She steeled herself to feel neither longing nor pain. “I must tend to my family tonight, my aging grandmother and my father, who is ill.”
When Peter started to protest, she stood up. “I am firm in this.”
He frowned at that, then pulled her rudely toward the door. “He will come for you,” he whispered.
“I will go to your mother then. She, at least, will protect me from his improper advances!”
“He won’t care!” Peter hissed. “He will come for you anyway. Anywhere. You haven’t seen him since Henry and Eustace left. You don’t know how angry he is!”
“Angry?” This time it was Linnea who drew him away, out the door and into the antechamber. “What in the name of God has he to be angry about?”
“I don’t know!” he shouted back. “I only know that if you do not come there will be hell to show for it!”
She did not respond to that but stormed back into the room and shoved the door closed in his face. Inside, though, with all eyes turned on her, she knew she was well and truly caught. She could not stay, yet she feared he would not let her go. He would keep her and torment her, and she would die from a broken heart. Already she could hardly breathe or think, so excruciatingly painful was her fate.
“It appears I taught you well.” Lady Harriet approached her, click by metallic click. “Whatever it is you did—go willingly or fight—he cannot get enough.” She stood just before Linnea, her face crafty again, her voice lowered to a cracking whisper. “If you would just advise your sister as to his desires—”
“No. No!” Linnea recoiled from the old woman. “I will not be a part of any more schemes against him!” Then she jerked open the door and fled, oblivious to her grandmother’s call or her sister’s.
She had to get away! She could not wait another day—not even another minute! She must flee this place even though it be on foot with no plan or direction or coin. She must run from Axton, else she would surely fling herself into his arms.
He was irritated. He was angry.
No, he was nervous. Axton had planned to sup privately with his bride so that he might determine what sort of woman she was—beyond the mask of fear she always wore in his presence. But he just wanted to be done with this supper with her, and move on to his meeting with her sister. With Linnea.
It was the thought of dealing with Linnea again that had him so restless, with palms sweating and his gut in a knot.
She would fight him, and she would have many allies—his mother and brother, primarily. And, no doubt, his soon-to-be-wife.
Christ, but he was a madman to even think he could wed the one and bed the other! But he was not prepared to let her go. Not yet.
The curtain to the pantler’s closet parted and Peter poked his head in. “She will be here soon.”
Axton stood, scraping the chair backward. He’d chosen to meet with Beatrix in the castle offices, to allow them privacy from the many curious eyes of staff and servants, and prying family. Of a sudden, however, he wished he’d not done so. With Linnea he preferred the privacy. With Beatrix—
“Christ,” he swore, raking his close-cropped hair with one hand. “Just show the wench in.”
Peter frowned at his words. “She is to be your wife. To call her wench is to begin the union in a less than hopeful manner.”
“I started my union with her sister in a less than hopeful fashion,” Axton snapped. “Look how that turned out.”
“Disastrous?” Peter retorted sarcastically.
“No, damn you! With her more than content! With her melting beneath my hand! So shall it be with this sister. They look alike. They will respond alike!”
“They are not the same woman!” Peter pounded the air with his knotted fist. “Linnea fights you—and wins,” he caustically added. “But Beatrix will not be able to withstand your foul temper.”
“What do you mean, she wins? She has not—”
“She has won your heart! She has lied to you, deceived you, and brought you to the brink of defeat,” he pointed out, ticking the items off on his fingers. “Yet she nonetheless has won your heart.” Peter’s strident voice had softened at the last point. Now his young face creased in a frown as he stared at his brother. “You cared what became of her should you fall to de Montfort. But now that you have won, what do you intend to do with her?”
Axton was shaking with rage. But it was not his brother who deserved that anger, he recognized. It was himself. He was a fool to let a mere woman affect him so. Why couldn’t he be content with the sister, especially since she was just as fair, just as comely, and no doubt could warm his bed just as well on a cold night?
Because she was not Linnea, and he could tell the difference between them in every aspect of their bearing.
Still, in the dark one woman was much the same as another, he told himself. Hadn’t he always thought that? Hadn’t he proven it true innumerable times?
“What do you intend to do with her?” Peter demanded to know.
“I shall keep her,” Axton snapped. He glared at his brother. “I shall keep her as long as I want her,” he added, goading the boy, though he knew it was pointless.
“You cannot do that!”
“I can and I will.”
“You would take a vow to one woman—before God, your family, and hers. You would take that vow, knowing all the while you intend to break it?”
“Didn’t Linnea do as much to me? She took the same vows, but she lied.”
But Peter was obstinate. He shook his head. “Beatrix is not Linnea, Axton. She is not a part of your anger at Linnea.”
“She’s at the very center of it! She’s what this is all about. Linnea loves her so much she whored for her!”
With a furious cry Peter launched himself at Axton. Though smaller by half, his attack was nonetheless hard enough to set Axton back on his heels. But he recovered quickly and with a rough shove sent Peter sprawling.
That, however, did not stop the boy. He rose to his feet, his fists clenched in rage. “’Twas but a few hours ago that you lauded her loyalty. You said it was a rare thing. Now you would berate her for it?”
Axton winced under Peter’s painful accusation. It was true, all of it. Worst of all, however, was the bitter knowledge that it was not so much Linnea’s loyalty to her sister which did bedevil him as it was her disloyalty to him. He could never command that same sort of loyalty, that same sort of love from her as did her family members.
But he could not admit as much to anyone, not even his own brother. He glared at Peter. “She made a fool of me. I am entitled to my anger. Besides, we speak here not of Linnea, but of Beatrix.”
“Yes, Beatrix, who is so sweet and so mild-tempered that she did inspire her sister to make the ultimate sacrifice for her. Did you ever think, great lummox that you are, that Beatrix might just be worth that sacrifice? That Linnea loves her so fiercely for a reason?”
Axton gritted his teeth. “What I think is that you are as easily coerced by that wilting wench as is her sister.”
“And what am I to do, stand by and watch you torment the defenseless creature? She will not survive so well as did Linnea—”
“Do not speak to me of Linnea!”
“Very well! Then let us speak of Beatrix. You must not take your anger out on her when ’tis Linnea who has you so besotted!”
It was the last straw. With a string of the worst curses he could think of, Axton exploded. “Besotted! Besotted? ’Tis not I who is besotted, but you! If this damnable Beatrix is so sweet and good as you would have her then … then by all that is holy, you marry her!”
Axton did not remain in the castle office for his interview with Beatrix. Instead he retreated to the only place where he could be alone with his thoughts, and that was the chapel. No one interrupted him. No sound penetrated the thick stone walls or narrow glass-paned windows as he sat on a bench slumped forward in despair.
You marry her.
His final words to Peter echoed in his head, whippin
g him with their barbs, taunting him with an idea that was insane.
The words had been borne in anger, but they tempted him now with visions of a peace he’d thought vanished since the moment he’d received Henry’s devastating missive.
If Peter would marry the Lady Beatrix, then he … He shook his head and let it fall forward into his palms. How could he even consider marrying a woman who had done everything in her power to deter him from his goal?
Because he could not help but admire her courage, her spirit, and her deep sense of loyalty. To have such a wife standing beside him …
Again he shook his head. Who was the besotted fool now? Linnea would never agree to it. He’d treated her too cruelly too many times. And then there was Peter to consider, and Beatrix.
He took a slow breath, then raised his head. He was in a holy place. Perhaps if he prayed for guidance. Then he had a quick thought and he felt the first glimmer of hope. Perhaps the saint that Linnea was forever invoking, St. Jude, patron saint of hopeless causes, would come to his aid.
He made a swift but fervent prayer. Then he quit the chapel and went in search of his brother.
He’d made many promises to St. Jude in the chapel, and he meant to honor them all. But most of all he meant to keep Linnea with him, though he must fight her and his entire family for that privilege.
Linnea slipped from the castle in the company of four village women and six or seven children. She’d dressed in her own clothes, an old but serviceable gray gown over a plain wool kirtle. She’d wrapped her hair in a couvrechef and clutched a sack to her chest. Though it was warm, she also wore a nondescript cloak and hood, and walked with an uneven gait, slightly stooped over. With her face averted, she could have been any aging matron returning home after a long day’s service at the castle.
Only she wasn’t returning to her home. She was fleeing it.
Once out of the castle, her deliberate pace let her fall farther and farther behind the other women. Though they sent her several curious looks, they thankfully did not approach her.
As they neared the village, Linnea veered away, toward the fringe of woods that lay along the river. Only when she was well away from this place would she feel safe, although she doubted she could ever feel happy.
Where she would go and how she would get there were two questions she could not yet answer. Even though the abbey was the only logical destination she could think of, she worried that she could easily be tracked there—assuming Axton tried to find her. Even without him in pursuit, however, the fact remained that she had no idea where the abbey was. And she didn’t dare ask anyone in Maidenstone village.
She paused in the shelter of an ancient yew, its trunk twisted and gray. It seemed to be crying out in a silent agony—much as she was crying silently inside. A magpie called down in scolding tones. A flock of blackbirds rose up indignantly at her rude invasion of their territory.
Coward, coward, their raucous calls seemed to mock her. Coward to flee. Coward to abandon her sister. Coward to remember even now the pleasure she and Axton had taken of one another in this very woodland.
She moved away from the tortured yew and pushed farther into the shadowed forest. No longer did she worry about disguising herself. On impulse she decided simply to follow the river against the flow. Eventually she would find another village. Eventually she would find someone who would direct her to the abbey, or perhaps an even more likely place. Meanwhile, she must travel as quickly and quietly as she could.
An hour passed without incident. She saw no one as the afternoon wore on into the long lavender dusk of summer, although once she did hear a distant whistle, as if someone did signal their dog. Where the riverbank was clear, she traveled easily. Through bracken and hip-high fern, the going was slower. Her cloak was a hindrance; she took it off. Her skirts were equally awkward, but she could do no more than hike them up over her arm, freeing her lower legs to stride more freely.
Still, she was beginning to feel the first bit of confidence that she might succeed. Her heart no longer pounded a fearful rhythm, but rather an exhausted one. But though tired, she meant to travel through the night, at least until she found another village.
She reached for a bit of brown bread she’d hastily stuffed in her sack. But before she could bring it up for a bite, the whicker of a horse froze her in her tracks.
She shrank down into a bed of queen fern. The ground was damp here, and she felt the moisture seep into her sturdy shoes. A cricket leaped off a nodding frond, landed briefly on her arm, then whirred off, indignant to be disturbed thus. But Linnea remained frozen in place. Someone was coming—she could not precisely determine his direction. But whoever it was, he boded ill for her. She had no friends, not on this precipitous flight; therefore whoever it was, he must be her foe.
She twisted her head, trying to hear past the river’s constant rush and the disparate songs of woodlark and lapwings, to the crash of heavy hooves in the forest undergrowth. But the horse was still. There was no sound.
She peered cautiously about. Where was he? Who was he? Or had she, perhaps, only imagined the sound? Perhaps it had not been a horse at all. Perhaps it had been the huff of a stray sheep. Or of a wild boar.
“St. Jude!” she muttered under her breath. Wild boars were fearful creatures, aggressive and mean. She’d once helped tend a woodsman who’d been gored by a boar in rut. He’d not survived.
The birds suddenly went silent. When something rustled behind her, Linnea reacted in panic. She sprang upright, and without pausing to look around, sprinted for the nearest tree.
Up she went, cloak and bundle falling where they might. She scrambled up the rough-barked ash, grabbing for a handhold, scrabbling with her feet for extra purchase. Her skirt caught, held, then ripped when she hauled herself over a sturdy branch. Was she high enough? Could a boar rear up and reach her still?
Holding another branch, she stood up, balancing herself as she scanned the area around her leafy oasis. She spied her bundle, fallen in a patch of blueberries. But her cloak was nowhere to be seen. Neither was the boar.
Then a sound came from beyond the tree’s thick trunk, and she muttered another oath. How was she to escape if some wild creature had her trapped in a tree? “St. Jude!”
When she peeped fearfully through the budding foliage, however, the sight that greeted her was so shocking she almost lost her hold and fell. For it was Axton—Axton sitting tall and grim-faced on one of his warhorses. Axton, who could reach up and pluck her down as easily as if she were a pear or an apple.
Axton, who’d come for her after all.
She didn’t know whether to exult with joy, or weep with frustration. She chose to climb higher.
With an imperceptible movement he directed the horse closer to the tree, circling it so that he had a clearer view of her in her green bower. Her green prison.
“Will you climb all the way to the top in order to escape me?” he taunted her. “Do you think it will do you any good?”
“Go away!” Linnea meant it to come out an imperious order. It was, rather, closer to an ineffectual plea. In any event, he did not heed it.
“Come down, Linnea. Before you fall and hurt yourself.”
“Go away. Begone from here,” she replied, more fiercely.
“Damnation, woman. It’s for your own good. Get down here so that we can talk—”
“Talk! Talk? Is that what you call it?” Though she was trembling with too many conflicting emotions, Linnea managed to take hold of a higher limb and pull herself farther out of his reach. She wedged herself into a fork in two branches and glared down at him. “If you truly want only to talk, then you may do so. As for me, I shall stay right where I am.”
She saw his jaw clench in irritation, but instead of scowling at her, his face took on an assessing look. Then he smiled.
“As you wish, Linnea. We will talk as we are—you up there, me down here. I came to bring you news of your sister.”
Something seemed to break i
nside Linnea at his reference to Beatrix. Although she feared for Beatrix and worried over her—and loved her dearly—she did not want to discuss her with him. Especially not with him.
When she did not respond, he continued. “Her wedding has been delayed.”
Linnea blinked at that. She bent down a little, the better to see him through the ash’s dense summer foliage. “Delayed?”
He shrugged. “Yes. Until Peter has been knighted.”
“Knighted?” she repeated blankly. What had Peter’s knighting to do with Beatrix?
“They will reside at our castle in Caen. He prefers Normandy to Britain. But ’tis only one day’s journey by ship and two more over land. You can visit her as often as you like. And, of course, she is welcome to visit you.”
Linnea frowned and shook her head. Nothing he said made sense. He would wed Beatrix after Peter was knighted. Then he would send her with Peter to live at Caen?
Then another possibility occurred to her—another meaning to his words—and she sucked in a sudden breath.
“Watch out!”
She grabbed for a limb just in time to prevent herself from slipping right out of the tree.
“Damnation, Linnea! I’m coming up to bring you down,” Axton growled.
“Wait!” she cried, clutching the tree tighter than ever. She didn’t want to get her hopes up, but still … “Why must Beatrix not wed until … until Peter is knighted?”
He urged the destrier nearer until he was just beneath her. If he reached a hand up he could probably have touched her foot. But he didn’t do that. He simply sat there staring up at her. He’d been wearing a half-smile as he’d revealed the little details about Beatrix but it had disappeared, and now his expression was solemn. Worried, even.
“’Tis you I wish to wed, Linnea, not your sister.”
The Maiden Bride Page 33
