and blocked him from something he wanted. Now Chantal was dead and he hadn’t even needed to use his Power to accomplish her demise. What would he do to his wife, to King Henryk, or to Sapaudia itself if he faced serious opposition?

  Chapter 7

  “You will eat your midday and evening meals in the great hall each day while we are at Auremont,” Roarke informed Jenia. “Come.”

  They were still in the garden where they’d been all morning while Roarke instructed and badgered her about proper conduct at court, and Jenia was out of temper. When Roarke extended his arm for her to place her fingers on it so he could conduct her to the great hall, she turned her back on him.

  “Will you be testing my manners at the high table?” she demanded.

  “Don’t be childish,” he responded with maddening calmness. “You know why we are doing this. You agreed to cooperate.”

  “You are so reasonable, quite the best tutor I have ever had.” She spoke while facing away from him, so she didn’t see how close he had come to her. When he spoke directly into her ear, she jumped.

  “So, you once had a tutor?” He laid a hand on her shoulder and exerted enough pressure to make her turn to look at him. “Why don’t you tell me all of it, Jenia? Who are you? Why are you so eager to reach Calean that you will travel without female attendants, with two men who are strangers to you? Or is Garit not a stranger?”

  “Why do you persist in asking questions that I cannot answer?”

  “Cannot? Or will not?” he demanded in a voice that sounded like the purring of a dangerous, very large mountain cat.

  “Roarke, please believe that when the proper time comes, all of your questions will be answered. Until then, I beg you to trust me. I mean you no harm, nor Garit, either.”

  “How can I trust a woman who conceals her true identity from me?” he asked.

  Both of his hands were on her shoulders now, holding her so she could not escape from him. But, she decided, she didn’t have to meet his gaze. She stared at his chest and not into his eyes, until he released one shoulder and caught her chin, forcing her face up to his. Jenia shivered and closed her eyes in an attempt to avoid the worst of his anger.

  “Are you determined to drive me mad?” Roarke demanded. “Is that your plan?”

  “I cannot answer your questions,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady under the force of his determination to have the truth out of her.

  “Then, answer this, my mysterious lady.”

  At first she wasn’t sure what he was doing. Since her eyes were still closed and her thoughts were firmly fixed upon not revealing any of her secrets to him, she had no warning. She was twenty years old, well beyond the usual age for marriage, and never before had a man kissed her on the lips. She hadn’t had time for girlish dreams of love. Never had she imagined the sensual power of such closeness to a man.

  The intimate touch of Roarke’s mouth on hers rocked her to the tips of her toes.

  She gasped in amazement, opening her lips just a little, and Roarke’s tongue surged into her. Perhaps she could have fought him off, if she hadn’t been plunged into a maelstrom of emotion that left her too weak to make any effort at resistance. She could only grab onto his tunic, twisting the fabric into her fingers to keep herself from falling to the ground in a limp heap.

  Within a heartbeat or two she knew that she wanted Roarke’s kiss to go on forever. His arms were around her, holding her close to his strength and she was returning his kiss as best she could. An instant of regret at her total lack of experience in such matters was followed by a whimper as Roarke tore his mouth from hers. She wanted to apologize for her inept response to his kiss, but before she could form a single word in her mind, much less utter it aloud, his lips were on her throat and his tongue was licking at her skin.

  Jenia gasped again and groaned. Then she stopped thinking and simply gave herself up to sweet, new sensations, to the first, tremulous fluttering of feminine desire somewhere deep inside her. Innocent though she was, she clearly understood that what Roarke was doing to her was something very different from the attack she had struggled against while aboard ship. Roarke was not going to ravish her; he was seducing her. And she, foolish Jenia, was enjoying every heartbeat of his seduction.

  It was wonderful to feel herself coming alive in every fiber, to sense her own ready yielding toward him. The longing she felt was so overwhelming that if he had urged her down upon the damp, soft moss to lie with her there, she would have offered no objection.

  But he was stronger than she, and far more honorable. He released her and moved backward a single step. While she continued to clutch at his tunic in hope of keeping herself erect, Roarke took her face between his hands.

  “Look at me, Jenia.”

  Though his voice was soft, she knew the words were a command she dared not disobey. She opened her eyes to meet his dark and determined gaze.

  “Are you Chantal of Thury?” he asked with quiet intensity. “If you are, tell me now and I’ll never come near you again. I refuse to trespass on Garit’s love; I’ll not trample my dearest friend’s heart. If, for some deep reason of your own, you must keep your name secret from everyone else in the world, then I swear to you, I will never reveal it. I will keep your secret until I die, or until you release me from my promise of silence.”

  “No, you cannot die!” she cried, her fears about the dangers awaiting them in Calean erupting into words. “You must not. Roarke, don’t ask me again for answers I dare not give. Swear that you won’t ask.”

  “Very well, then.” He rested his forehead against hers. “After this last hour, you cannot be ignorant of my feelings toward you. Many men believe women have no sense of honor, that they cannot be trusted unless they are kept under close guard. I have more reason than most to ascribe to that belief. Still, my heart tells me not all women are the playthings of their own uncontrollable emotions. My mother was an honest woman. So is Queen Hannorah. And though you have given me more than ample cause to doubt your honor, I prefer to believe that your purpose in Calean, whatever it is, must be an honorable one.”

  “It is,” Jenia said. Reluctantly, she unwound her hands from his tunic, separating herself from all physical contact with him, so she could think more clearly. “I can tell you this much: I am on a quest. You are the only man I’ve ever known who would not laugh to hear a woman use such a word. I am willing to go to Calean with you, and to pretend to be Lady Chantal, because doing so will further my quest.”

  “If you will only tell me more, I am sure I can help you,” he said.

  “Very likely, you could. But
I am sworn to silence on the matter until I reach Calean. It’s the nature of my quest, you see.”

  “You are as fervent and determined as any knight ever was,” he said with a slight smile.

  “So I must be, for just a few days more. Trust me, Roarke, and do not insist on answers I cannot provide.”

  “Since you ask it of me, I will obey the strictures of your quest,” he said. “If you need my help at any time, you have only to ask. I will not demand explanations until you are free to give them.”

  “That’s more than any woman ought to require of a man,” she said. “Thank you, Roarke.”

  With that, she placed her fingers on his wrist and allowed him to lead her to the midday meal.

  The next day it rained so hard that the garden was dripping, the moss sodden with water. When Jenia had not appeared in the great hall by midmorning Roarke knocked on her bedchamber door. He assured himself he was there only to inform her that because of the weather she’d receive no further instruction from him until the morrow. He’d deliver his message and leave.

  When the maidservant opened the door to him, he glimpsed Jenia on the window seat. Her knees were drawn up under her and she was leaning against the stone window frame with her chin propped on one hand as she gazed out at the rain and fog. Her posture was so dejected that Roarke was drawn to join her.

  He told himself he only wanted to cheer her, even as he recognized that he was making an excuse to stay with her because he could not bear to be apart from her for an entire day. In silence he motioned to the maidservant to leave and when she was gone he quietly closed the door.

  “Jenia.” At first she didn’t move. As Roarke stepped closer she turned her head and he saw moisture on her face. His next words were spoken with impatience at what he saw as female foolishness. “The rain is coming in. Let me close the shutters before you catch a chill.”

  Only when he was next to her did he realize that her bronze silk gown was dry, the wind was blowing the rain away from the open window rather than into it, and the dampness on her cheeks came from tears.