Love Never Lies (38 page)

Gliding ahead of him down the corridor, she continued to waver between self-recrimination and resignation. If only she could tell her heart not to care, but her mind was no match for her heart. It felt what it wished—paying little heed to the danger it placed her in—the certain disappointment ahead.

Seated at the high table partaking of the delicious feast, all trepidation fled. She had had nothing to eat all day, save a bowl of porridge that morn. Her belly rumbled and groaned like an echo down an empty well. The succulent partridge on her trencher and roasted apples dripping thick honey in a bowl by her elbow seemed well worth the risk.

Though, trying her best to savor her meal, whenever she raised her head from her food, to her consternation, she encountered a knowing look or a sly smile from one of Fortin’s men. The silly grin on Gwen’s face whenever she passed the high table certainly didn’t help. Even Myrtle wore the hint of a smile as she shuffled throughout the hall, delivering ewers of ale to the trestle tables.

The ominous cloud hovering around Myrtle had lifted of late, still, the smile gracing her lips appeared—well, strange, like an involuntary reflex run amuck.
‘Twas unsettling, to say the least.

Fortin gave no sign that he noticed the attention they received, or if he did, he deliberately ignored it, attacking the food on his trencher with gusto. Not surprising after several days of travel, surviving on cold fare with only a flagon of ale between them.

Isabeau set down her knife to regard him with growing vexation. “Your men are in high spirits, my lord.”

“They celebrate my safe return.” He lifted a brow, the hint of a smile teasing the edge of his lips. “Does that surprise you?”

“Nay, they’re a devoted lot.” And no doubt he’d earned their loyalty. He treated his men fairly from what she’d observed, enjoying an uncommon camaraderie. Their respect for him was clear. “I can’t help wondering if it’s for some other reason.”

“When I’m happy, they’re happy.” He grinned, causing her heart to skip a beat. “And getting you back has made me very happy.”

Their eyes locked.

Isabeau’s cheeks grew hot.

 
The air crackled between them.

If only his happiness sprang from her, rather than the silver he saw shining in her eyes. Not that she blamed him. He had a right to recoup his losses. ‘Twas a shame her freedom was the cost.

And yet, God help her, she could not help her heart filling with joy each time she looked at him.

She needed to get away—escape, before he turned her over to Newbury.

 
Or worse.

 
Discovered the bent of her heart.

***

The sound of Isabeau humming drew Alec to the doorway of the storeroom off the kitchen. She stood balanced on a stool, her blue kirtle and golden hair bringing blue sky and sunshine to the dull browns of the room.

He’d been waiting for just such an opportunity—a moment alone with her when they would not be disturbed.

Not an easy accomplishment, now that the three women under his roof had joined forces. There seemed to be an understanding between them that once one finished their chores, they sought out another to complete their tasks. More often than not, he returned from the river to hear the echo of laughter before he entered the hall.

Ordering an inventory of the storeroom off of the kitchen was the best excuse he could come up. He had no steward at Highburn as of yet, and since Isabeau was the only one of the three women who could read and write, the chore naturally fell in her lap, leaving Myrtle and Gwen to clean both the hall and the chambers aloft—enough to keep them busy for most of the day.

Just to be safe, he’d ordered the bathhouse scrubbed from top to bottom, the kitchen garden weeded, and the weaving room put to rights, to which Myrtle raised one grey brow, but nodded in compliance as she always did. However the tight set of her thin lips told him she was not pleased with his sudden interest in the running of the hall. No doubt Myrtle considered it a criticism, as the duties of chatelaine had fallen on her shoulders since he came.

But that was about to change.

He sucked in a long, slow breath.

Now that he had Isabeau alone and the moment was upon him, he hardly knew what to say.

His heart thumped so loud, ‘twas a wonder she’d not heard it and turned around.

So much had passed between them. He’d made so many mistakes. He only hoped, in time, she’d forgive him. When Barak took her, his heart had clutched with fear, not at the thought of losing the ransom, he had been startled to discover, but her.

It had taken the entire journey back to Highburn to realize it, and when he finally had, he knew what he must do. He could not keep her as his prisoner forever, and Isabeau would never agree to be his mistress. She was too proud for that, and even if she wasn’t, he would not dishonor her in such a way.

In breaking their agreement, Barak had actually done him a favor. It didn’t matter how much silver Barak offered him now. Isabeau was his. He could never give her back.

When Isabeau turned round, the soft light in her grey eyes and thoughts that she might reject his offer chased his words away. He could force her to marry him of course, but that wasn’t what he wanted. After discovering her warmth and passion, he didn’t relish her fighting him tooth and nail whenever he took her to bed. He wanted her to want him as much as he wanted her—to feel what he felt.

He nodded at the small wooden casket in her hands. “Open it.”

She lifted the lid,
then
her mouth went slack. “What is it?”

“Sugar.”

Her features held amazement at the costly treasure. “Where did you get it?”

“In Alecandria, during the crusade.
A gift from her highness, Eleanor of Aquitaine.”

“She must have held you in very high esteem to bestow such a gift on you.” Her features remained neutral, but her tone left no doubt as to what she was thinking.

“She was grateful for my service, and before you say anything else, not the kind of service you’re imagining. If you wish to satisfy your curiosity about the rumors concerning her infidelity, you’ll have to ask Beaufort. He was in far closer company with the King and Queen than I on the crusade.”

“Mayhap I shall,” she said, then returned her attention to the small casket in her hand. “Is it as sweet as they say?”

“So sweet it melts on your tongue. That one is flavored with roses, the other,” he pointed to the matching casket behind her on the shelf, “With violets. Go ahead, taste it.”

She closed her eyes as she licked the sugar from her fingers. “Mmmm, it must have cost the earth.” She gave a delicate shiver. “I can see why you lock it away.”

“I’ve been saving it for a special occasion—a wedding feast mayhap.”

“Ohh…” Her voice held disappointment. The smile faded from her lips as she snapped the lid shut, then turned to replace it on the shelf. “You’d better hide it in a safe place then. I might be tempted to sneak down here in the middle of the night and eat it. Then you’d be forced to demand compensation, and we’d be right back where we started again.”

He reached up a hand to help her down from the chair. “I have my compensation.”

“And what is that.”

“You.”

“Good. If my family is no longer indebted to you, then forfeiting my virtue was not in vain.” She smiled up at him. “Does that mean you’ve forgiven me?”

“I never held any malice toward you in the first place.”

“Nay” she said, tilting her head, “But you held me accountable for what they did.”

When she made to step around him, he captured her hand to draw her back. “It was wrong of me to do that.”

She returned his gaze with a searching look. “I’ve never lied to you,” she said softly.

“Nay, you have not,” he said, drawing her into the circle of his arms.

“But I’ll always be part of that family. I’m Isabeau of Dawney. I will always be Royce Agnew’s niece, the man who dishonored you. Can you ever forgive me for that?”

“There’s naught to forgive. You had no part in it.”

“But you’ll never forgive my family.”

He pulled her closer, wishing he could ease her mind—tell her otherwise, but the truth was the best he could do. “When I’m with you, I want to. Nothing else matters. Does that count?”

She smiled up at him, raising her arms to encircle his neck. She tilted her head to one side “I suppose, that’s a start.”

 
His limbs turned liquid under the warmth of her smile and the silver light of her soft gaze. “If I were a saint, you’d have nothing to hold over my head.”

“Are you giving me license to reform your stubborn ways?”

“Only a priest can give permission for that. But I warn you, before I call one, ‘twill not happen overnight.”

The scuffle of footsteps drew them apart.

William appeared in the doorway, looking from one of them to the other, guarding the beginnings of a smile, though he was clearly out of breath. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but you have a visitor.”

“Make him welcome then.” Alec didn’t bother to disguise his impatience. “I’ll join them anon.”

“Tis not a he, my lord, but a she.”

“I’ve come for my sister.” Nicola Dawney stood in the courtyard with her back to the sun, her silver blonde hair alight like a halo above a cherub.

Alec remembered her face all too well—had contemplated it, relishing the thought of slapping it many times. But, somehow the sight of her standing in the courtyard before him, didn’t inspire the same wrath—disgust mayhap, but not the violent urge to throttle her at first sight, as it would have in the past.

Mayhap, ‘twas her swelling middle that squashed it.

She looked the same, other than the imminent signs of motherhood beneath her red woolen mantle—sky blue eyes, delicate features, the same shimmering blonde hair. She was a beauty, but her winsome face paled compared to Isabeau’s. Her lips were not as lush, her eyes, though bright and clear, lacked that mysterious sparkle, nor did her hair shine with the same rich streaks of gold.

“Barak stoops low to send you in his stead.”

“He didn’t send me.” She spoke with quiet assurance, blue eyes narrowed, observing him closely. “I came of my own accord, as soon as word reached me. I would have come sooner, but the babe prevents me from traveling with haste.” She opened one hand to reveal the ruby pendent. “I believe this is yours.”

 
So that was how she knew. Obviously Isabeau had enlisted one of the servants’ help to smuggle it out and send word to her sister, which meant he’d been harboring a traitor in his hall.
“Twas a gift.”

“Well, now you may have it back.” She dropped it into his hand,
then
retreated a step away as though his proximity revolted her. “Where is she?”

Alec stiffened.

Her boldness chafed.

After the lies she’d told—the humiliation she’d put him through, how dare she demand anything. He didn’t know what he expected—an apology mayhap, an inkling of remorse—something! Yet here she stood, stiff with outrage, as though she’d been the one wronged. “Your sister is safe.”

“I wish to see her.
Now.”