The Overlord's Bride

by Margaret Moore

  That had upset her greatly, and Fane had hoped she would finally realize that Raymond did not truly love her, not as he did.

  She must have known that. After all, she confided this secret to her dear brother when he came to stay the night before going on a hunt. She had wanted to see Fane without anybody else knowing, and he was to join her in the solar when all were asleep.

  It would be like old times again, he had thought joyously, when they had comforted one another, often sharing the same bed when their brute of a father had been on one of his rampages. Then one night, when Fane was fourteen and Allicia twelve, their comfort had taken a different form.

  No, she could never love anyone as she loved him, just as he could never love any other woman the way he loved her. He was not ashamed of that, nor had Allicia been, although they both knew they dare not disclose what had happened. People would not understand that theirs was a special love.

  And then Raymond had fallen in love with her.

  Fane scowled as he recalled how Allicia had altered as Raymond came between them. Even now, he wanted to growl with jealousy…but then she had missed him so much that she begged him to come to her.

  How happy she had been to see him! She had tried not to show it. She even tried to sound cold and distant—because she was afraid. Not of him. Never of him. Of her husband, the church and what people—especially Raymond the righteous—would say, but not him.

  And then she had confessed that she feared Raymond suspected the truth.

  How could he, Fane had demanded, unless she told him. He never would.

  Still she had persisted, claiming she couldn’t live with the shame if he did. She was so upset, she had not even wanted him to touch her, but he had persisted. Finally she had stopped struggling and let him comfort her again. Even if she tried to deny it, that was what she really wanted, what she truly needed, to be in his arms again.

  Raymond could never take her loving brother’s place.

  That’s why she had tried to kill Raymond the next night—to get away from him, and to keep their secret. If she had succeeded, they would have been together forever.

  But Raymond had killed her.

  So now he would kill Raymond’s wife, whom Raymond so obviously adored, and the unborn child within her.

  Finally Fane reached the end of the passage. Now the hour of his triumph was at hand. Now he would make Raymond pay. Now he would know how it felt to lose the person he held most dear in all the world.

  With a smile, Fane put his hand on the door and pushed it open. He pinched out the candle’s flame, drew his sword and came out onto the tower stairs.

  Then Fane Montross looked up and saw Raymond’s huge hound staring down at him, growling, his teeth bared and his whole body tensed to spring.

  Panting, the pain continuous, Elizabeth rested on her hands and knees for a moment, trying to think beyond the agony.

  You have been in pain before, she told herself. You can—

  A groan escaped her lips.

  How much longer before the baby came? What was she going to do, out here in the wood all alone? What if the baby wasn’t turned the right way? What if she bled to death before they were found?

  She had no idea how far she was from Donhallow, so she had to keep going. She had to get away from the men attacking her home.

  Where was Raymond? Was he all right?

  He must be. He would defeat Montross and his men and then he would find her.

  He had to win. If he died, she would suffer as she had never suffered before.

  He must live. He would live. He and his men would defeat the attackers, and all would be well. She would not think otherwise.

  Would the pain never end?

  She moaned again as another forceful contraction took her and she fell to the ground, curling up and holding her stomach as if that could somehow help. She pressed her lips together tightly so she wouldn’t make any louder noise.

  How long she lay thus, lost in her pain, anxious and afraid, she couldn’t be sure.

  It started to rain. She could feel it on her face and head.

  Somewhere, somehow, she had lost her scarf.

  Another brutal pain took her.

  Even in her torment, she knew she couldn’t stay here out in the open, sheltered only by the trees.

  With a low groan, she crawled to a tree and, pressing against it, managed to get to her feet.

  “Oh, dear God,” she moaned, her eyes closed as she struggled for the strength to stand. “Help me.”

  She took a few steps, then fell to her knees, breaking the fall with her hands.

  Gasping, trying to breathe, she raised her head as the rain began falling faster, the drops soaking her through.

  She had to find shelter.

  Again she fought to stand, yet couldn’t straighten.

  Her hands on her knees, she raised her eyes, and there, through the rain and the trees, she saw a farmer’s cottage.

  She could make that, she told herself. If she did, they would be safe. There would be help.

  Elizabeth struggled onward, sometimes staggering forward, sometimes on her hands and knees, her soaked and muddy gown clinging to her body.

  Occasionally she had to stop, resisting the urge to scream in agony as the pain seemed to squeeze the very breath from her.

  And then, as she leaned on the post of a small fence surrounding a pigsty, her water broke, rushing down her legs in an unfamiliar torrent.

  “Oh, God,” she moaned as the pig squealed.

  Where was the farmer and his family? Why hadn’t anybody seen her and come to her aid?

  The answer came to her as she looked at the cottage with shutters over its windows.

  They weren’t there.

  They must have gone to Donhallow for safety when they saw the smoke, guessing it meant an attack upon the estate.

  At least there would be shelter here.

  There had to be shelter here. She had to get inside, out of the rain.

  Clenching her teeth as the pain ripped through her, she dragged herself into the yard.

  As the rain began to fall, Raymond tore his way through the holly bushes.

  He had to get inside Donhallow, and without his men to back him, he must take the secret way. He had no candle or torch to light his way, but that would not deter him.

  There. He was at the door. Quickly he pulled down on the latch and yanked it open.

  He would leave it ajar to give him a little light.

  Even that disappeared all too soon and he had to feel his way upward, mindful of the slippery rock beneath his feet as his hands brushed over the slick walls.

  He thought he would never get to the end, but at last, his toe struck the door at the end of the passage. He drew his sword from his scabbard. Then, with his left hand, he felt for the latch that would open the secret door.

  Something blocked the way.

  He shoved harder and the door opened a crack to reveal something bloody lying on the ground. A small man?

  He saw a patch of familiar fur.

  Cadmus. God save him, Cadmus lay across the threshold. If Cadmus was dead, what of Elizabeth?

  Raymond put his shoulder to the door and with one mighty push, got it open. Below, he could hear a rhythmic thudding.

  Someone was trying to break down the door of the hall with a battering ram.

  Raymond ignored the noise. As long as the door held, there was nothing he could do. Instead, his gaze scanned poor Cadmus, his body cut in several places, the floor around him covered in blood. Boot prints went upward, toward the bedchamber.

  Raymond stepped over Cadmus’s body and dashed toward the bedchamber. The door was open.

  His heart pounding, he ran into the room—to see Montross sitting on the floor by the window, leaning against the wall. His tunic was red with blood, his face gashed, his lips nearly as pale as his cheeks, his eyes closed. His chest rose and fell with his labored breathing.

  Raymond felt not a particle of p
ity as he strode across the room, grabbed him by his tunic and hauled him to his feet. Montross’s sword fell to the floor with a clang and his eyes slowly opened.

  “Where is my wife?” Raymond demanded, his nose inches from his enemy’s sweaty face.

  “I don’t know.”

  Raymond shook him. He was as limp as a doll. “Liar! I left my dog to protect her and he lies dead.”

  Montross weakly struggled in his grasp. “And he has killed me,” he whispered.

  Raymond glared at him, and Montross slowly nodded his head. “I am bleeding to death.”

  Only then did Raymond see that Montross’s arm had nearly been torn from his body, and the puddle of blood.

  “He died for nothing, that dog. He attacked me, but she was already gone.”

  Raymond let go of him and, holding his arm, Montross slumped back against the wall.

  The passage. She must have gone out by the passage.

  Where was she? Could she be safe?

  Montross smiled weakly. “Yes, where is she, this darling wife of yours? And how safe? She must be alone. Even if she got out by the secret passage, how safe could a woman heavily pregnant be with a band of lawless brigands on your land?”

  Raymond stared at him.

  “Oh, yes, I knew about the passage. How do you think I got inside, you dolt? My sweet Allicia found it and of course she told me. She wanted me to come to her. She loved me. Only me. Always me.”

  Once again Raymond hauled Montross to his feet. “Where is Elizabeth?”

  He had seen no sign of her in the passage or the holly bushes—but he had not been looking. Was it possible she had gotten away, in her condition and alone—or was this a lie? Even if Montross were mortally wounded, he was obviously well enough to talk and order his men to take Elizabeth. “Where is my wife?”

  “I hope you’ve lost her, Raymond. I pray she is dead, so you will know the hell that I have suffered since you killed my beautiful, passionate Allicia.”

  His head fell forward.

  “Fane? Fane!” Raymond cried, raising his voice as much as he could.

  It was too late. Fane Montross was dead.

  As Raymond let his body slide to the floor, a sob of hopeless despair broke from his lips. Where was his beloved Elizabeth? Was it possible she had escaped? If so, he could find her and all would be well.

  Then, as if from far away, he heard the sound of a great crash.

  He knew that sound. The battering ram had broken through.

  His grip on his sword tightened as Raymond ran from the room. He stopped at Cadmus’s body and looked at the nick in the wall.

  This was his hall, his home, and that of his dear wife. It was his duty to protect his people, and now, his people needed him.

  He couldn’t leave. Not yet. He would defeat these brigands, and then he would find her.

  Please, God, he must find her, and she must be alive.

  Or he might as well die, too.

  He continued down the steps. As he reached the hall, he ignored his terrified servants and tenants running toward the kitchen. They could take refuge there, in that smaller room.

  But he must rid their home of this vermin.

  Raymond took a deep breath, raised his sword over his head and, with a low, wolf-like growl, attacked the armed men coming through the shattered door.

  And then those men learned that Lord Kirkheathe’s reputation did not rest solely on an intimidating presence and rasping voice.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Raymond made straight for the first man he saw. The fellow had barely turned around before Raymond struck him fast and hard, slicing into his arm. His companions stared in stunned silence as, with a bellow, the man grabbed his wound. Then the more quick-witted ones came at Raymond.

  Two more fell to the rushes, wounded.

  Seeing their captors’ attention taken from them, Greta gave a great shout. The women fleeing to the kitchen with her turned as she did, and rushed forward. They tackled the men closest to them, Greta screaming obscenities the whole while and clawing at them like an Amazon, her desperation making her nearly mad. The attackers’ swords were knocked from their hands before they could react. They lay on the ground, covering their heads with their hands to ward off the blows rained down upon them by the angry, determined women.

  Before Raymond could defeat the final two opponents he faced, a group of his soldiers led by Aiken appeared at the ruined door. Seeing them, Raymond’s fatigued foes immediately threw down their weapons in surrender.

  “My lord!” Aiken cried in astonishment. “How did you—?”

  “Donhallow is retaken?” Raymond interrupted.

  Aiken drew himself up. “Aye, my lord. Those blackguards had no stomach for a fight with real soldiers, and your men arrived and routed the last of them. Cowards, the whole lot.”

  “Good,” Raymond said. “Now we must search for my wife.”

  “Your wife?” Aiken murmured. “Isn’t she…?”

  “No, she is gone.”

  “How did she do that? The door to the hall was bolted after I went out. And the kitchen, too.”

  “The same way I got in, and more than that you may not know, since I swore an oath to my father to keep that secret.

  “Take these men to the dungeon, and the rest of them, as well.”

  Greta came forward. “My lord, I fear…I think…”

  “What?” he asked, keeping his voice as level as he could, and regarding the fierce Greta with new respect.

  “I think Lady Elizabeth was in labor, my lord.”

  Raymond felt as if his stomach had plunged into the rushes at his feet.

  In labor? She went through the passage in labor, and then far enough away that he had never seen her when he came to Donhallow?

  “Find the midwife and bring her here,” he said to Greta. “I will have her waiting when I return with Elizabeth.”

  He would return with her, he silently vowed.

  He must return with her. The alternative was too terrible to contemplate, for Montross was right. He would suffer as he had never suffered before if she were dead.

  Yet worse even than that, he realized with another wave of sickening fear, would be to never find her at all.

  “But my lord—” Hale protested.

  Raymond’s brows lowered ominously as he turned from looking out into the courtyard to regard Hale and Aiken, standing nearby. “It has stopped raining.”

  “It’s still pitch dark, my lord,” Aiken noted quietly, “and the ground will be slick with the rain. The horses may fall and injure themselves or the riders on their backs.”

  “My wife is out there somewhere, and she must be found,” Raymond muttered, his angry tone belying his fear and anguish. They had been forced to abandon the search when the rain turned into a deluge. During that time, he had given orders about the burials, including that of Cadmus, and seen what else needed to be done in the aftermath of the attacks.

  But now the rain had stopped. He didn’t care that it was hours till dawn. “We’ll take torches.”

  “My lord,” Hale said sympathetically. “We’re all worried about your lady wife, but we can’t risk losing more men. Enough have died today.”

  Raymond ran his hand through his hair and thought of the men who had perished that day in defense of Donhallow, Barden among them.

  Hale was right; he couldn’t put more of his men in danger.

  “I’ll go alone,” he said. He would risk Castor to find Elizabeth, but no more. “Send out search parties in the morning.”

  “I’ll go with you, my lord,” Hale offered.

  Raymond shook his head. “No. I have made you commander of the garrison, so your place is here. You stay, too, Aiken, to see that the people are provided for, especially the wounded. If I am not back in the morning, send out search parties regardless.”

  Hale looked as if he was about to protest, but wisely, he held his tongue and nodded.

  “My lord,” Aiken said, “it
is dangerous for you, too, and not just from the rain and the dark. There may be more of those outlaws still on our land, and you will be alone.”

  “As is my wife, so I cannot rest until I find her.”

  “Very well, my lord,” Aiken replied. “Good luck and Godspeed.”

  “Godspeed, my lord,” Hale seconded.

  Raymond nodded his farewell, then grabbed a torch from the nearest sconce and marched to the stables where he ordered his horse saddled and made ready. The groom looked askance, but nevertheless obeyed at once.

  He would start at the exit of the passage, Raymond decided, and search for any clue that pointed to Elizabeth and the direction she might have gone.

  He would find her. He had to find her.

  If she had already given birth in the open, and in the rain, it was likely too late for the child. But his wife was young and strong—and his heart simply refused to believe that she could be dead, too. She who had brought light and happiness back into his dead existence could not be gone forever.

  “Ready, my lord,” the groom murmured.

  Raymond handed him the torch, then swung into the saddle. He took the torch back from the groom and headed to the gate, then out into the silent village, the only noise the occasional bark of a dog and the dripping of water from the buildings, the only light the small pool that surrounded him cast by the torch.

  It was like purgatory.

  Forcing himself to keep Castor to a walk and looking about for any sign of Elizabeth, he rode to the holly bushes. When they reached the holly, he dismounted and searched the branches, paying no heed to the sharp edges of the dark green leaves. When he was nearly ready to give up and go farther afield, he spied a piece of fabric caught on the tip of a leaf and made a small, harsh cry of triumph as he tore it off.

  It was from Elizabeth’s dress.

  So, she had come this way, and she was headed east.

  Taking hold of the horse’s reins with his free hand, holding the torch high in the other, he began to walk toward the east, his gaze searching the muddy ground.