Love Never Lies (10 page)

“There wasn’t a rat in the constable’s chamber, was there,” she said between gasps, quite out of breath as they emerged in the courtyard below.

Hilda cocked a wicked grin. “There will be now.”

Isabeau chuckled,
then
just as quickly sobered. It was no laughing matter. Thanks to Alexander Fortin, guarding her virtue had become more difficult. She must remember to thank him when they next met.

They delivered their baskets to the washhouse,
then
continued on to the bathhouse.
‘Twas a relief, if not a joy, for Isabeau to wash away the grime of her labors and the memory of Edric’s touch.

Hilda kept up a steady stream of gabber in the wooden tub beside her as Isabeau scrubbed herself clean with the strong smelling soap.

Normally she would have laid her head back, luxuriating in the pleasure of a bath, but the refreshing feel of the water did little to cool her ire. Edric’s assault at the gatehouse left her more determined than ever to pry any word of her ransom from Fortin as soon as she clapped eyes on him.

After stepping from the tub, she rubbed her hair dry as best she could with one of the thick linen cloths folded on the bench, then dragged her fingers through it to release any knots.

Hilda did not bother with her confusion of fiery curls, just gave her hair a quick rub before yanking her brown kirtle over her head. “I best fetch fresh linen for the high table,” she said, tugging on her shoes. “Lord Fortin and his men will arrive anon. They were nearing the gate ere I left the constable’s chambers.”

Isabeau’s heart gave a leap. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She snatched up her sleeveless linen chemise to wrestle it over her head. When she emerged, Hilda was nowhere to be seen.

After sitting on the wooden bench to slip on her shoes, Isabeau bounded to her feet in search of her kirtle. Panic seized her, when at first she could not lay her hand on it. At last she grabbed it from under the wooden bench with a frantic swipe.

When she turned around the bathhouse was no longer empty.

Fortin stood just inside the doorway, looking dusty and saddle-worn,
his
features inscrutable with his back to the bright light of the sun streaming through the door behind him.

His great height alone in such a tight space was enough make her heart pound—to make her feel trapped.

“I’d thought to be first in the tub, but I see you’ve beaten me to it.” He dropped his black leather gloves on the bench by the door.
“No matter.”
He shrugged. “As long as you’re here, you can assist me.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks as she clutched her kirtle in front of her trembling form. His unexpected request left her speechless. Did he jest? Was he simply trying to bait her? Why should he wish her to assist him with his bath, when up until now he had made it clear he hated the very sight of her?

She could not understand him.

One moment his tone was mild, the next cold.

What was he up to?

Was this some new form of revenge—a new way to bring her shame?

Touching his naked body would certainly do that. Her fingers were bound to tremble, coming in contact with such beauty. And then, he would know her desire. What could be more demeaning than to desire a man who loathed the very sight of you? How he would laugh. And how could she blame him? She didn’t understand it herself. How was it that she desired a man she did not even like. It did not make sense.

Her belly fluttered, her lips grew dry, but she willed her voice to calm. “I cannot, my lord. Hilda’s waiting for my help in the hall.” Not to mention, if the work wasn’t completed on time, she would forfeit her supper. But she would not tell him that. She would not complain. It would only give him cause to gloat.

He came slowly forward to regard her steadily. “Don’t argue with me, wench. ‘
Tis a command not a request.”

Isabeau straightened her spine despite the fingers of fear crawling up her back. “If you wish assistance, I’ll fetch Hilda. She’s ever eager to see to your needs.”

When she made to walk past him, he captured her by the arm. She gasped as his fingers bit into the fresh bruises Edric had left there. “Please, my lord.” She blinked back the tears that rushed to her eyes. “You’re hurting my arm.”

He drew her toward him into the light. His blue eyes narrowed. “How did you come by these marks?”

His voice battered her ears like an accusation.
“A gift from you, my lord.”
Her voice shook with suppressed anger, at herself as much as him, for feeling the way she did, and not being able to stop it. “Had you already arranged for my ransom, I’d not have to fight off the unwelcome advances of your men.”

 
His tone grew dangerous. “What men?”

“’Tis of no importance.”
She shrugged off his hand. “I’ve no wish to see him punished.”

“What makes you think I’d punish him?” He asked, a scowl rippling his forehead. “‘Tis likely you encouraged his attentions.”

Her mouth gaped wide.

Of all the…”

The man was an ass!

She snapped her mouth shut. Why waste time pleading her innocence. He would not believe her. He thought her a whore and a liar. “Yea, my lord, mayhap you’re right.” Her voice
rose
a hair above a whisper. “My kindness was misplaced. ‘Twas foolish of me to put my trust in any man, for whenever I do, I’m doomed to disappointment.” She turned on her heel and strode for the door, remembering too late as her face hit the late afternoon sun, that she had failed to demand news of her ransom.

But she could not turn around and speak with him now, feeling rattled as she did.

She needed time to collect herself.

 
Rot!

Why did she allow him to turn her into such a milk-livered sop?

She yanked her blue kirtle over her head, smoothing it down with the palms of her hands,
then
marched across the yard to the hall, braiding her damp hair as she went.

She arrived at the hall to find a score of men sitting at the trestle tables swigging ale, voices raised so loud they might have been one hundred. It did not take her long to discover why, as she threaded her way through the tables with her ewer of ale to replenish their cups.

“The constable has all but given it up,” one man said.

“I give him two days,” another replied.

“Two? Why say you two?” The first barked a loud laugh. “We’ll be drinking Highburn’s ale come the morrow.”

Apparently the siege neared an end, giving them cause to celebrate. Isabeau’s spirits rose at the news. Mayhap with the siege over, Fortin would turn his efforts toward claiming her ransom. In the meantime, she must continue her pleas to hasten him along, while at the same time, endeavoring never to be caught alone with him again.

As if that wasn’t enough to worry about. On her way back from the kitchen with a heavy platter of boiled roach, Edric appeared before her, blocking her path. She gazed up at him through swirls of steam curling above the platter of fish, willing him to speak before her arms gave out.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he said in a gush. “For what happened at the gatehouse. I meant no insult. But whenever I see you...”

Isabeau cut him off to save him any further embarrassing disclosures, saying with a tight smile, “’Tis of no consequence. Now if you’ll forgive me, I need to deliver this platter, ere it grows cold.”

He stepped aside, allowing her to pass, but she continued to feel his eyes on her as she moved about the hall. Between his unwelcome stares and the dark glances Fortin shot her way from the high table, ‘twas a wonder she could go about her labors at all.

By the end of the evening, her nerves had stretched so taut, ‘twas difficult to breathe.

Finally, just when she thought she might snap, Hilda bid her retire. Isabeau did not argue, though she hated to leave Hilda with the remaining mess. Her fortitude was good, but not as great as Hilda’s, who had been born to such labor, especially on an empty stomach.

Too exhausted to disrobe when she reached the small bedchamber she shared with Hilda, she collapsed on the straw pallet fully clothed, drawing the woolen blanket up to her neck.

She had barely closed her eyes when the creak of the door snapped them back opened.

Isabeau groaned. For Hilda to have retired so soon could only mean one thing. She was intent on putting a little coin in her pocket, entertaining one of the men. Usually Hilda warned her and Isabeau slept in Fortin’s bedchamber. But tonight, it was occupied. She supposed she would just have to wait in the corridor until they were through.

But when she threw back the blanket she found Fortin towering over her. “Come,” he commanded. “You’ll sleep in my bedchamber hence forth.”

“
Wh
… what?” She sputtered, dumbfounded at finding him there.

“I don’t trust you here alone.”

She struggled upward to crouch on her knees, but did not move to leave her spot. “A fortnight has passed and I haven’t attempted to escape. What makes you think I’ll try now?”

 
“You won’t escape from here.” His lips twisted into a grim smile. “Tis
your
dallying with my men I object to. If I’m to obtain the best ransom, I can’t turn you over to your uncle big with child.”

She sucked in an outraged breath.
“’Tis your men who accost me.
Mayhap if you gave them leave to visit the village more often they wouldn’t behave like untrained hounds.”

He folded both arms across his chest, giving her a long look. “A visit to the village won’t protect them from a temptation such as you.”

‘Twas difficult to know whether to be insulted or flattered by his claim.
Her reaction fell somewhere in between. “If you’d but return my dagger, I could defend myself.”

“You’ll have no need of it in my chamber.” Now
that,
was an insult, plain and simple—his way of telling her, he wouldn’t touch her with a twenty foot battering ram.

She shrugged. “I have no need of your protection. I’ve survived thus far.” She plunked down on her pallet, pulling the woolen blanket behind her as she went. She pressed her eyes tight and held her breath, hoping her show of anger would dissuade him and by some miracle he would change his mind and leave her in peace.

The next thing she knew, she was being lifted high in the air.

A strangled screech burst from her lips.

She struggled and flailed, but did less damage than a sack of kittens, only causing him to tighten his hold. However, she managed to wriggle one clinched fist from between her body and his hard chest, just as he kicked opened his bedchamber door. She landed it against the side of his jaw with a loud crack.

Her smile of satisfaction was wiped clean by the murderous look on his face. He strode to the bed to drop her like a deranged wildcat amongst the furs. He scowled down at her with fierce intent, blue eyes alight with sparks. “If you ever hit me again, I’ll make it difficult for you to sit for a week.”

She leapt from the bed intent on putting as much distance as she could between him and her tingling behind, searching frantically about the room for something to defend herself. But the only weapon in sight was his sword. That was of no use. Even if she could get to the end of the bed to reach it before he did, she could not lift it.

Isabeau edged her way to the empty hearth, keeping her eyes on him all the while, feigning courage, though she felt certain her legs would give out and she would crumble to the flags at any moment.

But the fates were against her, as her empty belly chose that time to rumble in protest.