Betrothed

by Lori Snow

  Caitlin resumed her catechisms and Isabeau could only shake her head in amazement.

  “Your memory is quite astonishing. I will speak to Father Matthias about starting on your reading lessons as soon as possible.”

  “There is no need,” Caitlin hastened to say.

  “There is every need,” Isabeau countered. “I have already explained that as my companion, reading and writing will be useful skills. Now, I think we will have to divide the jobs if we are to get all accomplished. You pick first.”

  Isabeau hoped to keep Caitlin busy but she could not with good conscious allow the girl to take responsibility for all she volunteered to do. She modified Caitlin’s list as she reviewed her own secret agenda, carefully ensuring they would often be in different parts of the castle.

  She needed privacy.

  Donovan’s chamber? Was he still abed? She could nip down the corridors and check. She nearly shook her head in silent denial. Maisie and Glenys would be playing sentry if Donovan still slept.

  Going to the kitchens seemed the most efficient method of garnering information.

  Isabeau soon discovered her betrothed seemed quite recovered from his misadventure in the stables and had already begun his normal duties.

  “Are Maisie and Glenys discussing the menus with Eldred?”

  “Nay, Milady,” one of the scullery maids answered. “They be in the chapel saying prayers for Zeke and his family.”

  Isabeau nodded stiffly. A knot formed in Isabeau’s belly, remembering the older woman’s loss. How could she have forgotten the senseless tragedy? Although she was not in church, she said a silent prayer for Glenys and one asking God’s to forgive her own thoughtless. Taking a deep breath, she added an appeal for God’s mercy. She prayed to give Donovan a son. She knew it was selfish to wish that she might heal the earl’s heart, but there it was. Oh, that she might be the one to do it.

  Without the eagle-eyes of two household despots, Isabeau set about assembling a tempting repast for her betrothed. Those bustling around the kitchen and stores seemed very busy tending to their own duties. She didn’t think anyone paid notice to her actions; not even when she filled a bladder with wine. She loaded her goods into a soft straw bag often used to carry foodstuffs to workers out in the fields.

  Draping the cloth strap over her shoulder, Isabeau went in search of Donovan. Next came the hard part—diverting her fiancé to a place of privacy with a modicum of discretion. Not only did she want to attempt her seduction in seclusion but she did not want all and sundry to know what she might be doing.

  Luck or fate was on her side. The first person she saw as she skirted the kitchen’s herb garden was the object of her quest. She tried to call out his name but sudden nerves dried the words in her throat. She picked up her pace as she watched him go through the gate to the bustle of the outer bailey. About to call out, Jaffey’s black bulk crossed her path. He nudged her leg with his big head, demanding a pat and a scratch. Though better behaved than even four days prior—at least she was not flat on the ground—she could not quietly banish him.

  Giving up, Isabeau gave the signal for the dog to remain at her side. She got to the outer bailey in time to see Donovan make a wide circuit away from the stables. Where was he headed? Jaffey almost knocked her to the ground when she suddenly stopped. Isabeau absently rested her hand on the dog’s head to catch her balance. She watched Donovan. His long stride made it impossible for her to follow without running. People would notice if their future countess raced across the bailey.

  She continued to stroke Jaffey as Donovan navigated around thick vines climbing the far bailey wall and -- seemingly disappeared into the stones!

  Even as she intended to follow, the hound’s keeper hailed her. “Milady?”

  Ignoring Felix tempted her, but if she did he would likely to take notice of her behavior and destination. She wanted to maintain a modicum of secrecy.

  “Milady Isabeau?”

  With a sigh, she turned to the earnest man. “Yes?”

  “Do you wish me to take Jaffey?”

  She was amazed how easily the houndsman had reverted to Christian’s name for the dog. “Jaffey is fine with me. I thought mayhap to take him for a stroll. The activity might reduce some of exuberance.”

  She could feel the shrewd gaze travel from the canine to the bag hanging from her shoulder before returning to her face. Hopefully, he could not see the heat she felt burning her cheeks.

  “I will get his leash. ‘T’will take but a moment.”

  Resigned, Isabeau carefully noted the point in the wall where she had last seen her betrothed. There was no help but to follow Felix to the kennels. Upon reaching their destination, Felix grabbed a chain from many dangling from pegs on the wall and attached the leash to Jaffey’s collar. He placed the leather loop in Isabeau’s hand.

  “Since you be going fer a walk, would ya mind taken a couple o’ others of the blighters?”

  “Others?”

  “Aye, they won’t be trouble. I promise.”

  Isabeau forced a smile. “Of course.” She let out a long breath.

  “They’ve been trained to the same commands as the big brute here. Just be firm,” he instructed. “Tell them ‘No’ like ya mean it.”

  How was she to say ‘No’ to the dogs when she failed to say ‘No’ to their trainer?

  C hapter 31

  Donovan wondered if he was on a fool’s errand as he quietly slipped out of the postern gate.

  What did he expect to find?

  Was the villain ready to lay down his weapons and confess his misdeeds?

  He thought not.

  His attacker hid behind anonymity and subterfuge. ‘Twas the one point upon which he and Carstairs had agreed. A man—strength had been necessary to drag Donovan’s deadweight into Champion’s stall—had seized the opportunity to fell him and give the incident the appearance of an accident. A cunning attacker, yet not one familiar with skills and tools of war -- and not one brave enough for an open challenge.

  Nor was he familiar with warhorses and their training. His men conditioned their warhorses to stand and protect their fallen masters. King’s Champion would no more tromp on his head than… than a hare would. And then there was the blood. Whoever had dragged his unconscious bulk into the stall had been struck by Champion’s shoe. Carstairs had found smears of blood where presumably the blackheart hid when Isabeau entered the stables.

  The dangers to Isabeau chilled his blood. Donovan could only surmise ‘t’was Jaffey’s presence stayed the villain’s hand.

  He needed to think. As he crossed the bailey, he began to sense eyes watching him. Was it only his people, verifying that their liege still walked among the living? Or did one with less benevolent intent trace his progress?

  Changing his direction in a casual arch away from the stables, Donovan decided to put his theory to test. Perhaps his attacker might think to try again if provided with a lone target. Using a meandering path, he made his way to a little used gate in the far outer bailey wall. No sense in making the trek too easy for the whoreson.

  Once outside of the barrier, Donovan made note that while the forest line was a good distance away from his castle’s first defense, it had been far too easy for him to slip away without the sentries notice. He would need to eliminate this vulnerability immediately upon his return.

  He hadn’t gone far into the woods when a knife sailed through the air with whistling skill, slicing his forearm on its’ flight. The wound wasn’t deep—just messy. Alert to his surroundings, he left the weapon embedded in a sapling back on the trail. Soon he sensed his hunter. It took little time for the hunter to now become the prey. He could have his dagger flying through the bastard’s heart in the wink of an eye. This was the second attempt on his life. There would not be a third.

  “Damn the saints!” Donovan’s curse broke out as he heard dogs yapping in the distance ; getting closer. Now his quarry was spooked and on the run. For a brief moment, Donovan thought t
o continuing tracking.

  Yet nearby was the pursued, a trapped would-be predator who could as easily turn on the hunters as himself. He didn’t want innocents endangered. But whoever was running the blasted beasts would feel the fires of hell this day -- or wish he had.

  Looking down at his aching left arm, he cursed again. The sleeve of his tunic glistened with his blood. He made for the stream just yards away. If Isabeau’s reaction to the pitiful bruises he earned getting hit on the head were an indication, she’d turn into a tornado if she saw this knife wound.

  He knelt on the sandy bank and rinsed his hands after sheathing his weapon. He wouldn’t need to have ol’ Hemrick pull out his needle and thread. He grimaced as he tore off the sleeve of his tunic. The movement jarred the wound but at least most of the stained cloth was gone. He swished the scrap in the cold water and after cleansing the drying blood from his hands and arm, made a pad to staunch the oozing flow.

  He needed to get back to that sapling. Maybe there was a chance of finding some indication of the culprit. Just the knife could point to the villain. He would wager King’s Champion that the knife thrower was somehow connected with the mysterious traveling baron and deaths of an innocent family.

  The barking pack grew closer. He heard the tone of the lead animal change. The animal must have caught whiff of Donovan’s shed blood.

  By the saints! All he needed was for his people to know their lord was under attack. They needed security—not the uncertainty of losing the one who had promised to protect them—especially as he had yet to give them the security of an heir.

  That thought brought him back to Isabeau. His pride was responsible for landing him in the current quandary. What to do about her? She had her pride as well. He would not tamper with that.

  On the tail of that self-acknowledgement came a realization. If the knife had flown true, not only would his people be without a leader but Isabeau would be vulnerable again. The urgency to convince Isabeau to wed him, hit full force. She could not be left in position where her brother would have any authority over her.

  He tore the other sleeve off as he stood, wincing as he did so. The motion created pain as he used the muscles near the cut.

  Hand on hilt, he turned to the wood as the first of the dogs broke into the small clearing. With a one-word command, he stilled their momentum but didn’t quell their excitement at finding their master.

  “Jaffey, slow down boy. You’ll pull my arm off.”

  Donovan froze as he heard Isabeau’s voice. What the hell was she doing, out without an escort? Then he looked at the dogs as two more broke through the underbrush. A motley crew but precision trained.

  The mutt on the lead pulled Isabeau into the clearing with little ceremony. The rest of the pack soon followed. Her laugh hit Donovan in the gut.

  Bennington had been empty of joy for so long he had forgotten to miss it. How close he had come to leaving Isabeau behind at Olivet! The thought froze his innards. He had known Simon was not a kind master or brother, yet initially Donovan had no intention of interfering with the head of household.

  Which saint had whispered in his ear to go to Syllba’s chamber?

  He would daily offer up prayers of gratitude.

  If Donovan had not seen the depravity with his own eyes, he might have left his sweet Isabeau in their greedy clutches. How long would it have taken Syllba to lust for her delicate sister-in-law? Or rather, how long before she acted upon the lust -- for how could she not be aware of Isabeau’s beauty? Her brother was prepared to sacrifice Isabeau to craven Lord Kirney for mere pieces of gold. Donovan’s arrival at Olivet had been most timely.

  Jaffey gave Donovan only a cursory leap and lap of wet tongue before heading for the creek’s edge, tugging Isabeau at the other end of the tether as if she were nothing. A small mongrel playfully bounced after a collie, only to fall into the water. After a panicked yelp, he climbed out and shook his wet fur, saturating everything within several arm lengths.

  Isabeau squealed with surprise as she danced as far away as the length of chain and leather allowed, but she couldn’t avoid the drenching, her clothing molding to her body.

  Donovan, curled his hands into fists so as not to reach out and pull her to the ground. He was in semi- arousal, remembering watching her slide her nightshift down over her head just before she had left his room in those early hours.

  Isabeau laughed again as she dabbed at the droplets on her cheek with her shoulder. The movement shifted the bodice of her gown enough for him to glimpse the seductive valley between her breasts. He suppressed the groan pushing at his teeth. He had touched and kissed and suckled her. The memory made his arousal strain harder towards the source of pleasure and release.

  He could take her. T’was what she demanded as a condition of their wedding. She was a virgin, yet he had proved she could ready her for possession. He would be gentle. They were alone—far from anyone in the castle who might hear the siren’s call of her passion.

  “What are you doing outside of the boundaries of Bennington proper?” He hadn’t meant to be so gruff but it wasn’t safe for her.

  “I thought we could have a picnic.”

  “How did you acquire your following?” He nodded towards the trio of canines.

  She bent to put the sack on the ground but thought better of it when the smallest of the dogs exhibited too much interest. “Felix thought a walk would do the dogs good.”

  “He should not have let you leave the bailey.” Donovan scowled at the chilling thought of Isabeau encountering his assassin.

  “He suggested he might accompany me but… I told him, you were waiting for me. I only packed enough for two.”

  “What if you had become lost in the woods?” Rage burned in his belly. “I will deal with Felix’s lapse.”

  “He didn’t know of my intention.” She stretched out her hand in supplication. “He made me bring the dogs.”

  As he regained control of his temper he acknowledged the need to reward the man for taking the precautions Donovan had been too distracted to arrange. He thought of the knife protruding from the tree—the slash on his arm she had yet to notice. What would have happened, had Isabeau been in the woods without the protection of the dogs?

  “You are not to leave the bailey without escort.” Fear for her safety deepened his voice further.

  Her smile dimmed. “Am I to be a prisoner? Do you still think that I will flee? Do you doubt my loyalty? I thought you had a modicum of trust for me.”

  “My orders have nothing to do with trust.”

  “How can you … Jesu! What happened to you? You are covered in blood.” She dropped the leash and bag as she rushed to his side. Her immediate concern warmed the stone in his chest that he thought of as his heart. Marta had never offered succor in any form—not even as pretense to wifely duty. He could still hear the echoes as she bemoaned the need to endure his touch.

  “ ’Tis nothing but a reminder for caution. You are not to wander outside the bailey without protection.”

  She examined the wound and actually had the audacity to order him to a nearby boulder. “Sit. When did this happen? Why did you not return to the castle? Your healer should be called.”

  He caught her hand. “Be still. I am unharmed.” He could have told her that he has suffered much worse on the battlefield but he didn’t think that would offer her much comfort. It was odd to be the object of such fussing, to have someone worry over his fate. Her ministrations were for his benefit alone. She performed for no audience. Concern and concentration formed an arrow between her brows. He needed to erase the scowl, to ease her worry. The giving of care was as new to him as the receiving.

  “Now, what are carrying in your bag? The beasts are curious.” He pointed to where Jaffey snuffled the ground as he made his way closer to her discarded burden.

  She wanted to argue. He could read the protest in her green eyes.

  Instead, she gave the dog a hand command. The animal instantly took an alert st
ance over the straw bag. With a low woof, he warned the small dog away from the sack.

  Trusting in Jaffey, Isabeau turned her attention back to Donovan. She closely examined the cut before tearing a piece from her under-shift. He could see the shaking of her fingers as she bent to dampen the cloth in the running stream. When she turned back, her brow was once again smooth. Her emotions were firmly under control.

  She skillfully washed his arm, her touch as light as a butterfly. “I do not believe it requires a needle and thread. You must take care to avoid infection. When we return to the castle, I will apply some of Hemrick’s salve. The concoction has done wonders for Caitlin’s back. I imagine she will always bear the scars my brother inflicted, but at least her flesh will heal.”

  “Did she speak of the matter?” Donovan asked as he watched her ministrations.

  Isabeau shook her head. “Nay. I do not think she will ever speak of it. But who else? I know his cruelty.” She spoke in a low voice as she concentrated on her self-appointed task. She rinsed the cloth then knotted the wet material around his arm.

  “Will you tell me what happened?” She gave his arm one more considering look before looked up into his gaze.

  “Why did you venture out of the castle?” As a distraction, his ploy worked on the surface but he could still see the remnants of her concern. When he remembered the concern was on his behalf he stilled whatever irritation he might have over her willfulness. The last time anyone had fussed over him… The incident was beyond memory. He would not take the care for granted.

  “I followed you.”

  “Why?” She had not been the only one to step into his poacher’s snare. He thought again of the knife he had yet to retrieve.

  “I thought you might appreciate something other than the sickroom fare Maisie planned for your recovery.” The color returned to her cheeks.

  “What did you bring for me?” he asked again about the contents of her parcel.

  She warned a curious mutt away from worrying Jaffey, who remained vigilant. The motion reminded Donovan of the dogs’ purpose. They provided protection. He uttered a one-word command and with a few hand-signals, he put them all on silent sentry. Blessed be Felix.