Love Never Lies (33 page)

“I’ll have to give back Newbury’s portion of the ransom of course.” A tight smile stretched his lips. “But, other than that, nothing has changed.”

“What?” Was his mind so twisted he failed to comprehend her? “What do you mean? Of course, everything has changed! Are you not hearing me? I am ruined.”

“You overrate your virtue, coz. Newbury’s no milk-sop youth. ‘Tis the alliance, not your maidenhead he craves.”

 
Isabeau’s mind began to swim.

The earth seemed to move under her feet.

She had surrendered herself to Fortin—given herself to him for naught. All of the shame, all of the humiliation, in the end wouldn’t help her. She could hardly coax her voice past a whisper. “Did he know?”

“Did who know?”

“Fortin,” she almost screamed. “Did he know ‘twas not a condition when you came to the tournament to discuss terms of my release?”

Barak shrugged. “’Twas not part of my demands.”

Then he must have suspected. Yet he did not tell her. “I’ll kill him,” she breathed under her breath.

A gleam of understanding lit Barak’s eyes. “So you thought by giving away your virtue you might cheat Newbury of a bride.”

Isabeau was so distracted by the injustice of Fortin’s betrayal it took her a moment to realize Barak had taken her by the arm and was leading toward the far stand of pines.

“Since you’re so free with your favors, you won’t mind granting me the same.”

“What?” Her heart leapt in her breast, hearing the suppressed fury in his tone. “Take your hands off me!” She attempted to pull away, but his grip held fast, biting into her flesh so cruelly she cried out.

“Come now, no need to be coy,” he said with a sneer, tightening his grip as he jerked her along, so hard she felt he might break her arm. “I knew you for a slut long before you knew it yourself.”

Hesper’s warning whispered in Isabeau’s brain, like so many past dreams. As he pulled her through the pines, betwixt the feathery boughs, kicking up scented needles, she knew this was the danger it was meant to keep her from.
‘Twas not wolves or Fortin, but her own cousin, who had raped her sister and brought the wrath of Fortin down upon all of their heads.

 
Her breath rasped past her lips in sharp gasps.

She struggled and thrashed, and kicked out at him, but could not lose him.

A few strides more and he stopped.

His hands bit into her shoulders as he forced her to her knees.

She attempted to rise.

But he pushed her down again, this time knocking her flat on her back amongst the pine needles, holding her shoulders in a cruel grip.

Musty dirt flew up as she thrashed and panted, blinking into the modeled light filtering through the boughs of the trees.

“Stop!”
She held up both hands. “You don’t want to do this, Barak!”

His laugh rang harsh and bitter. “Think of it as compensation for half the ransom I shall have to give back.

“Tis wrong!” She screamed, pushing with all her strength against his chest. “Can’t you see?”

 
“Desire is never wrong.” He gave a harsh laugh. “‘Tis as natural as drawing breath,” he said, unbuckling his sword, “And I have been holding mine too long.” He laid it on the ground with care,
then
reached under his surcoat to yank down his braies.

“Why do you hate me?”

“You invaded my home, took what was mine.” His features contorted with anger. “My mother gave every precious moment she had left tutoring you and Nicola. But did you appreciate it? Nay! By the time I came to her solar each night she was spent.
Because of you.
Who was at her bedside when she died?
You and Nicola!”

“You weren’t home at the time!”

“Yea, my father and I were out fighting for future generations—defending our lands. And did you appreciate that?” He said with a snarl. “Did you?

“Of course I did.” She wriggled back on her elbows, keeping her eyes on him while adjusting her feet for leverage.

Barak stomped a booted foot on the skirt of her kirtle to still her retreat. “Yet, you spent every waking moment pining for home.” His green eyes held an unholy gleam as his gaze licked over her. “But not to worry, you can thank me now.”

When he made to fall upon her, she rolled away.

In a trice she was on her feet.

She had hoped his braies pulled down around his ankles would inhibit his movement, but he had the presence of mind to jerk them up.

She got but two strides away before he scrambled to his feet after her.

He grabbed her by one braid, pulling her toward him.

Whether from fear, or the sharp pain in her scalp, her anger sparked like new flint. A terrible rage built inside of her. Just as Barak made to push her to the ground again, she sank her teeth into the fleshy part of his forearm, then brought her knee up hard.

He gave a loud groan when it connected with his upper torso, then dropped on all fours to the ground.

Hearing his groans and gasps for air felt so
good
, she wished she had time to gloat.

But there was no time for that.

She had knocked the wind out of him, but ‘twould not take him long to recover.

She raced back toward the tower, clutching her skirts.

She arrived panting for breath, to discover Talbot guarding the horses and Ram stamping out what was left of the fire.

“Go! Assist your master!” she commanded between pants of air. “He’s hurt and in need of your assistance!”

Ram left kicking the smoldering logs to run in the direction she pointed.

Talbot made no move to go however, his gaze shifting from her to the grove of pines in the distance.

“What are you waiting for?” she shouted. “The longer it takes, the worse his temper gets. ‘Twill
take
both of you to heft him up.”

Mention of Barak’s temper sped Talbot’s feet.

Isabeau grabbed the first reins her hands touched, which happened to belong to Ram’s big brown steed, instead of the smaller palfrey that had carried her there. It took some effort to catapult up into the saddle. The girth of the warhorse stretched her legs like a wishbone. But she kept her seat.

A firm hand was needed to control the destrier with only a bit and no prick of spurs to tell him she was master. But Isabeau managed to wheel him around to the south just the same, squeezing hard with her knees against his flank.

Rot!

Why had she not taken the time to steal the palfrey instead? ‘Twas easier losing her virginity than being bounced up and down, spread across this great beast’s back.

But, ‘twas too late to change that now, so she gritted her teeth and plunged onward down the dirt road, choking past the dust in her throat.

With any luck, Barak and the monster twins would not emerge from the trees in time to see which direction she took.

The sweet smell of hay mingled with the sharp tang of leather, crowding out what little fresh air leaked through the loose planks of the stable. It mattered not to Isabeau. She’d had her fill of wind in her face.

She was all but spent, but at the same time restless, prowling the confines of the small structure, despite the exhaustion she felt from the rigors of her perilous flight.

Coming across the inn was a blessing, since she lacked the strength to cling to the destrier’s back one more furlong.
‘Twas a miraculous blessing in fact, as she had no idea where she was.
She required directions before she might continue.

Unfortunately, a score of mercenaries, seeking the same respite from their journey, kept the innkeeper occupied. Their boisterous reveling spilled out of every crack of the Inn. Laughter and song danced on the night air, giving evidence to their dulled wits.

Isabeau dared not risk venturing inside. The memory of Barak’s near rape hovered fresh in her mind. Better to wait until the ruckus and laughter subsided to ask for assistance, or until a stable boy or some other servant appeared.

In the meantime, pacing eased the cramps in her legs. Unfortunately, it did naught for the ache in her belly. She required substance in order to make it to her parents’ home.

Some form of padding for her bottom wouldn’t go amiss either.

For now, the small stable, comprised of two stalls, provided warmth and shelter. The building must have housed animals at one time, but now held only a supply of sweet smelling hay and a stack of wood, along with a collection of bridles and bits, hanging against the rough plank walls.

Isabeau fretted at leaving Ram’s ill-mannered destrier outside, tied behind the building, at the mercy of thieves, but there was no help for it. The stable wasn’t big enough for them both.

The rattle of the latch on the door brought Isabeau up short, causing her to cease her pacing.

Thinking a serf from the inn had come to fetch firewood, she released a sigh of relief.

At last, she would eat.

Or, mayhap not.

What if it wasn’t a servant?

The memory of Barak’s pawing hands, mauling over her body sent prickles dashing across her skin, firing her blood.

As long as she drew breath no man would handle her so roughly again.

She seized a pitchfork from the mound of hay,
then
hastened to the wall to press her back tight against the planks.

The door creaked open on its sagging leather hinges.

Isabeau held her breath.

Hopefully the element of surprise would give her the upper hand.

Alexander Fortin appeared before her brandishing his sword, ready to strike, eyes as cool as snow crystals, long black hair tossed back from his face in thick waves.

Isabeau froze at the sight of the glittering blade, poised menacing above her head.

Fortin was the last person she had expected to see—Barak mayhap, but not him.

His dark scowl made her mouth go dry.

Had he finally had enough of chasing after her for a bag of silver?

Mayhap he meant to put an end to the game—finish her off once and for all.

He lowered the blade, a wry smile twisting his lips. “My weapon is bigger than yours, I think. You cannot win.”

Relief washed over her at the sound of his jesting tone, though she continued to clutch the pitchfork like a lance, unsure of her safety as yet, quivering as much from the glint of the blade as from the powerful magnetism bouncing off of him. How had he found her so quickly?

Verily the smell of money had sped his cause, as it always did.

He sheathed his sword in its leather scabbard. “If you intend to stick me with that thing, make haste. But, let me warn you,” His mouth flattened in a grim line, “I’m weary and not in the best of temper. If you do, you had better be prepared to run.”

When she failed to answer, he strode forward to pry the pitchfork from her shaking fingers.