The Deed (26 page)

You are naive, are you not? she had drawled, then stood and moved to another seat. Moments
later, loud laughter had drawn Emmas eyes along the table to find Magdalyn and the woman
next to her laughing openly as they eyed her.

The snapping of a twig brought Emmas eyes open with a start to stare at the man before
her. Bertrand. She eyed him warily, discomfort creeping up her back when he smiled at her.

Good morning, Lady Emmalene. I see you like gardens as well. We have something in common
then.

Shifting carefully to the side to move around him, she nodded stiltedly. I must return to
my husband. I have been remiss in neglecting him so. He will be fraught. More than
fraught, she thought grimly. Her husband would be livid should he learn that she had put
herself in a position to be caught alone and unawares by Bertrand. He had ordered her to
stay in the room where he could protect her at all but mealtimes. Then she was to travel
directly to the hall to dine, then return directly. In fact, he had taxed Blake with the
chore of seeing her back and forth. But on arriving at the table that morning. King
Richard had announced his wish to have a word with him.

When her husbands friend had hesitated, Emma had assured him that she would be fine and
would return directly to her husband once she had finished breaking fast. Only then had he
reluctantly stood to join his king. One did not refuse royalty.

Emma truly had meant her promise when she had made it, but after Magdalyn had left her
alone, a servant had placed some greasy cheese and a chunk of brown bread before her and
Emma had felt her stomach roll in protest. For a moment she had feared she might be ill,
then had managed to swallow the bile in her throat. She did not think she was coming down
with anything. In truth she blamed her jumpy stomach on the constant tension of anxiety
she had been suffering, not only this last day, but for weeks now. Her stomach had always
been the first to react to troubles. Her head was usually second, and she could already
feel the beginnings of the aching gathering in her head.

Is he often fraught? Bertrand asked, and was not surprised by the startled confusion on
her face. He knew her thoughts had been far away. He had watched the play of emotions
cross her face for the last several moments, his heart lifting with hope as he noted that
each expression seemed to be a negative one. A frown, a sigh, a grimace. Aye, Lady Emma
was not happy in her marriage. He had suspected such would be the case. De Aneford was a
great buffoon with beefy hands and little between the ears but wood. How could anyone
prefer a man like that over himself? Impossible. Bertrand was aware of his attractiveness
to women.

Nay. Lady Emmalene did not love her husband, Bertrand decided now. He had feared it might
be otherwise when Gytha had told him that she cried out at night with her passion, but now
he decided those cries had been pain-filled sobs. Nay, they had not been cries of pleasure
the wench had heard. Women did not do such things. It was only men who shouted their
victory as they succumbed to the pleasures of the flesh. He ought to know. Had he not
bedded a hundred women at least? And not one of them had cried out with pleasure.

Emma frowned over his question, and rubbed her forehead in a vain attempt to ease the
aching that was beginning there. I must return to my husband.

Wait! Catching her arm, he drew her back to his side. I heard of Lord Amaurys misfortune
and wished to express my sympathies.

Emmas mouth tightened at his words. It was more likely he wished to gloat than sympathize.

Noting her displeasure, Bertrand nearly clapped his hands with glee. To him it meant that
truly she was not happy in her marriage. It was impossible that she might see through his
words and be aware that it was he and his mother behind the many misfortunes her husband
had experienced of late. His mother was too clever.

Your husband is most fortunate to have you for a wife, he told her passionately now, with
the first iota of truth he had spared in this conversation. He did think Amaury lucky, and
it was a luck he hoped to have soon.

Emmas stomach rolled again at the covetous calculation in the face of the man before her.
She knew he was savoring the possibility of gaining all he wanted once her husband was
gone, was relishing the idea of possessing all he now held.

Aye, he is fortunate, Emma agreed impulsively. He is a grand duke now, with a large
estate, many retainers, and an heir on the way.

Emma would forever savor Bertrands reaction to that. He looked pole-axed. Taking advantage
of his stunned state, she turned abruptly and moved back through the garden. Her headache
was already easing, as was her anxiety. There would be no more attempts on her husband
now. Lady Ascot and Bertrand would believe it a waste of effort. They could not force a
marriage were there an heir. It was just a shame that it was not true, she thought with a
sigh.

She had nearly reached the doors leading back into the castle when Lady Ascot stepped
through them and started down the path toward her. Her steps faltering, Emma slowed as she
came abreast of the woman, but other than a cold nod, Lady Ascot did nothing.

Walking at a much slower pace Emma continued forward through the doors, then paused and
peered back. Bertrand still stood where she had left him. He stayed there until his mother
reached him. Lady Ascot paused, and they exchanged a few words, then glanced furtively
around before moving further along the garden path and disappearing from sight.

Biting her lip, Emma hesitated a moment, then cursed under her breath and moved back into
the garden. Pausing on the edge of the trees, she glanced nervously around, then stepped
cautiously into the trees, following the faint murmur of their voices.

What do you mean?

Pregnant, Mother. Surely you know what that means, Bertrand snapped.

Do not be smart with me, boy! The words were followed by a sharp crack. Pushing a branch
of leaves aside, Emma saw Bertrand holding one very red cheek. His mother was just setting
her cane back on the ground.

I am sorry. He peered at her woefully. Tis just that I am distraught. All our work and
planning has been for naught.

Nonsense. We shall continue as planned. But she is with child. She cannot be forced to wed
if there is an heir. She can if she miscarries, Lady Ascot said coldly. And that should
not be too difficult to arrange. Emmas eyes widened in horror at that. Would they stop at
nothing? Oh Mother, you are clever. And do not forget it.

Emma grimaced at that, but it was only a halfhearted effort. She was distracted by the
thought that it was already the end of June. She had had her last womans time directly
after the wedding, over a month ago. It was late, was all, she assured herself, but with
little belief. She was usually as regular as the suns rising and falling. But then she had
been under a great deal of stress of late and had heard that could affect such things.

You were nauseous this morning when you sat down to break fast, some nasty part of her
mind reminded her, and Emmas hand clenched over her stomach. It was stress, she tried to
reassure herself. Stress always affected her stomach.

What about the constant need to relieve yourself? Was that not a symptom? Emma winced. She
knew the symptoms of pregnancy backward and forward. She had memorized them in the first
month of her marriage to Fulk. A weak bladder was often a symptom and it was true that she
had had to make water more often than usual lately. She had not noticed until they had
headed for court, for it was when it was most inconvenient to stop and find a spot to take
care of such matters that they had become most noticeable.

Good God! She could not be with child! It was ironic that the one thing she had yearned
for for so long suddenly terrified the breath out of her. But if her foolish impulsiveness
in claiming a pregnancy she had not thought to be real put the longed-for child in
danger...

How shall we do it? Twill not put her life in danger, will it?

Nay. Gytha will know a way. Where the devil is that woman anyway? You did tell her to meet
us here, did you not?

Aye, of course. She is probably late a purpose. She is an arrogant bitch. I do not know
why you put up with her as ladys maid.

Emma stiffened at that. Gytha was Lady Ascots maid? The one said to be her lover? It was
the proof they had been looking for. She must tell Amaury. The king would have Bertrand
and his mother in the tower before the nooning meal. Emma had straightened to hurry away
with this news when pain exploded inside her head. Stumbling under the blow, she turned
shakily, and just managed to make out Gythas coldly smiling face before darkness rushed in
on a roar to overtake her.

Where the devil did my wife get to? Tossing the bed linens aside, Amaury stood and began
to pace the floor.

Little George raised an eyebrow at his lords impatience, but had no answer.

Scowling at him for his silence, Amaury moved to the window and stared blindly out. He
detested this inactivity, and he detested the fact that his wife had to leave for meals.
In his mind it put her in danger and he did not like it, but Blake and King Richard had
agreed that she must leave. It was to give the assassin a chance to strike. Besides, they
had assured him, Bertrand and his mother could hardly harm his wife in public. While he
had agreed with that at the time, the fact that she was late now was gnawing at his
innards like a pack of hungry rats.

He was about to send his first to search for her when a trio of riders leaving the bailey
caught his attention. Distracted briefly, he narrowed his eyes on the man traveling with
two women, suddenly sure it was Bertrand. The rider had the same carriage and diminutive
shape. Added to that, one of the females with him bore a striking resemblance to Lady
Ascot. Amaurys gaze slid to the last rider and he frowned. She looked familiar, but from
this distance he could not see her face, all he knew was she was too big to be his wee
wife.

His gaze slid back to the man, narrowing as he noted the tapestry across his lap. It was a
damned strange thing to be riding about with. It was big too, overflowing his lap and
hanging down both sides of the horse, Amaury noted. Then he stiffened, his blood running
cold as he glimpsed a small gold item slip from the folds of the rolled material and drop
to the ground.

Whirling away from the window, he grabbed his sword from beneath the bed linens and rushed
to the door.

My lord! Little George cried, leaping from his seat to follow.

What the devil?!

Amaury heard that exclamation seconds before the man coming down the hall suddenly stepped
into his path and caught his arms to stop him. What are you doing? You risk everything!

It took a moment for those hissed words to sink in enough to make Amaury peer at the face
of his obstacle.

Recognizing Blake, he grabbed the front of his doublet urgently. Where is she?

Who?

Emma. Where is she? You were to return her to the room.

The king wished me to... He paused. She should have finished breaking her fast at least
half an hour ago, he admitted grimly.

Cursing, Amaury pushed past him and continued down the hall.

Muttering some unpleasant descriptive words himself, Blake hurried after him, whipping off
his cloak as he did.

At least put this on, Blake hissed, draping it over him and tugging the hood up to cover
his face. Glancing back at Little George, he snapped, Go back and close the chamber door,
man! Would you let all and sundry know he is up?

Skidding to a halt, the first retraced his steps to fulfill that order, then caught up to
the two men again as Blake said, You must not rush about like this, Amaury. You will draw
attention to yourself. Where the devil are you going?! he added when they reached the
bottom of the stairs and Amaury suddenly turned toward the outer doors.

Lord Blake?!

Sliding to a halt, Blake whirled quickly and made a bow as the king approached from a side
door of the hall. A glance over his shoulder showed Amaury escaping out the door.

Rise. What is happening?

Straightening from his bent position, Blake glanced briefly around the empty hall, then
murmured, Lady Emma is missing.

What? King Richard stared at him in stunned horror for a moment. Then his gaze slid to the
open door and the cloaked figure crossing the bailey toward the stables. Is that?

Aye.

Good God! Richard started after him at once, Blake, Little George and the kings liveried
men-at-arms now following.

They had just reached the stables when Amaury came riding out.

The king raised a hand and opened his mouth to call him to a halt, but it was too late.
Amaury rode out like the Devil was on his tail.

Damn! He must be on to something. Where is the stable master?! I need horses, man! Bring
me horses!

It took only a few short moments for Amaury to reach the spot where he had seen the small
golden item slip from beneath the tapestry, but to him it seemed to take forever. He
recognized it as a tiny single slipper before he had even dismounted to pick it up, but
once he held it in his hand, his fear became a reality and he was lost for a moment in
grief.

What is it, de Aneford? What have you there?

Amaury gazed up at King Richard as he and the others reined in beside him. He was silent
as he held the slipper up for them to see.

Blake immediately blanched. Emma wore gold this morning.

Aye. Hand closing on the slipper, Amaury quickly remounted. Bertrand has her. I saw him
ride away with his mother and another woman from my chamber window.

And she left a slipper behind to let you know twas her! the king guessed excitedly.

Nay. Bertrand had a tapestry rolled up and strapped over the horse before him. This fell
out of one end.

King Richard grimaced at that. Being carted off in a rolled-up old carpet was not nearly
as romantic as riding away under force and dropping bits of clothing as a trail to a
lover. Richard liked romances.