Betrothed Read online

  “Bennington was not supposed to arrive for another week.” Simon ignored the question. He would answer eventually. His wife often had functional suggestions—well, functional after he added his masculine intelligence to the mix. “I should have had plenty of time. Why did he change his plans? What happened after his arrival?”

  Syllba waved her hand with her lethally sharp nails. “Little Izzy rode out of Olivet and returned with Bennington in tow. ‘Tis obvious she wagged her tongue and no doubt rained her pitiful tears upon her hero’s head. No telling what tales she told.”

  “Did she?” Simon watched Carrie’s blonde hair disappear from sight as the wagon passed through the gate and the driver turned down the road. “He took everything that was mine.”

  “Where were you?” Syllba simpered.

  “Kirney’s.” Simon clipped out.

  “Oh. He’ll not be pleased to lose such delicacy. He was salivating on his last visit.”

  Simon hoped he hid the wince at the reminder. “He’ll not be pleased.”

  Syllba watched until she could no longer see the last of the procession. She said slowly, softly for his ears alone as she dug her claws into his forearm. “She will be of little use to you after the wedding night.”

  Simon jerked his head in her direction and watched her as she continued to stare at the empty gate.

  She continued with an almost melodious lilt. “Of course, Bennington still has to die.”

  C hapter 11

  Isabeau rode on for seemingly endless miles with only the rhythmic pounding of dozens of hooves against the hard packed road. She recalled the old adage: “Beware of your wishes, the capricious fates may grant them.”

  She had wished for time to think. She had plenty of that as she rode in silence beside her dour betrothed. Occasionally, she would glance over at his grim profile and any words she might have said died on the tip of her tongue. Donovan seemed to be deep in the mire of his own thoughts. Was he as leery of their union as she, or did he pine for his lost countess?

  She had wished to hide behind stone walls away from Simon’s cruelty. Well, she would have that wish, too, but her new home wouldn’t be the sanctuary of the convent. She wouldn’t have token guards at the gate but instead would have the protection of her very own fierce warrior and his army.

  He had promised Carrie protection and she was just a young girl. Isabeau was his betrothed. He had vowed more than just protection. She wondered what having the protection of her betrothed entailed. Protection had many meanings.

  An ugly thought clouded her vision. Was Carrie already the earl’s leman?

  She made a slight shake of her head. No! She rejected the notion in a heartbeat. Carrie was not yet fifteen. She was but a child.

  When he had accepted the girl into his household, passion had not rung in his deep voice.

  He had asked of her only one thing; not to speak of those in Olivet Manor. Why such an odd request? Isabel shook her head at the puzzle. Donovan d’Allyonshire had more honor than to seduce a child to his bed.

  How did she know? She had listened to his legend many times, but she had only met the man the day before. The tales she had been fed over the years could be just that; tales.

  What had happened within the manor that had changed him so much from the cheerful man of the morn to the fierce soldier at the evening meal? The darkness which had overtaken his soul frightened Isabeau in and of itself, but the swiftness of the metamorphous tightened a fist in her belly.

  As his future wife, would she to grow accustomed to such occurrences? Would these mercurial changes be a daily part of her married life?

  Would she be better off at Olivet?

  A lump formed in her throat as she remembered Simon’s plans for her future. She would do better with Donovan on the darkest day.

  Over their shared trencher, Isabeau had sensed the loss inside him, an emptiness which had not been there earlier. Had Simon been responsible? What had their liege found on his inspection of Olivet? His Lordship had shown Simon nothing but contempt throughout the evening meal.

  What had gone on before she had entered the Great Hall? Had the men’s paths crossed before sitting down to share the evening meal? What had Simon done?

  Why would the earl not simply challenge Simon to a duel of honor? Or judge him as was his right and place as liege?

  The more she gnawed on the problems, the more certain she became of Simon’s culpability in her unexpected change of fortune. Her dowry and the additional penalties extracted from Simon’s coffers had not been merely because Simon had contracted a marriage for her without consulting his liege. Donovan had meant for Simon to pay a high penalty.

  Would she, too, pay for her half-brother’s misdeeds?

  Isabeau looked over at the stony profile of her betrothed. He appeared unapproachable, but somewhere Carrie had found the courage to step before the great man. Isabeau could do no less.

  “My lord?”

  He slowly turned in her direction. A humorless smile gave his mouth a small curve. “We are now a betrothed couple. You have leave to use my name.”

  “Name?” She blinked.

  “My Christian name is Donovan.”

  She blinked again. “I know.”

  “Then use it. Now, what did you want to ask?”

  “Ask?”

  This time a touch of humor reached his eyes. “You were the one who started this bit of confusion,” he teased gently.

  Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. “I just wished to thank you for allowing me a few keepsakes.”

  His left eyebrow rose. “A few?”

  “My mother’s portrait? I know it should have remained in the gallery as a lady of Olivet but—Simon—would not appreciate the history.” She wanted to say more but still remained guarded about so much. “Thank you.”

  Donovan shrugged casually before changing the subject. “The day’s light lingers this time of year. We will be able to make a good distance before twilight forces us to make camp. Tomorrow night we will take shelter with Sir William. I am sure he will not begrudge me his hospitality again so soon.”

  Isabeau felt the urge to apologize. “I am sorry for being such a disruption. I would be agreeable if you wished to continue with your travels. I could accompany you or proceed on to Bennington. I could even visit the Sisters of Saint Ignatius while you attend to your duties.”

  “Anything but remain at Olivet?” he suggested quietly.

  She blushed. “I would hope I am not so obvious all of the time. I only proposed the possibilities so you could accomplish your business unencumbered.”

  “But I am encumbered.” He motioned to her and at the following entourage. “I am the Earl of Bennington, and as such, I find myself encumbered with all sorts of—privileges and—baggage.”

  Did she hear a note of bitterness in his sweeping statement? Her courage failed her before she could ask which their betrothal was; privilege or baggage?

  The ride was long and wearing, made more so, she thought, because of the side-saddle and the uncertainties weighing her heart. She was about to brave breaking the silence to suggest she join Carrie in the wagon when Donovan raised his hand in signal to halt the procession.

  He informed Carstairs, “I believe this would be a good place to rest for the night.” He turned to Isabeau and continued. “It is easily defendable and near a source of fresh water.”

  Carstairs held his reins firm as his horse pranced restlessly. “I hardly think anyone but the most foolhardy would think to attack your banner in your own province.” He winked at Isabeau before adding. “Just ask your lady. She was sure just your colors would shield her from harm.”

  Isabeau’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. She didn’t want Donovan reminded of her transgressions, not when she already walked an unsure path.

  “Choose the watch.” Donovan growled at his man. “Be careful I don’t put you on sentry throughout the night for that wise tongue.”

  Carstairs laughed. “ �
�Twouldn’t be the first time. Where do you want your tent set up?”

  Donovan shrugged. “’Tis mild enough. I haven’t used the tent since our return to our home shores.”

  “I was thinking more of your lady’s comfort.” Carstairs raised his eyebrows. “I know you are not accustomed to traveling with females, but we have recently acquired two of the softer persuasion.”

  “Oh.” Donovan’s cheeks darkened. Whether with impatience or embarrassment, Isabeau couldn’t determine. She wasn’t ready to deal with the consequences of either emotion.

  “I have no need for a tent, my lord,” she spoke up quickly. “There is no need for going to that trouble. We will be resuming our journey quite early in the morning, will we not?”

  Treating her to an all-encompassing glance, Donovan gave her a humorless smile. “Only yesterday, you were prepared to tempt the elements without a safeguard.”

  She tried the bravado of a smile but knew she failed dismally. “As Carstairs said, I utilized the safeguard of your livery and…”

  She broke off before she finished her confession. How would Donovan react if she told him about the set of throwing knives her father had given her?

  “And…” he prompted.

  “Nothing,” she shook her head.

  He sighed as he dismounted. “You might as well make a clean breast of things. ‘Twill be better in the long run.”

  She licked her dry lips as he crossed the short distance to Meadowlark. “I had my knives, as I do now.”

  Donovan stared up at her, surprise clear on his face. After a moment, a true smile curved his mouth. “You have served up surprise after surprise since our first meet, my lady. Did your father, perchance, give you any defensive training along with your throwing skills while your lady mother wasn’t looking?”

  “Nay,” she admitted regretfully.

  “Well,” he sighed. “At least, you would have had some defense if an assailant didn’t sneak up on you. Mayhap one day we will add to your repertoire.”

  Enthusiastically, she leaned forward in the saddle. “Oh, could we? Could you teach me archery as well? I would be a faithful pupil.”

  Donovan laughed as he reached up and lifted her from her perch. The sound held an unused quality but it was a genuine laugh. The accomplishment absurdly pleased her, even though his amusement was at her expense. “I would hope Bennington has enough defenders without the necessity of recruiting the countess.”

  “But…” her palms spread against his broad chest as she tried to find her balance.

  “Milady.” Carrie interrupted Isabeau’s entreaty.

  Donovan pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear with a gauntleted finger. “I think I have just been saved from a minor skirmish. I can decamp the field with my honor still intact.”

  He turned Isabeau towards the young maid. The absence of his warmth disconcerted her. How could she feel the loss?

  “I will have a couple men secure a glade for you ladies to refresh yourselves in private. I request, however, that for no reason should you venture from the safety of the area. You are to stay together as well.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Carrie nodded.

  Isabeau could feel Donovan’s gaze as a warm caress. “Do you comprehend, my lady?”

  She nodded distractedly.

  “Are you sure you do not wish for my tent to be raised?”

  “As you said,” Isabeau tipped her chin up proudly, “the weather is mild enough.”

  “So be it.” He took the reins of both Meadowlark and his own mount. He led them away to be tethered and tended with the other animals.

  Before Isabeau could pursue him, two young men stepped forward. Both of them sported freckles and wheat colored hair but it was the matching blues eyes which marked them as brothers.

  “Milady,” the taller man spoke, “Just beyond those trees is a secluded crook in the river. It should be sufficient for your needs. We will ensure your privacy. His lordship asked us to remind you to not venture from the area and to go nowhere without your lady’s maid.”

  Isabeau nodded before allowing her betrothed’s men to lead her to the small river. They disappeared through the bush after again assuring her of her safety and privacy. She attended to her needs in silence, broken only when she asked Carrie if she was ready to return to the camp. “We should make ourselves useful. I am sure there is something we can do.”

  But when the girls returned to the camp site, they found fires lit and several pallets already spread out on the ground. A few of the men were already sprawled upon their bedrolls, their conversations a low murmur floating over the air.

  She strolled over to Donovan where he sat on a small stool next to one of the fires. He poked at the flames with a stick.

  “Is there anything left for us to do?” When she heard the petulant tone of her voice embarrassment warmed her cheeks more than the fire.

  “Sleep.” Donovan didn’t bother to look up from the flame now eating at his stick. “We will resume our travel with morning light.”

  Isabeau glanced around the encampment and asked with more humility. “Where do you wish us to bed down?”

  “What did you say?” Donovan whipped his head around, his voice gruff.

  Startled at his abrupt question, Isabeau involuntarily stepped back. “I simply asked where you wish Carrie and me to sleep.”

  “Oh,” he shook his head. He waved his left hand. “There.”

  Isabeau turned, and for the first time saw three bed rolls spread out not far from the fire. She assumed the third pallet was for Donovan. Somehow, she had not expected to be sleeping so close to him. With such a large traveling party, and Carrie to sleep on her other side they would be far from alone, but the darkness would hold an intimacy she had not contemplated until this moment.

  “Thank you, my lord. I appreciate your kindness and your protection.”

  Donovan shrugged his massive shoulders and expressionlessly explained. “I make it my practice to afford all of my people protection. You will not be accosted by man nor beast.” He turned back to the fire before he finished his assurances.

  Isabeau had no choice but to follow his instructions. She settled down on the middle pallet and whispered to Carrie to follow suit. She settled on her side and watched his profile through lowered lashes as the sky darkened. She had hoped to speak with him once they were away from Olivet about things more substantial than her muddled tongue had let loose earlier. Mayhap the opportunity would present itself on the morrow.

  She suppressed the shiver Donovan’s flat tone generated. She had thought their shared banter upon their arrival at the camp site had warmed his heart. Worry returned to keep her company.

  What had happened at Olivet to steal the warmth from his blue eyes? No emotion showed to color his demeanor. She was sure Simon had done something to displease her betrothed and yet Donovan did not vent his anger. He had not challenged Simon.

  The absolute control Donovan welded frightened Isabeau even more than if he had just thrashed Simon for his indiscretion—or even herself for running away.

  The restraint did not bode well, in Isabeau’s estimation, for a comfortable marriage. The practice of such control exhibited a need for chains. And chains, no matter the strength, could eventually be broken.

  What would it take to break Donovan’s self-discipline?

  What would happen when they did break?

  He already had a fierce reputation for dealing with the King’s enemies. How much more of his snarling inner beast would be unleashed against a personal enemy?

  What kind of chastisements and punishments would be reaped upon the head of a wife who stumbled in her duties?

  The question brought to mind Blanche’s lecture on marital duties. Duties of such an intimate nature, Isabeau couldn’t begin to imagine the—the consummation of them. Would Donovan really do all of those things—and more, Blanche had added—to her body? She was to let him? To encourage him? To ensure an heir, she was to…

 
She flipped over onto her other side—to face away from the fire—away from Donovan. Her heart thundered in her chest. She would never sleep now. The fire was too hot—the ground too hard.

  Perhaps the earl would be amenable to an extended betrothal? They could use the time to—to become acquainted before they—before they shared marital intimacies. She resisted the urge to sneak another peak at the large warrior who now had right to—to everything.

  She sucked in a gulp of air and slowly let it out between her teeth. The action did little to relax her but she did hear a strange sound between the thumping of her heart in her ears.

  Carrie seemed to be even more restless in her makeshift bed. The layers of the girl’s clothes caused a rustling which rivaled the breeze in the trees overhead. Isabeau thought she detected a couple of sniffles and a carefully muffled sob from the next bedroll.

  Was Carrie crying? Was she scared of a night in the wilderness? Was she missing home already? Had it finally dawned on her how great the distance she would be traveling from her mother?

  Isabeau reached out and put her hand on Carrie’s shoulder in silent comfort. The girl flinched and rolled out of reach facing the other direction. Isabeau withdrew her arm and curled into a tighter ball herself.

  What was she to do with Carrie?

  Worry about the younger girl succeeded in distracting Isabeau from dwelling on her own problems. She vowed to resolve Carrie’s dilemmas in the light of the morning. With the surety she could easily settle Carrie, Isabeau drifted off to sleep.

  She woke up to the clamminess of a blanket of dew. She had not realized even her hair would be kissed by Mother Nature. She sat up to survey the camp. The pink of the approaching sun ate away at the sky’s azure. A hushed quality hovered over the activity already stirring the earl’s men and while Carrie was beginning to wake, the pallet on Isabeau’s other side was not just empty—it was gone.

  She turned back to Carrie. “We have to hurry. I will see what preparations are needed for breaking our fast as soon as we return from the river.”

  In her haste to stand and begin to roll up her own bed, Isabeau nearly missed Carrie’s slow and stiff movements. One night on the ground shouldn’t cause such discomfort. Isabeau remembered the tears hidden in the night.