Betrothed (23 page)

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 to 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 stance 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.