Love Never Lies (16 page)

She twisted away from him,
then
took a deep breath to clear her head. “To you it may be. But to me it’s not.” She raised her hand to the amulet to rub her fingers across the letters on the back.

“’Tis hardly a love message in your hand.”

She lifted her chin to slash him a haughty glare. “’Tis all in the way you interpret it.”

He smiled back at her, a gleam of what looked like satisfaction lighting his eyes. “You don’t read Arabic, do you, Isabeau?”

She hesitated, ruffled by his arrogant tone, but the need to know was too strong. “Nay, I do not.”

 
“Do you wish me to tell you what it says?”

She nodded slowly, wondering if she dare trust him, but at the same time so filled with anticipation she held her breath. Finally she would learn what the words meant—what heartfelt message Lord Hogan had etched on the gold behind the ruby stone. Hopefully, ‘twould give her some clue as to the sort of man he was.

“Love never lies. That’s what it says.” Fortin tilted his head to one side, offering a mocking look. “More of a warning than a lover’s message, don’t you think?”

“What?” She tossed her head, expelling a loud huff of disbelief. To think he should have the gall to twist her betrothed words into something sinister—into something they could not possibly mean. Obviously it had been sent as a token of good faith and affection, not what he took it to mean. Why should her betrothed send her a warning?

‘Twas ridiculous.

What a bitter, distrustful creature Fortin was.

“How would you know? I’m sure you’ve never loved anyone in your life,” she said turning away, not willing to let him destroy her dreams—to undermine what hope she had left.

“I know, because I am the one who sent it.”

Isabeau turned to stare at him aghast. “What?” She searched Fortin’s features for a sign of that he was lying.

But there was none. His voice
came
calm and sharp, slicing her heart like meat. “How did you think I knew Lord Agnew’s niece was marrying and there would be such a hefty dowry? I knew, because I negotiated the terms.”

 
Her limbs went weak. The clatter of steel-shod hoofs and the raucous voices of Fortin’s men entering the courtyard faded to background.
A tightness
in her throat made it impossible to speak.

 
“‘Twas very easy to do—send a messenger using my mother’s family name. What I don’t understand was why he was so desperate to marry you off. Anyone can see had he taken you to court, there would have been many suitors vying for your hand.”

Something shattered in her breast. Whatever flattery he intended failed to permeate her brain. It had gone numb. All she had hoped for and dreamed of came crashing down—love, security, independence. And before her stood the man who had accomplished it.

All of the air seemed to have been sucked from her lungs.

She could not breathe.

Much less bear to look at him.
Her disappointment was so
great,
it crowded out every other thought. All she could think of was getting away, to hide her humiliation and pain.

She started to run.

Blindly at first, but as it turned out, she headed straight for the stable—the most direct path away from him.

William and one of the grooms were busy removing saddles and bridles from the steeds left by Fortin’s men, still filtering in.

Before either could stop
her
or even call out, Isabeau leapt up onto the back of a big bay destrier waiting to be unsaddled. One dig of her heels in its flanks sent her thundering toward the open gates.

Shouts rose up behind her, but it was too late. There was not enough time for them to fully close the gates.

Isabeau plunged through the gap without looking back.

The big warhorse raced across the meadow, eating up the distance between the fortress behind them and the forest beyond. Isabeau’s heart beat in time with its pounding hooves. The braids she wound so tidily on her head that morn tore free to fly behind her. Her chest burned as hot as the red glow of the fading sun.

She didn’t know where she was going—only that she must get away, so she let the horse have its head.

She didn’t hear Fortin thundering up behind her, until he was almost upon her.

By then it was too late.

He came alongside her, reached over and grabbed the reins of her mount, pulling him to an abrupt halt.

After leaping down from his own horse, he reached up to drag her from the other horse’s back. “What are you trying to do? Kill yourself?” Hands biting into her shoulders, he gave her a little shake. “Or mayhap, ‘tis this fine beast you wish to maim.”

“Nay!”
She blinked at the hot tears pricking her eyes. But despite her efforts, one escaped to slide down her cheek. Only then did she notice her surroundings—how uneven and rocky the ground was and how close she had come to disaster. She began to shake.

If Fortin had not stopped him, the warhorse would have plunged down the narrow path crowded on either side with pines, likely breaking its leg and killing her in the process.

Her voice came in a shattered whisper, “I only wished to get away from you.”

He released her, dropping his hands to his sides. His voice softened. “There’s no place to go, where I won’t find you.”

She stared up at him, frustration building in her breast. Her third failed escape, with each time away from him shorter than the last.
‘Twas too much to bear.
She swung her fist without thinking. It connected with the side of his jaw with a loud crack.

The force of the blow set him off balance, forcing him to take a step back. A spark of anger lit his eyes when he recovered.

Isabeau braced herself, feet planted firmly on the ground. In her fury, she did not think to run. If he wanted a battle she would gladly give him one.

But instead of retaliating as she expected, he brought his hand up to rub his face, flashing a wry smile. “I suppose I deserved that.”

“You deserve more,” she said. “But I’ll leave that to my uncle.”

“I understand your anger.” His voice turned quiet, almost gentle. “‘Twas not my intent to cause you pain.”

She turned away, not wishing him to see the fresh rush of tears gathering in her eyes. She wanted to believe him—to forgive him as a good Christian should, but the wound was too new—too raw to be lanced with a quick apology.

What did he think?

No one would get hurt by his scheming?

That a promise of marriage meant nothing to a maid?

Apparently so.

He believed marriage to be a mercenary act. Most matches started out that way, but some led to love, as in the case of her parents. Why should she not hope for the same? All she wanted was a happy home—a safe place to lay her head where love might bloom. Was that too much to ask?

 
He continued in the same even tone. “I’m sorry for your part in it, but I don’t regret what I’ve done.”

His calm words closed around her heart like frost coating a spring bud. How could he be sorry without regret?
‘Twas only half an apology, certainly not enough to warrant forgiveness.
She turned to regard him steadily. “Then I shall make it my task to see that you do.”

His blue eyes narrowed. “Be careful what you promise, Cheri. I’m not the forgiving kind.”

“’Tis much too late for threats, my lord,” she said tightly. “You have thrown down your challenge, and I, have picked it up.”

***

“Where is your fair prisoner this night?” Beaufort’s gaze scanned the hall from where he sat at the high table. “Agnew could not have acknowledged your tardy summons this soon.”

“Nay, he has not,” Alec replied in clipped tones, unable to contain his ire. “I bade Myrtle tell her to seek her pallet. I’m weary of her dark looks.”

Beaufort chuckled. “It pricks your pride sorely that she doesn’t swoon at your feet like every other maid you’ve ever met.”

“She doth hate me, that
is
certain.”

“Can you blame her?”

“Nay, but neither will I abide it.” In truth it was not her hate, but the sorrowful glances she continually sent his way causing him disquiet of late, to the point where it interfered with his digestion. After a long day’s work he wished to relax—enjoy himself. Instead, he looked up from his trencher to find her dove colored eyes upon him, only to flick away when his gaze met hers, as though she could not bear the sight of him.

‘Twas his own fault.

He should never have revealed the false state of her betrothal. Now he was condemned to suffer her accusing looks whenever he entered the hall. You would have thought he’d broken her heart—stole her one true love. When in fact, she had never met the man—he did not exist.

“Your charm is slipping.” Beaufort slanted him a questioning glance. “I would have thought your smooth tongue would have cooled her ire by now and you would have had her hanging on your every word.”

Having been his squire and pupil in the arts of chivalry, the bite of Beaufort’s censure turned Alec’s tone brusque. “I have no interest in the maid past collecting the ransom to replenish my coffers.”

“So you keep saying, and yet it took you a verily long time to send word to her uncle?” Beaufort tilted his head, flashing a mocking grin. “Admit it. You’re smitten with the maid.”

Alec cast him a dour look. “Her beauty cannot make me forget what I suffered at her family’s hands. Nor will she forget what I’ve done to her. You’re wasting your time playing matchmaker.”

“Ahhh, so she knows of your trickery.” Beaufort lifted both brows, sending a low whistle past his lips. “What witless fool lacked the foresight to spill that?”

“Me.”

A hoot of laughter burst from Beaufort’s lips. “You cannot be serious! What were you thinking?” His eyes widened in disbelief. “When she’s near, you’d best not turn your back.”

Alec leaned back in his chair, tumbler of ale in hand, his voice turned thoughtful. “There’s no need to worry on that score. She appears more saddened by the news than angry, though I can’t think why. The man isn’t real. He doesn’t exist.”

 
“You have much to learn of women.” Beaufort sent him a long look beneath his golden brow. “He may not have been real to you, but to her, he was her champion—the stuff of dreams. ‘Twould have been wiser to allow her to imagine he was real rather than to crush her hopes completely.”

“’Tis crueler to allow her to believe he might ride to her rescue at any moment. She had to know the truth eventually. Better she learns it now and
be
done with it.”

“Or did you grow weary of competing with your own myth?”

Alec choked on a mouthful of ale. “You think me jealous?” His voice squeaked as he attempted to catch his breath. “You’re mistaken, my friend.”

“Ha! So you keep saying.” Beaufort reached behind Alec to pound him on the back. “You tell me you would marry to increase your lands. But each time I mention your neighbor, Langley, or his two daughters, one of whom is of marriageable age, you dance around the subject. Best you don’t wait past the tournament he’s holding, ere someone else snaps her up.”

Alec gave one last cough then held up his hand before Beaufort could open his mouth again. “Your efforts at matchmaking are wasted. I’m not ready to marry. When I am, you’ll be the first to know. ‘Tis your knowledge of shipbuilding I’m in need of right now.”