Betrothed (7 page)

She
pulled her lip between her teeth—presumably to conceal the trembling. The
gesture simply focused his attention on her mouth.

Before
he could do anything inappropriate—like smoothing his thumb along her worried
lip, Donovan rolled his shoulders and turned to address Simon, only to find the
man on the other side of the great hall. He narrowly stared at the blue tunic.
Olivet was as slippery as his snake of a wife. Enough of this behavior! Had the
man no thought of the discipline his liege could employ?

“Olivet!”
Donovan called loudly but apparently not loud enough -- at least not for his
host. Everyone stilled but Simon kept walking towards the staircase.

“
Olivet
!”
Donovan roared.

Finally,
the man stopped and slowly—insolently -- rotated on the balls of his feet.

“Yes,
my lord?”

“Aye,
Olivet.” Donovan stood and held out a hand to Isabeau. “I will see you and Lady
Isabeau in your accounting room directly.”

Dumfounded,
Donovan watched Simon turn as if to continue on his previous course. “Now!”

With
the smallest acknowledgement, Simon slowly pivoted in the correct direction and
Donovan could have sworn he heard snickers coming from people remaining on the
main floor.

Simon
suddenly speeded up his exit. The haste with which Simon now covered the ground
amused Donovan. Did he hope to hide something from his liege’s view? 

He
turned to Isabeau and asked in a low undertone. “Would you care to join us, my
lady or would you rather visit with your sister-in-law?”

Isabeau
glanced from Simon to Syllba and back to Donovan. A wry smile curved her pink
lips. “If truth be told, I’d rather lime the jakes.” She placed her trembling
palm to his.

 His
hand enveloped hers, but somehow fit perfectly. She stood and bravely followed
where he led. Even with her shoulders straight and chin high, he towered over
her. He felt like a great hulking beast next to her petite form. Though her
garments lacked the extravagance of her sister-in-law’s, an aura of femininity
surrounded her. How had he ever mistaken her for a boy?  She was all that
was woman.

Donovan
wasn’t clear why he was including her but he didn’t feel comfortable leaving
her behind with Syllba. He didn’t know what his course of action was to be so
he wasn’t sure how to reassure her. He just knew he was going to see to her
safety. Simon would not use her as whipping boy when Donovan was through with
him.

Donoban
was much more comfortable in the heat of battle.

He
gave a quick nod to Carstairs before entering the corridor leading to what
should be the hub of a well-cared-for estate. Two of his lieutenants would take
their places outside the closed door. No one would go in or out unless Donovan
deemed it so.

During
his earlier meeting with Porter, Donovan had noticed a fire had not burned in
the hearth in months. Even though Porter did much of the tallying the accounts
in this room, a fire was not prepared for his ease—another example of Simon
caring naught, unless it had to do with his own personal comfort. He found
Simon already sat in the chair behind the worktable as if he used the room
every day. Donovan doubted if the man knew where even half of the documents
concerning the operation of the manor were located.

Donovan
released his hold on Isabeau to close the big wood and iron door behind them.
He paced to the window, letting Simon keep his seat. He took in
the
limited view of the inner bailey before turning back to the room; staring at
Simon just long enough to make the other man fidget.

His
hands gripped behind his back, Donovan addressed Simon as if he were addressing
a legion of troops. “I had planned to make an extensive inspection of all my
properties; to take the time to introduce and reacquaint myself to my people.
My agenda has undergone a major alteration. I will be returning to Bennington
on the morrow.” He kept his haze on Simon but he felt Lady Isabeau’s surprise
match his own when he added, “Your sister will be a part of my entourage.”

But in what capacity?  For what reason?
  To be safe from her brother’s
retribution?  

Simon
stood so quickly he knocked the chair to the floor. “No, I won’t allow it!”
       

“
You
won’t allow it?” Donovan arched an eyebrow. Had the man no sense? He’d already,
before men of both Olivet and Bennington, almost defied the man he should honor
with his allegiance.

Simon
changed his defiant stance to one a bit more submissive. “I wish my dear sister
to remain here,” he protested.  

As
Donovan continued to stare at him, Simon finally offered an explanation. “I
have negotiated nuptials between Isabeau and Lord Kirney.” He held out his
hands, as if there were nothing to be done about the situation.

“No,”
Isabeau gasped, conveying anguish and revulsion. As hushed as the cry, the
single word captured Donovan’s full attention. Candlelight danced in her
glistening eyes. Her posture unmoving, her stance poised as a hart’s caught in
the stare of a wolf—wanting to flee but unable to move.

Does she see me as a predator hungry for her soft
throat? 

Yet,
he could see her questions and fears mingling with a possible glimmer of hope.

 
Do
I have and answers for her?
 

She
fisted her hands at her sides until her knuckles turned white. Then she took a
deep breath and stretched out her fingers. She reached out to him as he pivoted
back towards Simon.

“And
I suppose the terms are—generous?” Donovan asked. He made the questions seem
casual, but Isabeau must have sensed a deeper meaning because she moved closer.

“My
lord?” Simon queried, straightening his posture only minutely.

Donovan
nailed Simon with a penetrating stare. “What are the specific terms you have
worked so hard to negotiate?” Simon must have finally realized the gravity of
his surly behavior. He swallowed visibly before attempting to mask his
trepidation with an ingratiating smile. The smirk immediately warned Donovan
that the other man was scheming. Simon waved a casual hand towards his sister.
“My father provided an acceptable dowry for Isabeau. Along with her bloodlines,
the baron is quite happy with the arrangement.”

Donovan
leaned forward to within an arms length of Simon.

“And
her dowry includes—what?  Jewelry?  Gold?  Land?”

Simon’s
light blue eyes took on a calculating gleam. “Gold.”

Only gold?
 

What
game did the man play? 

“You
didn’t think to bring the matter to my attention? Perhaps I, or the king, have
other plans for your sister. I assume no contracts have been signed? ” Donovan
made the words more statement than question.

Simon
answered slowly, as if debating his chances. “Nay, my lord.”

“ ’Tis
most fortunate for you, Olivet.” Donovan
nodded in curt approval. “That two barons should fail to secure the permission
of their liege lord for this transaction is a grave matter.” He intended his
voice carry the tone of a bailiff declaring the sentence before the
executioner.

Isabeau
took two steps forward. She put a beseeching hand on Donovan’s forearm. Her
eyes pleaded for mercy, her voice held a faint croak though she kept a delicate
dignity. “Please. Not Lord Kirney. He—hurt the daughter of our gamekeeper.
She’s only twelve and he—he—
They
won’t tell me what he
did to her and she can no longer speak to tell of it.”

Donovan
rested his hand atop hers. He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze of silent
assurance. As if Isabeau had not interrupted, he turned to Simon to continue
his questioning. “What happened to Lady Eveana’s jewels?”

Obviously,
neither of the siblings had expected this turn of questions. Isabeau stiffened.
“What has my mother to do with this?”

Simon
merely stared through his lashes as if hiding his calculations.

“Well?”
Donovan prompted.

“The
jewels of my father’s—second wife were pretty but of little value. He sold them
several years ago.”

Donovan
took a deep breath and let it out slowly and loudly. “Olivet, would it surprise
you to know that your father sent my Bennington steward a copy of his last
will?  The document was interesting reading; quite specific about the
disposal and disposition of certain items. Were these
items
mentioned in
the
negotiations
with Kirney?”

“Towards
the end, my father was not in full control of his wits. He was weak in mind and
body.”

“How
could you say that?” Isabeau practically stomped her slippered foot in her
outrage, her voice thick with tears and anger. “Papa was totally aware of
everything—even on his deathbed. The pain gripped him like the talons of a
dragon yet he refused the opiate tincture the healer prepared. He didn’t wish
his faculties fogged.”

“Didn’t
he?” Donovan wondered aloud. “Why would he be so determined? Did he think you
would not abide by his wishes?” He stared hard at Simon. “Again, Olivet, I ask
you. What of the items that are to go to Lady Isabeau?”

Isabeau
sucked in a breath. “What items?”

Donovan
flattened his lips in a parody of a smile. He wondered if Simon would choose to
be truthful or brazen out his perfidy. He also wondered if he should warn the
man to choose wisely because his very lifestyle—if not his life—depended upon
it.

Simon
licked his lips and hitched up his chin. His posture still carried the weight
of insolence as he sidled over to the tapestry covering the wall next to the
hearth. He swung the thick cloth to one side and tugged a stone from the corner
made by the wall and hearth. Pulling a dusty but well-filled leather bag from
the nook, Simon turned to place his bounty on the table.

For
a long moment, silence held court as Donovan absorbed Isabeau’s astonishment
and Simon’s resentment. Not until Simon began to fidget did Donovan cross to
the wooden door—a strong barricade against intruders searching for treasures.
He pulled it open and beckoned two of the waiting men into the room.

Donovan
waved at the table. “Porter and Carstairs -- my man-at-arms -- have been
charged with the responsibility of collecting and securing Lady Isabeau’s
dowry.” He paused to slide a flattened roll of parchment from his belt and
handed it over to his lieutenant.

Turning
to Simon, he continued, “This document includes all items mentioned in your
father’s will as well as—certain—penalties. I wish it ready within the hour,
Porter. Carstairs. I believe you might find some of those items in the
possession of Lady Syllba.”

“Yes,
my lord.” Porter’s voice quivered.

“Yes,
my lord.” Carstairs’ voice was slick with amusement. Apparently, he hadn’t been
overly impressed with Lady d’Olivet.

“But,
my lord?” Isabeau cried out as he stepped to the door.

Donovan
turned back to her. “What is it, my lady?”

“You
are taking all my dowry?  What I have done—am I to be so harshly
judged?  Will I have nothing to offer?” Her tilted head prevented the
welling tears from trickling down her pale cheeks.

“You
mistake my orders.” Donovan gave his head one shake. “The dowry will be put to
the use for which it is intended. As a settlement to your bridegroom.”

She
licked her lips and swallowed. “Who?  Please? Pray not Lord Kirney?”

For
a moment, Donovan paused. She needed an answer. Everyone needed an answer. He
looked at Carstairs who had glance up from perusing the parchment. His
lieutenant had earned a just reward for his loyalty. He was of marriageable age
and it was time for him to settle down with a wife and property. Donovan was
sure Carstairs would refuse neither Lady Isabeau nor her dowry. She would be
safe—away from her brother, Syllba and Kirney—in Carstairs’ keeping.

It
was a solution.

“Nay,”
Donovan shook his head again. “Your lord brother is about to sign your nuptial contract
to me. In the hour before we leave for Bennington, we will exchange the vows of
betrothal in front of Olivet’s priest. The Bennington priest will hear our
marriage vows. We will wed in d'Allyonshire chapel as tradition dictates.”

He
was as astonished as the rest that the words that had slipped so easily from
his mouth. Where had they come from?  The last thing he wanted was another
unwilling wife.

What
had he done?

Before
Isabeau could offer up a protest, he strode to the door. He turned one last time
to encompass all in his fierce glance. “With the lengthening days, we will have
plenty of time to get some distance from this place. I’ll not spend another
night under this roof.”
 
             

The
room rang with the finality of the earl’s proclamation and the echo of the
slamming of the door behind him.

Isabeau
stared at it as if turned to stone. Her unshed tears burned dry in her eyes.
The weight in her chest reminded her to breathe.

She
was betrothed?

To
the Earl of Bennington?

Her
head felt light. Snowflakes peppered her vision.

She
was
betrothed
to the Earl of Bennington.

May
the saints have mercy!  She had no business being a countess. There had to
be a mistake. His lord was only jesting.

“My
lady?”

She
turned from the door at Carstairs’ quiet inquiry.

“Yes?”

“You
have less than an hour to prepare for our journey,” he reminded her gently.

Isabeau
shook her head. “He couldn’t have meant it. Surely, it is just a joke?”

Carstairs
smiled. “You will find the earl means exactly what he says. He will be the
first one to tell you he has no sense of humor. Now, you had best begin to pack
your chests. You will need a bit more than you carried yesterday.”

“Oh,
heavens,” Isabeau started for the door. “What am I to do?”

“Pack.”
Carstairs answered succinctly.

Isabeau
rushed from the counting room and raced to her chamber. She had so much to do
and so little time. It was good she had few belongings; very little left to put
in her single chest. Perhaps after she had given Marley and Blanche instructions
on the care of Olivet in her absence, she would have time to secure a couple of
her father’s books?  Simon wouldn’t miss them. They would be precious
mementos of happier days.

Perhaps
she should consult the earl?

She
paused in throwing her brushes on top of the gowns already packed. Perhaps she
should speak to the earl before going any further with her preparations. He may
have changed his mind. She may have misunderstood him.

She
was half way through the door when Blanche barreled into her. The older woman
was solidly constructed and Isabeau bounced back several feet before catching
her balance.

“Oh,
milady.” Tears of happiness streamed down the worn face as she pulled Isabeau
into a fierce hug. “You are going to be a countess. Your Lord Papa would be so
pleased. How many evenings did we sit in front of a blazing fire in the great
hall listening to Lord Charles regale us with tales of the young Donovan
d’Allyonshire?”

Holding
Isabeau’s shoulders, Blanched pulled back and searched her face. “And you tried
to run away.”

Isabeau
gasped. “How did you know?”

Blanche
laughed. “I’ve known you since you were a babe. I could see the stirrin’s of a
plot in your eyes weeks ago. And think I didn’t miss you yesterday?”

“Simon
doesn’t…” Isabeau’s instinctive panic was silenced by a Blanche’s callused hand
on her mouth.

“You’ve
no need to worry about that one again,” Blanche cackled joyfully. “My lord will
see to that.
You
are going to be a countess.”

“A
countess?” Isabeau backed away on weak knees and gratefully sank onto her hard
bed. “How can I be a countess?”

“Tetch-tetch.”
Blanche scowled fiercely as she leapt to Isabeau’s defense. “What’s this? 
Any man—to the king hisself—would be proud to have you as his bride.”

“How
can I be a countess?” Isabeau repeated her cry almost a wale. “How can I be a
countess when I don’t even know how to be a wife?”

“Oh,”
Blanche blinked owlishly a couple of times before comprehension set in. “OH. I
see.”

The
older woman closed and latched the door before sitting beside Isabeau on the
bed. She decisively patted the back of Isabeau’s hand with her work-worn one.
“You would have been too young before your momma died for her to—and your papa
wouldn’t have explained—well, I’ll do my best, child.”

The
quick lessons in marital duties and responsibilities left Isabeau’s cheeks
burning with embarrassment and with more questions than before. When she tried
to ask one, Blanche patted her hand again with a little more force than before
and shook her head vigorously enough to shift her mop-cap.

“It
is your husband’s place to answer your questions as he sees fit. Just follow
where he leads. The earl will have a care.”

She
reached up and smoothed Isabeau’s hair. “Now, we need to get moving. I’ll
finish here. The earl said you were to take any keepsakes you wish. ‘Twill be a
while before you will be returning to Olivet.”

“He
said that?”

“Aye.”

“Oh,
Blanche, I wish you were going with us.”

“Now,
hush. You know I like the size of my nest as it is. I can cluck all I wish and
a half day’s ride is as far as I want to be from my grandbabies.”

Isabeau
gave the sturdy woman’s shoulders an affectionate squeeze. “Thank you for so
much. I hope you have dozens more grandbabies the next time I see you.”

“Go
on with you. Go pick out some of your papa’s books while you still have the
time.”

Isabeau
laughed as she left the room. The housekeeper knew her all too well. She raced
to her father’s gallery. She wanted her mother’s portrait and a miniature she
had commissioned of her father for his birthday. The gallery also housed the
library.  

She
was in the process of picking out several volumes when she heard the swishing
of silk against silk. She looked up to see Syllba glide into the room and quietly
close the door.

“Syllba.”
Isabeau greeted her sister-in-law guardedly. Even after sharing the same home
for months, they had rarely been alone with each other. What was she to say to
the woman?  “I thought you had returned to your chambers. The evening meal
must have been taxing on your strength. I would have come to you before
leaving. I wish to thank you for allowing me to remain in Olivet since my
father’s death.”

Syllba’s
cheeks blazed red against a pale complexion. With such vivid color, the woman had
no need of the cosmetics she had worn to the great hall. She sashayed towards
the nearest bookcase and ran a long nail along a leather spine. Isabeau hoped
she hid the wince against the fear that Syllba’s nail would slice the binding.
 

“You
do love your books, don’t you, Little Izzy?” Syllba crooned. “I thought I would
find you here when Bennington declared to all and sundry that he was taking you
to wife and you were free to take any tokens you wished. ‘She’ll go right for
the books,’ I thought. And see, I was right. You are so predictable.”

Isabeau
felt prickles along her arms and a chill dance along her spine. “I had no idea
you knew me so well. We have had so little time to visit since you arrived.”

“Oh,
I know you.” She sidled closer. “I know everything. I know how you chatted up
Bennington’s little messenger boy. Is that how you discovered when the earl was
arriving so you could go out and meet him?”

Isabeau
gasped. Even though Syllba had misinterpreted events, the amount she seemed to
know disconcerted her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Did
you bed him?”