by Lori Snow
The blue in his eyes darkened to black. “Thank you for your words and kind thoughts. Time has softened the blow but it is good to know that Christian could and did enjoy the short time he had on this earth. I was away on the king’s business and could only say my farewells to his grave.”
Isabeau rested a comforting hand on his forearm. “He missed his papa, but he was brave. Even at three, he knew he wanted to be just like you.” She laughed at a fond memory. “He absolutely adored that rascal of a puppy you brought back for him all the way from across the channel. He wouldn’t be separated from the Beauceron for a minute. “Jaffey is Papa’s pup,” he would say with no little pride.”
“Jaffey?”
She could feel a bittersweet smile curve her lips. She had grown quite fond—even dare she say it—grown to love the dark-haired little boy. He was the shining spot in an otherwise dark period. “In many ways Christian was most articulate, but he couldn’t quite get his tongue around Geoffrey. The name always came out as ‘Jaffey.’ ”
“Did he visit long?”
“Oh, the countess brought him several times for lengthy visits after Simon and Syllba moved into Olivet. She and my sister-in-law were great friends. After the first visit, your wife’s old nurse—I think her name was Aggie?”
“Granya?”
“Yes. Granya.” She smiled at him. She couldn’t help it. “Granya wasn’t able to make the trip comfortably at her age. I spent a great deal of time with the young lordship. He was a joy and could melt many a heart with his smile.”
“I had no idea Marta ventured away from Bennington.”
Something in his tone put Isabeau on edge. “I don’t know that she visited other places. Bennington is far enough away that an overnight stay -- or longer -- was practical.”
“I see,” he agreed. He tore a large hunk of bread from the loaf they shared and stood. She sucked in her breath as she looked up. By the saints, he was big! Tall and broad shouldered. He was a solid wall, a formidable barrier. “I regret we cannot continue our conversation, but your brother’s steward, even now, waits to give me a tour of Olivet. Anon.”
He gave her a fleeting smile before bringing her hand to his lips. It was but a fleeting caress, the brush of a butterfly’s wing, but his mouth seemed to sear her skin.
And then he was gone.
But not the sensations he left behind.
She reached for her goblet and promptly knocked it sideways.
Quickly, she mopped it up with the corner of her apron, glad that he wasn’t there to see another of her catastrophes. She knew that Porter, Simon’s steward, had instructed the kitchen to prepare a substantial mid-day repast for the earl’s tour of Olivet, so Isabeau continued with her normal chores. Her only reward from the usual routine was the anticipation of the evening’s entertainments.
Excitement warred with guilt.
Curiosity battled with dread.
How could one man be so different from all of the others?
She had thought her father’s tales exaggerated. Too bold to real. But upon meeting the man of legend, he became larger than the stories. Isabeau had met few men outside her father’s domain. A few were bigger, or broader than Don -- than the earl. But none had exuded the pure manhood of the Earl of Bennington. His power dwelt in his iron will, in his character, and had naught to do with the trappings that were of such importance to Simon.
Donovan of Bennington must have a strong will to survive the wounds that created those scars. Only sheer determination would have sent him back to the battlefield after the first cut.
What kind of man is he, she wondered? Had she erred when she offered her condolences, or had he the same longings Isabeau felt – the desire to share memories of parents, of grand-parents, of heritage? Pray God he had not thought her cruel to call his loss to his memory.
She forced her thoughts away from Donovan – dare she call him by so familiar a name, even in her thoughts? While she worked to ready the midday repast, she barely pulled the kettle away in time as soot fell down into the fireplace. Luckily it was not a brick. Like so much at d’Olivet, the chimney needed inspection. She realized anew the prodigious neglect the estate had suffered under Simon’s lax stewardship. Would Donovan see it? Of course. He was no fool. But would a man such as the earl -- a hardened warrior -- realize the extent of Simon’s slothfulness and its evil fruit in the lives of Olivet’s people?
And -- would he tell Simon of her betrayal?
C hapter 5
Donovan tugged on the reins and turned his mount back to the small manor. “I think I have seen enough, Porter. Olivet was once kept in excellent order.” What he didn’t add was that he saw recent disregard for the people, as well as property.
Porter had no choice but to change his course as well. Porter seemed eager to share information but was reticent about confidences regarding Lord Simon. Donovan respected the man’s discretion, but the source of Porter’s diplomacy concerned him. If his silence was based on fear of retaliation rather than loyalty, trouble could be brewing.
Trouble brewed anyway. D’Olivet had still not appeared, nor had he sent a message explaining the lapse.
However, Donovan’s thoughts refused to stay focused on the business at hand. Donovan couldn’t remember the last time he had actually looked forward to just conversing with a female. But Lady Isabeau was different; a fascinating mix of vinegar and honey. Good for his bodily humors. But, could she be trusted more than any other female? She had already proved her eagerness to run.
Her guileless smile intrigued him. Her innocence enticed, yet that same quality was a shield as well. Could she really be as innocent as she seemed? Why was she running to the convent disguised as a lad? There were more questions than answers at Olivet.
She was an accomplished chatelaine. The smooth running household of Olivet held testimony to her skill. Her relationship with the servants was of long standing—not a temporary stopgap while her sister-in-law recovered from her last miscarriage.
Isabeau was adept in all things. He bit his tongue—well not all things. Not when she was nervous. Twice at their shared morning table, had it not been for his quick reflexes, she would have lost the contents of her goblet. It seemed her hands were never still.
He liked the way she talked with her hands – both when she was nervous and when she forgot to be nervous. He liked her hands. They were soft, small and competent. An interesting combination.
He liked her hazel eyes. Their changing color signaled her mood; the more agitated she was, the more green they became. When calm, they turned almost blue with flecks of gold. The warm emotion appeared to go soul deep. But had he really seen into her heart?
“My lord?” Porter’s voice was breathless as if he had been the one doing the cantering, not the horses. Donovan realized his horse was going at a fair clip. He slowed to a trot. His thoughts of Isabeau had fired a need to return to her side. To explore the contradictions that made up the lady.
“Yes, Porter?”
“I hesitate to speak out of turn but…”
“What is it, man?”
“I don’t wish to seem disloyal to the new master of Olivet, but I have some grave concerns.”
“If you think I haven’t noticed the state of the tenant cottages, be at ease. I will make mention of the situation to Lord Simon. Workers who sicken in the winter will be of little use to Lord Simon come planting and harvest. I will make him see the long-term profit of caring for his people.”
“You see the measure of the man, my lord,” Porter replied. “Please accept that I mean no disrespect to either of you, but my greatest concern of late is Lady Isabeau.”
Donovan brought his animal to an abrupt halt. “Lady Isabeau?”
“Aye, my lord.” The man paled and perspiration began to bead on his upper lip. “Some months back…” He swallowed and pushed his shoulders back before starting again. His voice stronger this time, “Some months back, we were visited by Lord Kirney. I know he is your man,
but he does you no credit.
“He took a fancy to Carl’s—one of the tenants—twelve-year-old daughter. Two of his men snatched her from the field where she was minding younger brothers and dragged her to the manor. He—he raped her again and again—through the night and into the next. Some say that Lord Simon joined him, for they both jested of it. Pardon, my lord, I must speak of this. With my own ears, I heard Kirney brag that tearin’ virgins was the best of sports. He said nowadays he must hunt further afield ‘cause they were becoming as rare as unicorns.”
Rage burned in Donovan’s gut. “And Lady Isabeau?” he demanded between clenched teeth, “How does she play in your worries? Was she part of…?”
“Nay, my lord!” Porter shook his head vigorously. “If she had known Hannah was being hurt she would have forged into the fray and ‘twouldn’t be the first time.”
“What else?”
“I heard the two lords bargaining over Lady Isabeau. Marriage was mentioned but—but Lady Isabeau is a gentle lass. She’d not survive the likes of Lord Kirney. I’d not like to see her broke like Hannah. She’s cared for all of Olivet in spite of her brother’s tirades.”
Donovan flicked the bridle and once more headed towards Olivet. “I comprehend your meaning, Porter. Rest assured, I will see that Lady Isabeau is safely placed. What of the young girl?”
For a moment, only the thump of hooves on the well-worn path answered him. He turned to the steward and read grief on the thin man’s face.
“She lived, the poor mite. They say that, though her face weren’t touched, she was tore up inside and out.”
Donavan and Porter proceeded apace to the keep. In Donavan’s mind, superimposed on the lovely countryside, was a picture of Isabeau’s perfect body atop that of a remembered French woman. The unfortunate whore had been willing to sell her wares but the bastards he and his men tracked had decided their gold was too good for her. Their victim had been brutalized for days. They had stripped her and lashed her to four trees. When the monsters were through, they robbed her and left her to die.
When Donovan’s patrol found her, little could be done but to wait for the end and then bury her body. Though he had meted out swift and painful justice to the guilty, there was little satisfaction. Justice had not stopped the woman’s pain nor given her back her life.
Isabeau would not meet with a similar end. Donavan had no qualms about supplying Kirney with the same painful justice he had provided the French bandits. Would it be necessary to deal with Lord Simon the same way?
The return trip to the keep did not take long. He wanted to think, but also, he must see to Isabeau’s immediate safety. Agitated, he threw the reins at the stable boy and strode towards the manor’s side entrance. He saw Isabeau enter the kitchen with her chin at its normal determined angle. She was still safe. Now Donavan felt enough at ease to slow his pace and change direction. Where was Simon d’Olivet?
Donovan was on his way to the solar when a dark thought washed over him. He stopped in mid-step.
What of Simon’s wife? What of the true lady of the manor? Donovan had yet to meet the woman. Was she, too, brutalized by her husband? Were bruises the reason she remained behind closed doors -- not problems birthing babes?
Taking care not to be seen, he soundlessly changed course and on the first floor took the staircase leading to the mistress’s chamber. Would it be Lady d’Olivet’s prison or her sanctuary? As liege, Donovan had the obligation to find out which.
He heard a low sound coming from behind the wooden door and was thankful for his stealth. He would know the truth, and the door was a pitiful barrier. He paused to listen and determined the sound to be a woman’s painful whimpers.
“Please, I’s beggin’ ya. Do’na make me do this. ‘Tis a ‘bomination agin’ God. I do’na wanna go ta hell.” The sobs were interrupted by the sound of the blow of flesh on flesh.
“Shut up, you little bitch. Pay attention. You’ll be doing this to me and I’ll have you doin’ it right.”
He heard the words but could not recognize the husky voice who spoke them. “Things will go bad for you if you don’t obey. Do you think your father will have you in his dirt hutch if I turn you out of the manor? You’ll be whorin’ for your supper before the week is out and let me tell you, you’ll never get the filth out of you once you start taking in the village rods.”
Donovan tried the door and was surprised to find it latched but not barred. He knew it went against the church to come between a man and his wife, but he would somehow find a way to convince Olivet to go easier with his lady wife.
The scene that greeted his eyes stunned him. For a moment, he was frozen in shock. The tormentor continued unaware of the audience.
A girl of no more than fifteen, stripped naked, was backed up against the tall corner post of Lady d’Olivet’s bed. Her wrists, stretched over her head, bound with bright scarlet silk were attached to a hook embedded in the oak. Her blonde hair was askew over the matching velvet sash which covered her eyes. She tried unsuccessfully to squirm away from the hand fondling her ample breast and flinched when those cruel fingers tweaked her left nipple.
“Open.” The demand accompanied the other hand jabbing a riding crop between the girl’s legs and swatting her inner white thighs. “Open, I say, and be quick. I want a taste of you before you bring me to pleasure.” The right hand lowered. “Do you feel my fingers?”
“Stop!” Donovan bellowed as he finally overcame his immobility.
The woman kneeling on the scarlet silk cushion in front of the girl slowly turned to face her intruder. “Ah, you must be the Earl of Bennington. Did you want her first? She’s still new to the play, but, I’m afraid, not that new. She’s spread her legs already and is an innocent no longer.”
He looked at the girl and saw the velvet about her eyes darkening with tears. Her body shook. He had no doubts that if not for the support of the binding she would have collapsed to the floor.
“Release her.” Donovan demanded.
“But…”
“I said, release her.” He voice was low and rough in his throat.
The woman shrugged and stood. She was tall enough that even kneeling, she didn’t have to extend her arm much to undo the bindings. The girl sagged to her knees and tugged off the blindfold, smearing her tears down her ashen cheeks.
He walked over to a pile of coarse woolen garments and tossed them to the girl. “Get dressed and then get out of here.”
“Yes, milord.” She nodded though hiccupping sobs and complied with amazing speed -- considering the number of times her fingers fumbled over the task. She kept backing towards the door as she dressed but Donovan still caught a clear glimpse of several welt marks on her back. Opting to finish the job on the other side of the door, she bowed out, carrying her slippers and stockings. “Thank you, milord.”
Donovan waved the maid away and closed the door after her. Slowly, he turned to confront the witch. “And you must be Syllba, the Lady d’Olivet.”
With only a gold net to restrain her golden curls, Syllba was as naked as her captive had been. She made no move to cover her body. She stood, and straightened under his scrutiny and stretched her tall slender body taut. With her shoulders back, she thrust her small breasts Donovan’s way. Her skin was pearlescent white, but she appeared quite healthy. Her flesh was firm and gave no hint of the softness one might expect from being stretched from several pregnancies -- not matter how short the term. Not too helpless to complete her duties as chatelaine.
“You should be thrashed.” On a dim level, Donovan was aware of the irony of his words. He had come to prevent just such an action from her lord husband.
Her dark gold brows rose over ice blue eyes. “Why? What have I done that is so evil? I make myself available for my husband’s needs. I accept his seed into my body, and I have welcomed no other man into my bed or into my cunt. What are you going to do? Tell my husband? He knows that he will never have cause to question any babes I present to him. I will b
irth no bastards.”
“You belong in Pomeroy. The monks are renowned for their willingness to beat the devil out of madness—and women. The church condemns your behavior. Hell-fires will keep you warm for eternity.”
The woman’s full-bodied laugh shook her breasts and pinkened her cheeks. “You would condemn me for having the same appetites as you wife? Surely, you had some tender feeling for your beleaguered bride? Would you sentence her to the fires of hell as well? Even after she did her best to endure your hungers? To give you an heir?”
“Liar!” Donovan raged against the poisonous implication. “You dare to speak such filth of the Countess of Bennington.”
Syllba’s only response was a sly laugh, this time sending a revolted shiver down his back.
At another time he might have ignored the insult, the defamation, but the need to defend Marta became overwhelming. He could do this for her memory—for their son. “My wife had the tender sensibilities of the finest bloodlines. To share the bed of one not her husband would have been abhorrent to her. To commit such acts as you? To defile all of the church’s teaching? She would never…”
“Ah,” Syllba interrupted with a pitying shake of her blonde head. “My lord, your countess enjoyed a woman’s bed. She reveled in the shared passions of women. We spent countless hours playing with each other’s bodies. Many a time she sang out her pleasures as I brought her to the peak of ecstasy.”
“No!”
“And then, in return, still trembling from her excitement, she would put her hands—her mouth—on my body and work me to raptures.” Syllba threw out her chin, her eyes narrowed in memories. Her empty hand stroked her throat, trailed down between her naked breasts and squeezed her peaked nipple.
“Stop. You must have bewitched her into such depravity!”
“Marta was not only an apt pupil in the arts but so, so eager. Why, she was willing to travel two grueling days to share my bed.”
