Betrothed

by Lori Snow

  Maisie took command of the situation. She began to shoo all the men towards the still open door as if they were chickens in the yard. Clucking her tongue against her teeth she fanned her hands until only Isabeau, Carstairs, Hemrick, the two women, and the dog remained.

  Donovan was thankful Carstairs refused the banishment. Being left to the mercy of old women did not rank high on his list of preferences. His failure to protest Isabeau’s intention to nurse him through the night had not been accidental. But he did not like the idea of the two busybody chaperones.

  Maisie turned on Isabeau. “You should run along. Have Maid Caitlin help you freshen your dress. Glenys and I will put our heads together with Hemrick to determine the best course of care for the earl.”

  Isabeau looked ready to protest but she glanced down at her gown and froze. Apparently, she had been too busy to note its condition. She had no alternative but to follow Maisie’s instructions. Before making her escape, she gave a Donovan a small curtsy, pausing only long enough to call Jaffey to her side.

  Donovan felt his belly tumble when the two martinets focused their attention on him. Without even his breeches, what defense did he have? He was not an overly prudish man but he did not have the wherewithal to parade naked in front of the two biddies. He narrowed his eyes as they both gave him a thorough inspection.

  “You can forget any grandiose ideas you might have in your female brains. I am not an invalid,” he reiterated. “There is no need for a passel of nursemaids at my attendance. You eased Isabeau’s worries, for that I am grateful, but your presence is no longer necessary.”

  Maisie just clicked her tongue. Glenys wagged her head.

  Donovan knew he was at their mercy when he caught a glimpse of Carstairs’ sardonic smirk.

  “You are overset, my lord -- because of your injury without doubt,” Glenys teased with a smile. “Everything will be as Lady Isabeau deems best. We will, of course, be diligent in our duty.”

  Donovan’s glare of resentment did not quell Carstairs’ bellow of laughter in the slightest. Obviously, Bennington had been left too long without a strong hand.

  “You just lay back, young man,” Maisie boldly ordered. “Glenys will go see to the preparations for our evening meal. I am sure the kitchen will be interested to know of the approaching wedding. The news will go a long way in assuring the castle that all is well.”

  “What about you?” Donovan asked suspiciously.

  “Well…” She plopped into a chair. “I am goin’ to see you stay put. There be no need to worry Lady Isabeau.”

  “Damnation.” The low curse slipped from his mouth much to Carstairs’ continued amusement. Donovan snapped at him, “You have been no help.”

  “I beg to differ,” Carstairs contradicted. “I helped carry your dead weight across the bailey and up those damn stairs without knocking your head on the stone wall even once.”

  Donovan looked at Maisie and inclined his head – very slightly – away from the bed. Just that little movement made him squeeze his eyes shut and grimace through gritted teeth.

  The humor left Carstairs’ face and he glanced at Maisie. “Mistress Maisie, mayhap you could stir the coals and put a stick or two on the fire?”

  The old woman’s smile faded from her face as she looked from Carstairs to Donovan and then back again. Without a word of protest she hauled her girth from the chair and moved to the hearth.

  “Champion did not kick me in the head,” Donovan told Carstairs in a low voice when he drew closer to the bed.

  “You do not have to tell me,” Carstairs said. “I would have doubts if another had been found beneath Champion’s feet, but not you.”

  “Isabeau said she had to open the latch to enter the stall. I had not yet opened the stall myself when I was hit from behind.”

  “I thought as much when I saw the scuff marks on the floor and the straw stuck to your boots. The Lady Isabeau might be a fiery wench but she does not have the muscle to drag your dead weight any distance. I speak from experience. It took six of us to lug you as far as your room.

  Donovan dismissed his friend’s complaint. “It felt like a kick.”

  “Your wound has the curve of a horse’s shoe,” Carstairs conceded. “However, there are plenty of spare shoes about the stable for someone to grab as a weapon.”

  “Aye,” Donovan agreed. “But who?”

  “Could this have any connection to the murders?”

  Donovan took a deep breath and released it in a long hiss. “A possibility. But again, who? Why? I have not forgotten the phantom baron. Why do you think I left so many men at the abbey? I did not think Sam would attempt an escape. No matter Glenys’ verdict, there is one yet who will meet the hangman.”

  A moment of silent contemplation met Donovan’s pronouncement. Carstairs, as was his wont, broke the heavy silence.

  “You have made a wise choice.”

  “What?”

  “You have maneuvered Lady Isabeau into agreeing before witnesses to wed you in a sennight. You should have pushed for tomorrow. In her concern for your health, she might have relented. You certainly need the surcease of a wedding night. What is the cause of her reluctance?”

  Donovan stopped thinking of the mysterious baron, and answered with the truth. “She wants to be sure she can give me an heir rather than trapping me in a barren union.”

  “What gave her that fool idea?” Carstairs asked sharply enough to catch Maisie’s attention across the room. Before Donovan could admit to his own complicity in Isabeau’s determination, his friend voiced his own conclusion in a lowered tone. “No doubt it stems from the babes her sister-in-law has supposedly conceived and yet failed to produce. Well, that obstacle is easily solved.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes,” Carstairs recommended with his usual humor. “Get her enceinte. You have a week.”

  For a moment, Donovan only stared at the other man as his thoughts drifted back to his betrothed and the possibilities.

  “Carstairs?”

  “Aye?”

  “She went into Champion’s stall.” The thought still chilled his bones.

  “Aye. And she lived.” Carstairs did not bother to hide the awe.

  “She had no blood on her but mine.”

  “I do not mean to speak ill of the dead...” Carstairs halted as Donovan searched his serious face.

  “But?”

  “Isabeau is already more of a countess than Marta ever was, even after five years.”

  C hapter 29

  Simon froze when he heard the low growl then sharp bark on the other side of the panel. He jumped back from the door and nearly fell down the uneven stone steps. The pitiful flame on his taper flickered as he waved his arms for balance. Debating as to whether to blow out the light, he retreated half-way down the staircase until he judged he still had enough of a lead should anyone with knowledge or curiosity check the passage. During several trips through the secret way, he had discovered the side tunnel did indeed end at the master bed chamber.

  He had met the old bitch during his scouting excursions but she had not warned him about Allyonshire’s dog. She would pay for her oversight. He would enjoy making her pay but not yet. She might still have her uses.

  He listened as the barks faded. After a hesitation, Simon returned to top of the stairs and put his ear to the panel. The dog no longer seemed to be in evidence. Though he could hear voices and surmise more than two men were in the room, he could not discern the content of their conversation. Try as he might he could only hear a scattered word. His eyes narrowed in resentment.

  Voices in a chamber the old woman had assured him would be empty at this time of day? Another mistake to rest at the hag’s door, he fumed.

  He was feeling quite bold and superior until he again heard the unmistakable low rumble of a large canine. The sound was so close the panel actually vibrated against his ear.

  Deciding a full and swift retreat was wise; Simon scrambled down the stairs and almost ran do
wn the dank corridor. He slowed his flight only when he reached the light of day. He nearly forgot to extinguish and then hide the candle before he emerged from the tunnel. By the time he had reached the sanctuary of the glen, he had shaken the dirt of the passage from his clothes as well as the sweat of his fear.

  Though he continued to curse the unexpected delay to his plans, he regained his composure as he sat on a patch of long grass in front of the cold fire ring. He patted the pouch at his belt, assuring himself, it had not been lost in his hasty withdrawal. He resented the necessity of waiting for another opportunity to implement his plan.

  A temporary setback only, he assured himself. He would return on the morrow and the old witch would lead him to the castle’s stores. She was as eager as a bitch in heat to avenge Marta. The slight Bennington had given to her beloved Marta by choosing another countess so soon, festered in the woman’s craw.

  Simon was on his back contemplating the sun filtering through the leaves of the trees and wondering how much wine remained in the new cache when Arneau came lumbering into the clearing. The clumsy oaf made the noise of a herd of cattle.

  “Damn, Arneau. Could you have made any more noise?” he complained loudly. “You are more clumsy than usual. You could have led a blind man here.”

  Simon raised his head and pushed up onto his elbows as he surveyed his man. He noticed absently the round man wore a different tunic draped over his shoulders. “Did you bring any ale back with you?”

  Arneau dropped the tunic as he sat on the ground beside Simon, expelling a whoosh of air from his pudgy body. Only then did Simon notice how white Arneau looked around the mouth. His gaze took in the tear in Arneau’s sleeve, the blood slowly seeping from the gash in his arm.

  “What happened?” Simon was on his feet, a knife in his hand as he faced the path Arneau used. “I will kill you myself if you have led Bennington back to me.”

  “Bennington was in no condition to follow me,” Arneau claimed with breathless pride in his voice.

  Simon turned to the seated man, his knife still at the ready.

  “What do you mean?” he asked with suspicion. He could cut Arneau’s throat and be away in a heartbeat. Dead, Arneau could not give witness against him.

  Arneau wiped sweat from his face with his uninjured arm. He licked his plump lips before looking up at Simon. “I went to Bennington to steal supplies. You said you wanted the earl dead?”

  Simon just stared at his servant.

  “Six men were needed to carry the earl to his chamber.”

  “What happened?” He eyed Arneau’s wound speculatively. Mayhap, there was more bite to this mutt than appeared.

  “When the earl ventured into the stables alone, I bashed his head with a spare horseshoe.” Arneau tipped his chin proudly. “Then I dragged him into the stall of his own horse. That is how I got this.” Arneau indicated his torn arm with a shrug of his shoulder.

  “Well?”

  “The beast went mad at the smell of the earl’s blood. I thought for sure he would finish the chore.”

  “And of course, he did not,” Simon finished the tale. The flavor of disappointment and disgust at the failure filled his mouth like bile. “You imbecile. You should have disposed of Bennington yourself rather than rely on a stupid animal. But what can I expect when I deal with fools?”

  Arneau slouched in dejection. “He was badly hurt,” he whined defensively. “He is weak. Even though I had my own wounds, I lingered in the bailey long enough to see if he lived. He will not be out of his bed before the morrow. He may yet die. I learned something else as well.”

  “What?” Simon snapped impatiently.

  “If he lives, he will wed your sister in a sennight,” Arneau imparted importantly.

  C hapter 30

  Isabeau woke slowly. She stretched her restless legs.

  Her night had been filled with dreams of a dark warrior. She saw him fierce in battle, uncaring of the blood dripping from his wounds. She saw his face implacable as he dealt with Simon. She saw his eyes shining with promised passion as he gave her a taste of the pleasure in the marriage bed.

  She saw him crumpled in the hay on the stable floor, blood staining his hair. That very real image had followed her into her dreams. Once in her dreams, the memory turned them into nightmares more fierce than those Simon created.

  Donovan had been wounded on foreign battlefields. He deserved happiness and loyalty. He deserved a haven from the violence he had lived.

  He deserved love.

  She loved this great warrior, but did he know? How could she make him understand how she felt? Instinctively she knew he would not ask her

  True, Donovan wanted to marry her but it could be a man’s lust; a marriage only to produce the necessary heir.

  Or might he love her, too?

  Perhaps his behavior the night before Zeke’s murder had been an attempt to discover how she felt about him; he might have needed proof of her love.

  Without the murder, they might already be man and wife. He must know she loved him!

  But she couldn’t endure it if they should marry, only to discover she could not give him the child he deserved. There was still time. She knew only one way to provide proof of her love without trapping him in marriage.

  She was going to have to seduce her betrothed.

  She had a sennight.

  How long did it take to get with child?

  She did not know exactly how to get with child.

  Donovan knew. He had fathered Christian as proof of it. She would just have to go about the business of persuading him to instruct her on the matter. But how?

  Privacy would be essential.

  She clapped her palms over her warming cheeks as she recalled the evening she waited for Donovan. To disrobe for Donovan’s eyes alone had been difficult enough without the threat of someone else seeing her nakedness.

  She would have been tempted to visit his chamber the night before if not for Maisie’s promise to watch over the wounded earl. By the speculative glances shared by the cook and housekeeper, Isabeau had the suspicion that if she ventured down the corridor, one or the other of the women would likely be lurking to catch her in the shadows.

  A knock on the door signaled Caitlin’s readiness to begin the day.

  “Lady Isabeau?”

  “You may enter, Caitlin,” she called to her friend.

  The girl entered the room, carefully balancing a tray with an earthen mug and what looked to be a honeyed oat cake—a favorite treat of both of them. Isabeau threw back her blanket and scrambled off the bed. She rushed to Caitlin’s side and took the tray from her.

  “You are not my maid, Caitlin,” she admonished gently. “You are my companion. There is no need to bring me a tray unless you have included enough for two. Promise me.”

  Caitlin turned a becoming pink as she mumbled an unintelligible answer.

  “What do we have planned today?” Isabeau asked as she placed the tray on the small table near the hearth. She needed time to think of a stratagem and then put it into action. As much affection as she had for Caitlin, she knew the girl’s constant presence would hinder any opportunity of intimacy with her betrothed.

  Caitlin began reciting a litany of duties both ongoing from the prior day and those yet to be started. Isabeau sighed as the length. Would the list ever shrink? Then she realized Caitlin had added several items.

  “Why ever is it necessary to have the women to weave bowers for the chapel? We have much more pressing jobs to make Bennington proud once more.”

  Caitlin used the interruption to inhale a breath. The girl’s mouth curved in a smile making Isabeau nervous.

  “Maisie is quite worried that a sennight will not be long enough to get the chapel in the pristine condition for the Grand Event.”

  “The grand event?”

  “The earl’s wedding. The great hall was all abuzz with the news last night when we supped. ‘Course they was worried lest the earl not have a peaceful night wi
th the bump on his head and all but…”

  “But?” Isabeau prompted as she dropped into a nearby chair.

  “Most of Bennington is looking forward to having a countess especially one…” She clapped her hand over her mouth as if stunned by what she had been about to share.

  “You might as well finish,” Isabeau told the girl as she grabbed the mug of floral tea. She inhaled the aroma seeking fortification.

  “ ’Twas not proper for me to hear nor proper to bring to your ladyship’s ear.”

  “You have already tweaked the cat’s whiskers. You know what happened to the cat.”

  Caitlin tilted her head in a quizzical manner.

  “The old saying about curiosity killing the cat?” Isabeau reminded but she could not see any understanding. “Only satisfaction brought her back. You have raised my curiosity. Now you must satisfy it.”

  “Oh.” Caitlin nodded slowly, her mouth pursed in the shape of her answer. “Everyone is looking forward to having a countess…”

  Isabeau stirred the air with her hand as a cue for Caitlin to finish her sentence.

  “Glenys said they are all looking forward to having a countess who does not seem prone to spend all her time locked in her chambers in prayer and meditation.”

  Isabeau swallowed the sip of tea before commenting. “I had no notion countess Marta was so devoted to spiritual matters. I do not believe she even visited Olivet’s small chapel on her many trips to the manor.”

  “Maisie laughed at Glenys,” Caitlin added scrupulously. “The women seemed to think her ladyship suffered from ill humors rather than piety. They are pleased your bodily humors seem better balanced.”

  “Well, I suppose that is a start,” Isabeau sighed. “Have my pending nuptials added many more labors?”