Love Never Lies (8 page)

The scowl on Fortin’s face as he strode toward her confirmed Beaufort’s words. “Come,” he said clasping her firmly by the arm.

Chapter Three

“Nay!”
She attempted to jerk from his grasp. “I’ll not go anywhere with you.”

He didn’t answer, but instead began towing her toward the stairs. She struggled and squirmed attempting to twist away, but this only caused him to tighten his grip. Not that there was anywhere to go if she did pry him loose. The hall was full to overflowing with his and Beaufort’s men.

Halfway up the stairs he stopped, pinning her shoulders against the cold, stone wall with
both hands
, his voice low and menacing. “Would you prefer I carried you up the stairs?”

Tears stung her eyes from bashing her shins on the flags, which could have been avoided had she gone meekly, but who could go anywhere meekly with a man who hated the very sight of you? Despite this, she managed to keep the quaver of fear from her voice.
“Nay!
I would prefer that I’d never met you—that you were never born. But never would I wish for you to touch me again!”

 
“You’ll have more to worry about than me touching you, if you don’t come with me right now.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“’Tis not I, but the army of men below in the hall you should fear. Now that they’ve seen what lies beneath that fine cloth, they’ll surely trample each other to get to you.”

Isabeau gazed down at the blue kirtle plastered to her like a wet rag, realizing why the hall had gone as quiet as a chapel when Beaufort drew her forth. Without her mantle every angle and curve of her body lay exposed to their greedy gaze.

“Come.” Fortin gave a tug to her arm, giving no time for her hot cheeks to cool. “The hour grows late, and in case it has escaped your notice, I’m not happy at being wrenched from my bed.”

The grim set of his mouth warned her against further defiance.

When he pulled her away from the wall, she allowed him to lead
her the
rest of the way up the stairs. He continued to haul her along the drafty, dim-lit corridor until they reached the third oak door.

Once inside, he released her.

She wasted no time whirling away from him to seek the warmth of the fire. But she was careful not to take her eyes off him. Her heart boomed in her ears like a blacksmith’s anvil. What would he do with her now—lock her in chains? She could not bear confinement. In fact, she feared it more than the dark shadows of the woods. She savored the company of others. Solitude, with too much time to think, had always been her enemy.

“You’ll sleep here tonight,” he said, striding to the end of the bed to retrieve his hauberk and sword. “Don’t look so hopeful.” His tone turned wry. “There’ll be a guard posted beyond the door.”

“Where would I go?” She bit out each word distinctly, wishing she had more than words to fling at him. “You’ve taken all of my clothes. I’m soaked to the skin.”

“If you had any sense, you wouldn’t have ventured forth in such a storm in the first place,” he said in a flat tone, lacking any shred of sympathy. “‘Tis likely you’ll catch your death of cold.”

Isabeau choked down a hysterical laugh, holding her shaking hands over the fire. “A little late to pretend concern for my welfare, don’t you think?”

“You’re nothing to me. ‘Tis the ransom I care about.”

The coldness in his voice, and her own disappointment at failing to escape, made her words bitter as she turned to level her gaze on him. “Would that I were nothing—‘twould be easier to disappear. But I am something to many people, just as the ones you love and hold tight to your heart. So if you wish to collect your ransom, ‘twould be wise if you did not manhandle me again.” She turned her back on him with a dismissive toss of her head, to continue rubbing warmth into her stiff hands.

He gave a short humorless laugh. “Your uncle doesn’t wield the same power as he did in the past. And as I understand it, your parents have no great wealth, only land. They have no means to come to your rescue.”

Isabeau’s chest tightened.
’Twas true.
She certainly didn’t need him to tell her that. Barak had rubbed her face in it for most of her life. But her family had love, and that was worth more than coffers of silver. “You forget my betrothed,” she said, turning to meet Fortin’s blue gaze. “You must admit, together he and my uncle make a formidable foe.”

A strange expression chased across his face. His tone softened. “Mayhap you should leave your betrothed to issue his own threats, my lady, as you are in no position to do so.”

His bold confidence chafed, adding greater injury to her already wounded pride. The words left her mouth before she could check them. “Yea, I’ll leave it to him to thrust his sword through your cold villainous heart!”

He lifted a brow, the hint of a smile curving his lips as he turned to go.

She watched him stride to the door, wishing she had a sword of her own right then.

But as the door closed behind him, she knew she would never use it.

Her weary shoulders eased of tension when he had gone. But his presence lingered well after his leave-taking—the jumble of pelts tossed haphazardly atop the bed, the scent of ale and leather, all spoke of him.

Isabeau rebelled at coming in close contact with anything he touched, lest his anger and hatred rub off, but she had little choice. She needed rest. She was so exhausted, she could not think.

After unbraiding her hair, she shed her wet clothes and laid them across the bench by the fire, then scrambled beneath the pelts and closed her eyes, one hand clasping the smooth cool surface of the ruby amulet.

 
But this night ‘twas not thoughts of her betrothed that flashed through her brain, keeping sleep at bay—‘twas the face of her captor, Fortin.

***

“William!” Isabeau pounded against the oak door of the bedchamber with her fists. “I want to see Fortin! Do you hear me? I wish to speak with him at once!” For three long days she had been shut up in this room, with naught to do but feed the fire and pace the flags. If she did not see daylight soon, she would go mad.

Each time William came to bring her food or more wood, she questioned him about her uncle. But he had no word of the ransom. His only answer was to shrug and say vaguely, that Fortin would tell her when he returned.

But the hall was not as quiet as it had been these past two nights. Many hours ago, the faint sound of laughter and merriment had begun to seep beneath her door.

Fortin must be down there.

He must have returned. Why else was William absent, if not to see to that wayward knight’s needs. Why else, when up until now William had been so vigilant regarding her care, sneaking delicacies, like dried apples and spiced walnuts onto her tray, under the rim of her plate.

Yet today, nothing.

She had not eaten since morn. The gnawing hunger in her belly added to her distress. Was she to forego her supper because that pampered knave needed his squire at his elbow to cut his meat and fill his every cup?

She raised her fist to pound again, but the sound of the key scraping in the iron lock stilled her hand.

So.

He had finally come.

Wait until she got her hands on him.

But when the door swung opened, ‘twas not William on the other side but Fortin.

Isabeau took at step back.

‘Twas not so much his great height or the wide span of his shoulders that made her heart leap, ‘twas the smile curling his lips, revealing his straight white teeth. If the sight of her made him happy, something was amiss.

He smelled of fresh air and sunshine—something she had craved for days. The blue of his eyes made her yearn for the sky and the wind, but more than that, the glitter in their depths made her want to know what he was up to.

She folded her arms under her bosom, wishing she had taken the time to braid her hair that morn. The way his eyes licked over her with insolent freedom, shredded her dignity to bits—making her go weak at the knees.

“Good eventide, my lady. I trust you’re enjoying your stay with us.”
‘Twas more of a taunt than a question.

She wrinkled her nose at the smell of ale on his breath. “I hope you’ve not left your celebration to ask me that, my lord, or I’m afraid you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

He arched one brow and grinned. “Ah, so you don’t like it here? Mayhap you should have stayed with the widow, where I left you, instead of attempting to escape.”

“’Tis true,” she conceded, ignoring his mocking tone. “I have no wish to debate the issue. But if you have word from my Uncle, I should like to hear it.”

He folded both arms across his broad chest. “What makes you think that?”

Isabeau’s heart sank. She had assumed his light-hearted mood was a result of her ransom—that he had come to tell her he would let her go. “Is that not why you’re celebrating?”

“I have no word of the ransom. But, the siege to return the lands King Stephen bestowed on me and your Uncle’s vassal failed to give up, is well underway.”

This didn’t shock her, as the barons squabbled over territory frequently. ‘Twas likely her Uncle’s vassal had good reason not to relinquish his claim. The King’s word would not change that, since his army was less powerful than many of the barons under him. “Why are you here then?” She failed to keep the bitterness from her voice, but from the lift of his brow, he didn’t fail to detect it. “Do your men not require your presence, if you’re waging a siege?”

A wolfish smile spread over his lips. “I feared you missed me. Beaufort agreed to take first watch.”

The predatory gleam in his eyes made her tremble, but Isabeau kept her tone calm, refusing to rise to his taunt. “Yea, I’ve missed you, but only in so much as to know the state of your suit for my ransom.”

“The exchange will be made in time,” he said with a shrug. “But until then, I’ve decided you should make yourself useful.”

Her heart gave a thud.

She didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Twas likely he thought to punish her for trying to escape. Her mind raced with the possibilities, but there was nothing she could do to prevent it; she was at his mercy. There was no one to come to her rescue should she decide to resist.

She stared back at him mutely, with what she hoped was a bland expression on her face.

What would it be—the kitchens, the bathhouse, or some other lowly fate. Nay, ‘twas not likely the bathhouse, for fear she might geld one of his men.

The Garderobe mayhap?

She cringed at the thought.

Whatever it was, the satisfied look on his face warned her ‘twould not prove pleasant.

“It seems we needed no distraction.” Beaufort crouched by the fire, swirling a chunk of bread around his wooden bowl to sop up the remains of his venison stew. “Agnew has been too busy defending his strongholds in the north to bother with Highburn. ‘Twill
be
yours in a fortnight. Forty days will have passed and the constable can surrender with honor—if the poor wretches don’t starve first.”

Alec leaned forward to toss a fresh log on the fire, then sat back to gaze through the red sparks at Highburn. Its two round towers rose in the distance. The low murmur of voices from his and Beaufort’s men drifted on the night air with the smell of roach and fresh venison. And there was much more where that came from. Highburn was rich with game. “Yea, ‘tis good we caught them before the harvest was in or they’d be pelting us with bread. This way, there’ll be no costly repairs when we’re through.”