After the Storm (28 page)

Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

Chapter 15

"Oops."

But for the drip of water from the spring into the pool the clearing was utterly soundless. No birds called. There was only silence for a long time after she spoke that one last word, acknowledgment that she'd said exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time.

"Oops," she said again, into that dark, deep silence.

He just stared at her, eyes wide and as green as the moss and ferns that filled the clearing. Eyes that were empty of every emotion but confusion. His lean muscles were bunched and corded with tension, his stance wide as though he were trying not to fall to his knees.

She had told herself she couldn't make any wrong steps, and then she'd trampled all over every good intention with only a few words. And she'd done that trampling because she was used to cajoling, teasing and arguing him out of his brooding, moody depressions anyway. He'd always been a royal pain in the butt when the melancholy struck, him, but she loved him anyway. So, she'd reacted out of habit, and risked his sanity in the process.

"Sebastian?" He turned his head away, showing his sharp profile. She could tell that he neither recognized the name, or her. She felt more annoyance than sympathy. "Your name is Sebastian Bailey," she told him. "And you're a wizard."

"You're not my wife." The words came out as a parched whisper.

Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

"The hell I'm not."

She couldn't stop herself. She knew telling him the truth wasn't going to help him remember it. Hadn't the shrinks tried to convince her that memories had to come back on their own or the patient might never believe they were real?

It was more important to help him than to try to ease her own sense of loss. She couldn't just grab him and shake the memories loose—not physically, not verbally—no matter how much she needed to. She had to stop herself from saying anything more.

"Making love to you once doesn't make us married."

He turned to face the pool. She wondered what he saw in its reflecting depths.

She wondered if he'd heard her call him Sebastian. She wondered how he'd come to be called Bastien, how he'd survived six months on his own. She wondered how he'd clung to the mangled memory of having a wife when she hadn't retained any memory of the last few years at all. She wondered if maybe it was better if he'd blocked out the painful information she'd told him. She wondered what he would do if she tried to touch him right now.

She didn't think she wanted to risk finding out.

Bastien ground the heels of his hands into his temples as he tried to deny the growing pain. He stared into the water, his face showed up as a pale image in the center of the pool. He had no idea what he should look like, the reflection wore the face of a stranger, as it had for far too long.

Who was Sebastian?

He was Bastien of Bale—Cynric had told him that was what he'd called himself when he was found wandering the forest. Had Cynric heard him wrong? Was he someone called—

Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

Torment stabbed through his head before he could finish the thought. In the distance he heard someone swear, then hands were on his arms.

A voice said, "Bas, there's someone coming. I think it's trouble. Let me help you into hiding."

Trouble. She needed him. He forced his eyes open, only to find that he couldn't see beyond the lights exploding behind his eyes. He had to help her.

Fingers brushed his temples. "It's okay. You get migraines—that's besides the injuries from the accident. I'm sorry I didn't bring any of your medication with me, but, babe, I thought you were dead. Actually, I didn't know you even existed."

He heard a chuckle. He was barely aware of her helping him walk, but the velvety sound of her laughter was as comforting as a soft blanket. "Isabeau?"

"Call me Libby. No one will see you here. Yeah, that's Rolf and his boys. We can't run. I'll try to talk our way out of it. Stay here."

She helped him to sit. The ground was cool, damp. He reached out a hand, it encountered moss-covered rock on one side, a thick tree trunk on the other.

"Where?"

"Don't move." Her voice had become an urgent whisper. "Let me have your knife." He should be the one protecting her. He tried to bat her hand away when he felt it fumbling at his dagger sheath. He was distracted when her lips brushed his in a quick kiss. She took the dagger. "Don't make a sound," she warned, and was gone.

He didn't see her go, but he felt her absence instantly. Into the empty space left by her leaving came the sound of horses and men's voices. Someone said, "The outlaw we captured spoke true. Look there, my lord."

"Isabeau!" Rolf's voice, loud and demanding.

Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

"My lord," she called back. Even through his pain, Bastien heard the relief, the joy she expressed in seeing her betrothed. "You've found me at last. I prayed to Saint George you would come."

"Were you harmed? Did the churl dishonor you?"

"How could he, my lord? When you wounded him badly when you almost rescued me. You saved me from that horror."

Liar
, Bastien thought. Pain drove nails into his head, but the anguish of Isabeau's denial was worse still. He crouched in his hiding place, blind, helpless, and forced to listen to the noblewoman trying to save her own skin. If he'd been able to he would have stepped out of hiding and somehow managed to kill the lord and the lady both.

"Where's the wolfshead?"

"Dead," Isabeau answered. "I finished the job you'd started with his own blade.

Then I wandered the forest until I found the pool. I prayed you'd find me here."

Dead. So, she would protect him from Rolf's vengeance. How kind of her. It was just as he'd suspected, no more than a fling for her.

"Come up behind me, sweeting. The dark draws down, we'll pass the night at Blackchurch Keep, then return to Lilydrake tomorrow."

"Blackchurch, my lord? What of the fever?"

"I'm told the bodies are buried, and it has run its course. Never fear, my lady, you'll be safe with me."

"I doubt it not, my lord. Then let us hurry from this place. I so wish to be with you and you alone."

Bastien could almost feel the fluttering of her eyelashes as she cajoled Rolf of Gesthowe. How easily the fool was led by her sweet words. How easily he'd Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

been led. Rolf wasn't the only fool. He didn't want to hear any more of her treacherous words, and the pain obliged. It filled his senses and crushed him down into black, cherished oblivion.

When he woke up the headache was gone and Isabeau was gone and he wished he was dead. He stumbled out of hiding and to his knees before the pool. He plunged his head in and came out to shake like a dog, then he brushed dripping hair back off his face. She was gone, back to safety, back to Rolf of Gesthowe.

Rolf thought he was dead. Perhaps the forest would be safe for himself and his people for a while. Perhaps he could go back to his outlaw band and pretend Isabeau had never entered his life. Perhaps, but she'd taken his soul with her when she'd fled back to her castle. He felt used, dirtied. He didn't want to face anyone who might have a concerned question, or a snickering joke about his bout of lust for the noblewoman.

There had never been much for him among the outlaws, it had just been a place to be. He still knew nothing about his past, but he did know that his future was bleak, empty. It always had been, Isabeau had just stripped the pretense that he might find his way home from it. He might as well be dead. He wanted nothing more to do with the Blean Forest or Lilydrake Castle. He didn't know where he was going to go, but he stood up and began to make his way toward the nearest road.

As he walked he tried not to think, but he was alone on a quiet, empty night. He was surrounded only by trees and patches of moonlight. No nightbirds called, no wolves howled in the distance. He had only himself to pay attention to. After a while Isabeau's words began to bubble to the surface of his thoughts no matter how hard he tried to push them away. He was tired, he was hungry, his healing wound throbbed, he tried to concentrate on pure discomfort, but Isabeau's words kept knocking every other concern aside.

Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

Call me Libby
. That wasn't her true name, either, he was certain of that. Nor was she Isabeau. Who the devil was she, then?

I'll see if I can talk our way out of it.

I prayed to Saint George.

He gave a soundless laugh at the memory of those words. The only George she revered was named Lucas. How well he knew that particular obsession of hers.

She'd even named those foolish deerhounds Luke and Leia.

"As the princess said to the Jedi," he murmured, as he remembered that first surprising kiss on Passfair's battlements.

It was like remembering something that had happened a thousand times before but was new and exciting every time. He touched his lips and couldn't stop the laughter that breathed new life into his soul. He could almost feel her there with him, her lips soft and demanding at once. Bastien stopped walking, his legs felt like they'd suddenly grown roots. His head spun, but not in pain. He looked around, hopelessly confused, almost happy. The memory of a kiss made him giddy.

He reached out, though there was no one there for him to touch. "On our first date," he said to the ghost figure that was just out of his sight, "you took me to a Star Wars film festival. All eighteen hours. I married you anyway."

He had no idea what he was talking about, he only knew that he spoke the truth.

For true love, he thought, you made sacrifices. Like going to stupid science fiction movies.

Or like her turning herself over to Rolf rather than letting him be captured.

"Oh, my God," he whispered, and the almost-joy was gone on a rush of fear.

"She was trying to save me." He was certain she hadn't meant a word she'd said to Rolf of Gesthowe. How could he have believed she'd betrayed him when she'd Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

only been trying to protect him? How could he have been such a fool?

More importantly, how did he get her out of Blackchurch Keep before Rolf harmed her?

Mark Warin was dead. Libby thought about that as she paced the rush-covered floor in Lady Cicely's bower. Lady Cicely was a youngish widow who held Blackchurch for her young son. The attractive woman was working at a loom in one corner of the keep's only bedroom while Libby paced. Lady Cicely's serving women were preparing a bath for her in another corner of the room. Libby ignored all of them while she tried to get her emotions under control.

She'd left Sebastian lost in pain and the disorienta-tion she knew too well. She was trapped in someone else's castle with the prospect of a wedding night with the wrong man a very strong possibility. She had a lot of troubles, but the thought sickeningly at the front of her mind was that Mark Warin was dead. He'd died after Rolf had caught and questioned him about her whereabouts. Rolf had been quite pleased with having gotten the location of Maiden Well out of the cowardly outlaw he'd then executed.