White Lion's Lady (15 page)

Like Isabel’s thoughts, the bard’s tune had taken a bitter turn. He sang on about the doomed pair, his crooning voice speaking for the poor maid, duty-bound to wed a stranger. A woman who, in one final act of devotion, gave herself to the knight she loved, vowing never to forget him, to hold him in her heart forever. Isabel could only listen in dread and sorrow as the terrible tale continued and the lovers were torn apart, the knight sent into service for his lord, the lady sent away to wed. True to her promise, the woman never forgot her love, and when she learned of his death some years later, she collapsed and perished on the spot, her heart simply ceasing to beat now that her beloved knight was gone.

“They both died?” one of the ladies seated at the table remarked. “Ugh, what an awful tale!”

“Nay, ’tis so romantic!” a younger woman declared. She sighed and propped her chin in her palm. “Oh, to know that sort of love. What is it like, I wonder?”

“Ask her,” replied a matron who gestured to Isabel. “ ’Tis hard to miss the way ye look upon yer man,” she continued knowingly. “The glow that comes over ye when ye gaze upon him tells the tale well enough. Consider yerself fortunate to have found a love so true.”

“Oh, I don’t—” Isabel began, startled by the observation and ready to deny that she loved Griffin.

But of course these women must assume she did, for they also assumed she was his wife and soon to be the mother of his child. She looked into the half dozen female
faces that now blinked at her in expectation, evidently waiting to hear her expound on the virtues of true love. She grasped about for something appropriate to say, but then remained mute for fear that she would only end up stammering.

“Have you and your husband been wed a long time?” the young woman who had so enjoyed the last ballad asked.

“No,” Isabel answered, unable to hold the woman’s inquisitive gaze. “No, not long at all.”

“Newly wed and by the looks of it, already six months bred,” another woman commented with a wink and a chuckle. “Beware of love, girl. ’Twill keep ye fat with child for the rest of yer days. I ought to know—bore twelve babes before I was thirty and would have surely had a dozen more if my dear Henry hadn’t gone and died, God rest his wicked soul.”

Someone else grinned at Isabel, and chimed in with, “Wed to a husband as handsome as yours, no woman with eyes in her head would ever turn him away!”

Assenting remarks and feminine laughter traveled around the table. The jocularity was stifling to Isabel, the weight of her falsehoods and the risk of getting tangled in them pressing in on her, making her anxious to escape the sudden attention. “Will you excuse me, please?” she asked, trying to act casual and failing, if the concerned looks she received were any indication.

“Oh, poor dear! Are ye ill?”

“She has grown rather piqued.”

“No, I’m all right,” Isabel replied as she rose from the table, cradling the bundle at her waist to keep it in place as she got to her feet.

“Are you going to be sick?” the young woman across from her asked. “Shall I show you to the garderobe?”

Isabel shook her head vehemently. “No. I’m fine, really. I-I think I just need a bit of air.”

Several of the ladies clucked their tongues in sympathy, then began sharing stories of their own pregnancies. Isabel left the chatter in her wake, hastening out of the great hall as if on winged feet. She did not stop walking until she was more than two-score paces down the corridor, ensconced in the dim solitude of the drafty hallway. Resting her back against the cool stone she willed her heart to slow, her gaze lighting on a beautiful tapestry that hung on the opposite wall.

It was a colorful rendering of a woodland scene, lush with dark green trees and variegated leaves. Red deer grazed in one section of the piece, while in another a clutch of winged fairies held hands and danced atop spotted mushrooms as a snow-white unicorn looked on. The picture had an instant, calming effect on Isabel, making her recall happier, less complicated times in her life. Times when she actually believed in wood nymphs and mythical beasts. And true love.

How long ago those days seemed to her now. How complicated things had become in the past few days. Not just her life, but her thoughts, her feelings. It was but a few days ago that she had been kidnapped from her caravan, a few days ago that she had found out her captor was Griffin. A few days ago she had despised him, wanted nothing more than to be delivered away from him as far and as fast as possible. And now …

Now, Isabel did not know how she felt. With each passing hour, with each step closer to Montborne, she found she was becoming more confused. Conflicted, no longer sure what she believed in. No longer sure what she wanted.

She sighed, thinking it probably wise to return to the hall, when she thought she saw the tapestry move slightly. Suspicious, she looked down and realized that the weaving had a rumple in it. It also had feet. Two small, pink silk slippers stuck out from below the tapestry’s fringed edging, betraying the hiding place of a sprite of decidedly mortal
stock. Isabel was about to call the imp out when approaching footsteps sounded in the corridor. A harried nursemaid trundled into view, dabbing at her brow and wearing a look of complete exasperation.

“Good morrow, goodwife. I don’t suppose you happened to see a rather willful young girl pass this way in the last few minutes?”

“No,” Isabel answered truthfully. “No one has passed me here at all.”

“Oh, confound it,” the maid grumbled. “I fear Father Aldon will not be happy about this one bit. ’Tis the third time this week little Marian has managed to escape her catechism. To think the child’s parents actually have a mind to wed her to the church one day!” she exclaimed, woefully shaking her head as she crossed herself.

Without waiting for any sort of reply from Isabel, the nurse stormed off once more on her fruitless chase, disappearing down the snaking corridor in a flourish of swishing skirts and unintelligible mutterings.

“ ’Tis all right,” Isabel said to the tapestry after she was gone. “You can come out now.”

From behind the thick weaving, the Hexfords’ daughter appeared. She glanced down the hallway, then turned a frown on Isabel. “How’d you know where I was?”

“Why, the fairies told me, of course,” she answered, gesturing to the circle of embroidered imps.

“Nuh-uh,” little Marian said, shaking her head even though her eyes sparkled with intrigue. “You’re jus’ teasing. Fairies don’t talk.”

Isabel raised her brows in mock surprise. “No? Well, they certainly did when I was your age. Mayhap if we are very quiet, and concentrate very hard, we’ll hear them.”

She pressed her ear against the tapestry and pretended to listen intently. It did not take long for Marian to do likewise, smiling up at Isabel as if the two of them shared a wonderful secret.

“Come here,” the little girl said, slipping her pudgy fingers into Isabel’s hand. “I’ll show you something.”

Isabel spared the noise of the hall but a moment’s pause before happily following Marian along the corridor and up the tower steps. There was a chamber at the top of the spiral staircase, a child’s playroom by the looks of it, with a rocking pony and a miniature table and chairs carved out of birch and peopled with a collection of stuffed cloth dolls, each one wearing a different colored gown, all of them equally elaborate.

But it was not until Isabel stood in the center of the room that she noticed the true wonder of the place. Painted on the whitewashed stone walls was a continuing panel of changing scenery, so incredibly lovely it fair stole her breath. On each of the four walls was a depiction of the seasons in turn: spring, with its new green leaves and blossoms, baby animals peering innocent and wide-eyed from behind tree trunks and lush ferns; summer, awash with flowers and sunny skies; autumn, resplendent with jewel-rich hues of warm gold, red, and orange; even winter was a sight to behold, with white frosted pine trees and snow-flakes falling from an indigo sky, the sliver of a pale blue moon illuminating a perfect rendition of Hexford Castle, spangled with garlands of holly and dripping icicles.

When Isabel could only stare in awe, little Marian pulled her toward the arrow-slit window where sat a chest of some sort. It was a cage, Isabel realized, hunkering down beside the girl to peer inside the woven wire walls. Fresh grass lined the bottom in a blanket of green, and atop it sat an assortment of small pots containing fragrant flowering plants of all varieties. Fluttering about this pleasant little prison were nearly a dozen butterflies, their happy colors and spritelike behavior wringing a giggle from both Isabel and her new friend.

“They’re beautiful,” Isabel said, smiling warmly, the very sight of these creatures gladdening her heart.

“My papa brings me one each time he goes away,” little Marian replied. “Want to hold one?”

She lifted the lid on the cage and instantly the butterflies took flight, pouring up into the chamber like leaves caught on the wind. Isabel gasped, horrified that all of Marian’s pets were escaping so easily. But the little girl did not seem worried in the least.

“Stand still,” she instructed Isabel. “Like this.”

Spreading her short arms wide and gazing up at the rainbow of color fluttering above her head, she waited quietly, moving not a muscle, a feat that seemed next to impossible in a person of such boundless energy. But her patience soon paid off. In moments, one of the butterflies alighted on her sleeve, then another followed, and another. Marian giggled and turned to Isabel, beaming.

“Now you try.”

Isabel mimicked the little girl’s stance, tipping her head up and delighting in the dizzying cloud of butterflies dancing in the rafters. She bit her lip, waiting breathlessly for the first to land. A set of orange-and-black wings spiraled down and perched on her upturned palm. Next, a pale butter-colored beauty floated haphazardly toward her, settling on her shoulder. To Isabel’s delight, several more landed in similar fashion, peppering both her and Marian in splotches of beating, living color.

Isabel could not stifle her joy. She laughed in wonderment, so caught up in the moment she scarcely heard the heavy footsteps ascending the tower stairs. Marian heard it well enough, her startled gaze snapping to Isabel.

“Oh, no! ’Tis my nurse!” she whispered in alarm. A quick shake of her arms sent her butterflies scattering, and, without another word, the child dashed out of the chamber.

“Wait!” Isabel took a hasty step forward, but it was too late. Marian was gone, little more than a rush of pattering feet retreating down the opposite wing of the hallway.

Left to her own defenses, Isabel tried to gather the
swarm of escaping insects, cursing herself for following this whim and not at all sure how she could explain herself to the child’s keeper. She attempted to shoo a couple of butterflies into their cage before the nurse reached the door, but it was no use. The stubborn creatures tumbled on the air, spinning away from her like mischievous pixies. Isabel heard the footsteps halt at the chamber’s threshold.

“I can explain this,” she offered hopelessly, and whirled around to face the nurse.

But little Marian’s maid was not the person standing there, glaring at her in thunderous silence.

It was Griffin.

His gaze slowly raking her from head to toe, he stepped inside and closed the door.

Griff had been more than a bit concerned when he found Isabel missing from the great hall a few moments before. A hasty search of the garderobe had met without success, as did his thorough patrol of the corridors. He had been scouring every corner for signs of her, growing angry with himself for not keeping a better watch, when suddenly, inexplicably, from down the high tower steps floated a butterfly. Then he heard it—the sweet sound of Isabel’s laughter coming from somewhere abovestairs.

Storming up the steps two at a time, he had been prepared to greet her with every ounce of his mounting fury. He crested the top of the stairwell and drew up short at the threshold to the chamber, fully intending to scold her for her recklessness. To demand an explanation for making him fret over her disappearance.

But Griffin could think of nothing to explain the vision he beheld in that moment.

Against a backdrop of painted daisies and wild summer orchids, surrounded by a dazzling cloud of butterflies, Isabel stood across the room from him like an enchantress stepped out of a dream—beautiful, bewitching, a fantasy of earth and air and sweet temptation. A provocative version of the waif he had first met in Droghallow’s woods a decade past.

“Griffin,” she said breathlessly, regarding him with a look of mingled repentance and surprise. “Thank heaven
’tis you! You must help me put these butterflies back in their cage before someone else finds us here.”

His gaze locked on her, Griff stepped farther into the room, not the least interested in retrieving the wayward insects. He watched her stretch, biting her lip and reaching up with her open palm as if to catch a raindrop. Two paces carried Griff directly behind her, close enough to touch her as she gently placed a butterfly atop a flower and closed the lid. She turned around and drew in her breath, clearly startled to find him crowding her so deliberately.

“Th-the Hexford child was playing a game—hiding from her nurse,” she stammered. “I did not see the harm …”

Her voice trailed off as Griff reached out and brushed the backs of his fingers down the silky waves of her hair, tracing the delicate outline of her face with the edge of his hand as he gently dislodged a topaz-colored butterfly that clung to her fiery auburn tresses.

“Oh,” Isabel gasped, giving a nervous-sounding laugh as he brought the jewel-toned insect away on his finger and presented it to her. She took it, then turned and set it in the cage with the other, replacing the lid without a sound.

When she did not face him again, when she stood there in tense silence, her back to him, her slender spine rigid, Griffin slowly, tenderly, placed his hands on her shoulders. He heard her soft intake of breath, felt her fine bones quiver as his palms settled lightly atop her arms. Her head tipped back as he caressed her, tentatively at first, scarcely touching her, almost afraid that if he moved too boldly, that if he clutched her too tightly, the sweet illusion would dissolve like mist burned away in the morning sunshine. He feared that if she knew how badly he wanted her, how tormented he was becoming by the very thought of her, she would pull away and run.