Love Never Lies (13 page)

Exhaustion and lack of light eventually forced Isabeau to rein the palfrey in. Though she was certain she had taken the right road after skirting around Gilling’s Cross, to her consternation, the monastery was still nowhere in sight.

She led the palfrey to a stand of pines,
then
set about gathering twigs to make a fire. ‘Twas a worrisome task, as the light and the smoke might alert thieves, but she feared being attacked by wolves more.

Hesper’s warning whispered in her head.

Some time later, huddled over the crackling blaze, the murmur of voices drew her attention to the road.

Nay, mayhap only one voice.

‘Twas difficult to tell, as the wind picked the words up as soon as they were spoken and whipped them through the feathery branches of the tall pines swaying overhead.

Isabeau came to her feet to edge her way to her palfrey. If only she had her dagger, but Fortin had refused to return it to her, no doubt fearing she would use it to slit his throat. She had to admit, the thought had crossed her mind each time she felt the bite of his jibing tongue and again now at finding herself in this predicament. If not for him, she would not be here in the dead of night, worrying about the dark robed figure tromping toward her up the road.

“Good eventide,” the stranger called in a gruff voice, ambling closer, dragging a nag attached to a small cart. “Might a weary pilgrim beg a moment to warm his hands over your fire?”

As he drew closer, Isabeau spied the large silver cross swinging from a chain around his neck. Her heart began to slow. “Yea, brother,” she said, sucking in a deep breath. “I’d welcome your company, as well as any prayers you might offer on this night.”

After leading the horse and cart from the road, he came to stretch his fat fingers over the glowing coals. Upon closer inspection she determined there was nothing about him to insight fear.

He was short in stature—no taller than she, with a clean-shaven head and the largest, roundest nose she had ever beheld. It matched the rest of his face, giving him a kindly look that soon put her at ease, along with his forthright manner when he eventually spoke. “They call me Brother Patrick. And what might I call you?”

“Isabeau.”

“What do you here, my lady,” he asked after a time, “So late at night, and all alone?”

Isabeau sent him a quick glance from under her lashes, wondering if she dared trust him. The clergy were often closely allied with the local nobles. With Gilling’s Cross not far away, Fortin might be an acquaintance. Yet she could not lie to a man of God. “I’m traveling to my uncle’s.”

“The monastery is but a few furlongs from here. I’m certain the Abbott would offer you sanctuary until you can send for an escort to accompany you on your way.”

“Thank you.” She heaved a sigh of relief at his kindness. “I’d be most grateful.” Grateful not to have to wander the countryside lost and alone at the mercy wolves and thieves, and god knows what else.

“The Abbott is ever eager to help a soul in distress, the more desperate the better. It speeds him on his way to heaven. And apparently, you’re in grave distress, else you’d not have taken such a risk.” Brother Patrick tilted his head to regard her beneath his bushy white brows with keen interest. “Mayhap you should tell me what brought you to this condition, so I might plead your case better.”

“’Tis a long and complicated tale I fear.”

“I’ll guard your words closer than a confession,” he called over his shoulder as he wheeled around to trundle to the cart. Having fetched them each a woolen blanket, he returned to sit before the red, orange licking flames across from her to offer his full attention. “Fire away. A good tale always helps me to sleep,” he said with a broad wink. “Not to worry though, if I should nod off before you’re through, I’ll bless you on the morrow.”

Whether from his friendly manner or the tragic state of her heart, Isabeau soon found the events of the past weeks pouring from her lips. She told him everything, but her captor’s name, still cautious of where his loyalties might lie. To his credit, he did not raise a brow at any part.

“A harrowing tale to be sure,” he said when she was through, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. “I’ll bless you now and again in the morn.” He made the sign of the cross, murmuring prayers in Latin under his breath. Then, true to his word, he curled his head beneath his arms and closed his eyes.

Isabeau lay awake long after, listening to his erratic snores, punctuated by the pop of sparks flying up from the orange flames.

What had she expected—some heavenly guidance? But how could a cloistered man such as he relate to the troubles of a young maid? Or mayhap ‘twas simply his calling, to listen as God did with no answer, trusting her soul to tell her body what to do in good time.

Unfortunately, right now her soul was in utter conflict. Though part of her rebelled at returning to her Uncle, she saw no other choice. He was the only connection to her betrothed—her only hope for a prosperous match. Going home to her parents would be like returning from the well with an empty bucket. All those years spent laboring in her uncle’s household – dodging Barak’s sweaty palms for naught.

Nay, she was doing the right thing.

She had successfully side-stepped Barak’s advances before.

She would do so again.

***

Isabeau flew around the small cell which had served as her bedchamber at the monastery for the past two eventides, anxious to leave it as pristine as when she came. Not a particularity difficult task, as the room was as sparse as a cave. Nevertheless, she pulled up the sheets, folded the woolen blanket at the end of the bed,
then
sat down to braid her hair on the wooden bench, the only other piece of furniture besides the bed.

Could it be real?

Her betrothed was actually here?

When Brother Patrick told her, she could hardly believe her ears. But the brother had assured her ‘twas true—he had no doubt. The nobleman who had come for her described the foreign script etched on the back of the ruby amulet. Who else could it be but him?

Only her betrothed and the messenger who delivered it knew of its existence. She had never shown it to anyone, not even her uncle. There had been no reason. Uncle Royce would not be able to decipher the strange language any better than she.

Now, at last, she would know what those words meant. At last, she would meet Lord Hogan—the man she hoped to make a home with. The man she had dreamed of for so long.

Hair neatly plaited, she stood to smooth her blue kirtle with her palms. Though worn from so much recent use, at least it was fresh and clean, thanks to Brother Patrick’s generosity.

Isabeau opened the door to her cell with a trembling hand.

Brother Patrick came hustling toward her with a twinkle in his eye. “Come, my lady. Your betrothed
awaits
!”

She followed him down the narrow stone corridor of the monastery dormitory, limbs quivering beneath her kirtle with every step. With the moment finally upon her, she despaired at knowing what to say. Would Lord Hogan be angry over the loss of the dowry?

Her step faltered.

Mayhap he had not come to collect her, but to tell her the betrothal was off.

She sucked in a deep cleansing breath,
then
stepped through the dormitory doorway into the courtyard. If that were the case, she would bear her shame with dignity.

Until he departed.

And then, verily she would shriek and moan and pull her hair in vexation at the injustice of her fate.

She kept her eyes trained on Brother Patrick’s back, suddenly stricken with shyness—abashed at all the trouble her betrothed had gone to on her behalf. Only when Brother Patrick stopped did she slowly lift her gaze.

Alexander Fortin stood before her, holding the reins of his warhorse. “Ah, there you are, my sweet.”

Isabeau blinked in disbelief.

Her body went weak.

She could almost feel the blood draining from her limbs. How had he found her? For a moment she just stood there, staring at the hard angles of his jaw—the grim smile smudged across his face.

She grabbed Brother Patrick by the sleeve. “He’s not my betrothed.” Her voice struggled forth in a ragged squeak. “He’s the man I was telling you about—the one who kidnapped me.”

“Come, come, now.” Brother Patrick continued to draw her forward by the arm. “There’s no need for pretence. You said yourself, only your betrothed knew of the Arabic script. Lord Fortin has told me of your recent quarrel. It’s only natural that you should have cold feet. But now it’s time to make amends—to kiss and make up.”

Isabeau’s mouth flapped wide as she watched Brother Patrick lumber away, his bald head aglow like a polished apple under the morning sun.

How had Fortin known?

Had William told him about the amulet?

He was the only one she’d shown it to.

But what of the script?

Was it possible he’d spied the amulet in the bathhouse and left it there, knowing it was hers and she’d come back for it?

Fortin chuckled wickedly. “Come, Cheri, after all the trouble you’ve put me through, have you nothing nice to say to me, one small lie?”

 
“You blasphemous knave!” she choked out. “May your soul rot in hell for speaking such falsehoods in this holy
place!
” She took a step back, opening her mouth to call Brother Patrick back.

But before she could utter a sound, Fortin grabbed her by the arm. The next thing she knew, she was thrust up against his hard chest. “No one here will help you. I’ve paid them well for their trouble.”

The crackling heat in his deep blue eyes sent her heart pounding. Her tongue grew thick staring at the determined line of his lips.

“Now give me a kiss. The good brother is watching us.”

She turned her face, but his lips found hers just the same, gently at first,
then
crushing in their intensity. Her head swam from lack of air. A jumble of sensations washed over her in a gush—befuddling her brain. The silky feel of his lips uncoiled something deep within her—some primitive urge that drew her closer and closer, until at last, she found herself kissing him back.

She knew she should pull away—fight him, but her flesh would not comply. It felt so right, there, in the warmth of his arms. Like a bee drawn to the only flower in sight, she couldn’t help herself.

Then, he released her.

She stumbled back, putting a hand to her lips.

Her face suffused with heat.

What was wrong with her?

How could she enjoy the feel and the touch of a man like him? Of all the reckless acts she had committed in her score of years, succumbing to his lips was certainly the greatest.

Maddie had often called her a heathen—too intent on her own pleasure. But a wild ride across the meadow or a leisurely soak in the tub did not compare to the mind numbing, flesh tingling experience of Fortin’s mouth against hers.

If she weren’t careful, she’d end up just like her sister.

“Come,” he said, pulling her toward his big warhorse. “We have a long ride ahead of us.”

“Nay!
I’ll not go anywhere with you!” She attempted to pull away, shaken by what she’d done—the liberties she’d allowed him to take. Panic rose in her breast at the thought of what else she might do, if she found herself alone with him—if his lips should touch hers again?