Love Never Lies (25 page)

“Here, take this.” Dominic pulled the red scarf Isabeau had given him from inside the sleeve of his tunic. “It’s served me well this day.”

“’Tis well Abigail didn’t catch sight of it,” Alec said, accepting the scarf, then proceeded to tie it around his wrist. “I’d have no prisoner left to trade.”

Dominic grinned, displaying deep dimples. “Your heart is a riddle. First you would protect her, then, you would give her up. Which is it? Do you love her or nay?”

Alec sent Dominic a dour look before disappearing beneath the mail shirt William lifted over his head.

When he emerged Dominic had vacated the tent.

But his words pricked Alec’s heart as William continued to help him to dress.

Not enough to steer him from his course, but enough to make him determined that Barak would pay double, if he wished to get the Lady Isabeau back.

***

The herald announced the combatants.

A cheer rose up from the crowd.

Isabeau wriggled in her seat, rubbing her moist palms on the sun-warmed skirt of her red kirtle. A crisp breeze fanned her cheeks, bringing with it the smell of blood.
Or mayhap ‘twas the taste of it from biting down so hard on her lip.
Every part of her was tense from the crown of braids on her head to the doe-hide slippers on her feet.

Rather than a mass battle with two sets of knights on either side of the field, or a melee, like the one just fought, Barak and Fortin would compete with lances one-on-one.

But the danger was just as real. Men died at tournaments, lost great fortunes, or were often maimed for life. One knight had already been grievously injured after he was dragged across the field when his foot caught in his stirrup. Another, at that very moment, was being carried off the field, one arm dangling over the side of the stretcher as limp as a rag.

 
From her perch on the stands, behind Lord Langley and his daughters, Isabeau had a clear view of the crowd of villagers gathered on both sides of the field, as well as the colorful tents of the visiting knights.

Barak’s red banner, crested in blue, rose amongst them like a call to freedom.

If only she could speak with him—discover his plan.

But ‘twas impossible with the man-at-arms Fortin had posted at the bottom of the berfrois watching her every move, not to mention his family sitting so close by.

Abigail declined to acknowledge Isabeau’s presence, other than a depreciative sniff as she swept by to take her seat next to the Langleys, jerking the skirts of her green gown behind her as she went, as though fearing them spoiled by Isabeau’s touch.

Isabeau smiled at this, as she had handled every thread of Abigail’s gowns while scrubbing them at the river.

Abigail may have ignored her, but not so the rest of the family. Darcy’s curious gaze often strayed in her direction.

Did he know the terms of the challenge? He would certainly know why Barak was there. Noblemen knew their enemies better than their allies, if they were wise, and he did not strike her as a lack-wit.

Isabeau longed to question Darcy to discover all he knew, but pride prevented it with Abigail sitting so close with her nose in the air.

Alec rode forward to take his place on the field atop his black charger, draped in blue.

Isabeau sucked in a sharp breath.

Abigail swiveled her head like a hawk, piercing Isabeau with her green gaze. Apparently she had noticed the red scarf tied to Alec’s wrist. There was no mistaking where it came from, as it was the same hue of red as Isabeau’s kirtle.

No doubt Barak had noticed it as well. If so, he would find it strange that she had bestowed such an honor on the man who held her captive. Had she known Dominic would lend her gift, she would never have offered it in the first place. ‘Twas likely a ploy on Fortin’s part to throw Barak off balance—make him wonder if she wished to be rescued or not.

Isabeau held no delusions the gesture indicated any affection. She was but an object to Fortin—wrapped in red silk, the scarf on his wrist a symbol of how tight he held her until the barter took place.

Why this should bother her she did not know.

Except.

She wished he would care for her, if even just a little.

At least, not hate her.

Her heart might ease.

She might find some solace in that.

The horn sounded.

Alec charged across the field toward Barak, bedecked in yellow and green trappings.

The ground shook from the pounding of hooves.

Lances
leveled,
they met in a clash of metal and wood.

Alec spun half way around in the saddle, nearly unseated by the blow.

Isabeau gasped,
then
quickly recovered.

‘Twas foolish for her heart to lurch in fear.

He was her captor for pity sake.

She should be cheering for Barak—praying for him to win.

But she could not.

Not without knowing what he planned to do with her when he got her back. She had no wish to remain a prisoner, however, the thought of marrying Newbury made her cringe.

What was to prevent Barak from taking her straight to Newbury—without her parents’ permission? Experience taught her he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Uncle Royce would never go against her mother’s wishes, but Barak would. He had urged his father to do so many times.

And what choice would she have? She could not forsake her family for the enemy.

Alec and Barak wheeled their mounts around then charged again.

The crowd sent forth a tremendous roar.

Isabeau held her breath.

Barak suffered a direct hit to his shield, sending up blue and red sparks before he was thrown from the saddle.

He landed in the dirt with a hollow thud.

Fortin leapt from his charger, his shattered lance in one hand, shield in the other. “Do you submit?”

Barak struggled to his feet to reach for his sword.

Fortin had barely dropped his lance and pulled his own sword from its scabbard when Barak struck the first blow.

The clang and slide of steel rang above the bawling crowd. ‘Twas surprising how fast men that large could move. The two were well-matched in size as well as might. But there was
an agility
in Fortin’s steps that Barak lacked.

He strove to make up for it with ferociousness, using his broadsword like an axe.

One of his wild thrusts caught Fortin’s left shoulder, causing him to take a stumbling step back.

Isabeau clutched the wooden plank beneath her.

But she need not have feared. ‘Twas a bruising blow, but did not pierce his mail to draw blood. Fortin recovered quickly to answer with a well-timed downward slash.

The force of it knocked Barak’s sword from his hand.

In a trice, Fortin was atop Barak, one knee on his chest, pressing the point of his sword against Barak’s throat.

The breath eased passed Isabeau’s lips in a long sigh.

Not until Barak rose to his feet, did the implication of his surrender take effect and she began to quiver.

What bargain had he made on her behalf?

When Barak pulled his helm from his head, exposing the anger and vexation chasing across the angles of his handsome face, Isabeau felt the urge to bolt.

***

“What?” Isabeau stared at Barak in disbelief. She was beginning to wish Fortin had not allowed her to speak with Barak, for at that moment she felt the urge to do him grievous harm. “Why would you offer twice the ransom, if you don’t have it?”

“Don’t fret.” He placed a hand on her shoulder as though to comfort her, his chiseled features congealing in an insincere smile below the glow of his thick auburn hair. “Newbury’s anxious to see our families joined in marriage. I’ll return with the ransom anon.”

“Newbury?”
She jerked away, the breath hitching in her throat. For a long moment she could not think. “My parents will never consent to such a match?”

“Why do you think I’m here?”

She sent forth a short bitter laugh, knowing his unscrupulous nature all too well.
“Why indeed, if not for your own gain.”

“’Tis true.
The alliance is important to our family—not only to me, to both of us.”

“You know very well what I mean.” She pointed an accusing finger at his chest. “You hoped to win without forfeiting an ounce of silver—to keep the ransom for yourself.”

He grabbed her by the arms, squeezing so hard she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. “I risked my life for you this day! The least you can do is to show a little gratitude.”

“You risked your life for wealth,” she said through gritted teeth, trying to ignore the sharp pain shooting up her arms where his fingers bit into her flesh. “For the same reason Fortin did. Do you expect gratitude for that?”

His features hardened. “You ought to be grateful my father was able to secure a match for you at all. As the youngest you’ll inherit naught. Think you a man marries only to gaze upon a comely face. Your beauty will win you a roll in the hay, that’s all.” He offered one of his almost smiles, sliding his hands down her arms as if to sooth the hurt he’d inflicted there. “’Tis a sound match. I just want what’s best for you.”

Anger bubbled like a cauldron in Isabeau’s breast, making her whole body shake. “You mean, what’s best for you.”

“You were always good at getting your own way.” He released her, satisfaction gleaming in his green eyes. “But this is something you cannot change. So, the sooner you come to terms with it the better.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode from the tent.

Isabeau stared at the open flap long after he left. The fact that he was right made her anger all the
more raw
. What hope did she have if her parents consented to the match?

But had they really?

‘Twas hard to believe, as they had been vehemently opposed to her marrying Newbury in the past, her mother especially, declaring she would see Isabeau shut up in a convent rather than her marry such a man.

‘Twas more likely Barak lied and planned to marry her off without their consent.

Fortin strode into the tent, looking fresh and fit, if not invigorated after the rigors of the list. He bore nary a scratch. If anything his blue eyes possessed an added sparkle.

The sight of her red scarf tied around his wrist sent Isabeau’s frustration roiling like an overstuffed pot.
“‘Tis your fault!
You’re to blame for this? Why could you not behave like other men—let your passions have full rein? I’d not be in this predicament. Newbury would not want me then.”

Alec folded his arms across his broad chest and arched one black brow.
“’Tis nothing to do with me.
Your family may betroth you to whomever they wish.”

“But, nay,” She ranted on, oblivious to what he said, pacing to and fro at the end of the tent. “You let the size of your purse rule your head. ‘
Tis unnatural!”
She stopped before him to poke her finger against his hard chest. “You, Sirrah, are an abomination.”