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  With renewed intent, she followed Carrie through the bushes to the curve in the river assigned for the women’s use. Answering a small mystery would be a boost to her flagging confidence. As much as she would appreciate a familiar and friendly face when she arrived at Bennington, she didn’t want one who would be sobbing in her pillow every night.

  She waited until they had both attended to their needs and were kneeling at the bank to rinse their hands and face before she broached the subject.

  “Do you wish to return to Olivet?”

  Isabeau was completely unprepared for the violent reaction of her simple question. Carrie twisted around so fast she lost her footing. She flailed her arms to regain her balance. Isabeau reached out to grab Carrie’s shoulder to assist. Carrie screamed, and pulled away so hard they both ended in the water.

  Before Isabeau could gain the bank, hands were pulling both of them to dry ground.

  “Are you hurt, milady?”

  Her mouth open to answer the two helpful guards, she snapped it shut as Donovan, followed by Carstairs and a dozen other men thundered through the trees and filled the small clearing. The sun glinted from Donovan’s drawn blade and Isabeau noticed all of the men were similarly prepared for battle.

  “ ’Tis nothing, my lord.” Isabeau studied the damage to their dresses and would have laughed if not for the tears trickling down Carrie’s white cheeks. “I lost my balance and pulled Carrie into the river with me. Our two protectors here, yanked us out before we could swallow more than a couple of gallons. I would consider it a great boon if someone could retrieve my two gray gowns from my trunk. We both need something dry to wear.”

  Carstairs was the one who signaled Donovan’s squire to do Isabeau’s bidding. Donovan completed his own inspection of the damage.

  “You weren’t injured?” he asked in his gravelly voice.

  “Nay,” she denied as she shook her head. “Only my dignity is bruised.”

  Donovan shook his head and waved his men back. “Join us when you have repaired the ravages of your latest adventure.”

  “I apologize for the delay my clumsiness has caused.”

  He only shook his head again before disappearing through the thicket.

  Isabeau turned to Carrie when they were alone again. “Come further away from the bank. Now, as to my question, do you wish to return to Olivet?”

  “No, milady.” Carrie answered in a tear roughened whisper.

  “Lady Isabeau,” hailed the squire before he breached the clearing. “I have your dresses and a drying cloth as well. Holler, should you need anything else.” He practically threw the clothes at Isabeau before disappearing back the way he came.

  Isabeau sighed as she stared at the mound of clothing. She would have been better off sending Carrie to get the needed garments or retrieving them herself but she remembered Carrie’s cry as she had grabbed the girl’s shoulder. The sound had not been one of surprise—but one of pain.

  C hapter 12

  “Hurry,” Isabeau urged as she began to peal away her wet clothes. “If we rinse out the mud now, we can spread our dresses atop the wagons. They will be dry by the time we stop for the mid-day meal.”

  Isabeau pulled her outer dress over her head and slowly dropped it to the grass. From the corner of her eye, she watched Carrie’s progress. The girl quickly shed her apron and even her outer dress but she had more difficulty with her second dress. When Isabeau moved to help her, Carrie stepped away keeping her back from Isabeau. Isabeau relented, finished changing her own shift and pulled her under-dress over her head.

  She pretended to ignore Carrie’s trouble in removing her shift until the girl gave up and began to pull Isabeau’s extra dress over the damp article.

  “You are defeating the purpose of changing into fresh clothes if you do that,” Isabeau commented wryly. “Let me help.”

  This time Isabeau did not retreat when Carrie yelped in protest. She grabbed the girl’s hand and held Carrie in place while she circled her. Carrie hunched her shoulders as if to hide evidence of a guilty secret. She whimpered at the pain caused by her movement.

  “Oh, Carrie.” Isabeau wanted to weep for the pain the girl must be enduring. Even through the shift, the evidence of a recent brutal beating was obvious. The rusty stains of dried blood crisscrossed the narrow back. “We have to get that shift off you. It is sticking to the wounds. Sit down.”

  “But milady…” Carrie tried to protest but Isabeau merely tugged her hand down towards the ground. “Now!” Even Isabeau was surprised at her emphatic order.

  Carrie had no alternative but to capitulate. She settled on the mossy grass, her legs bent tailor fashion. Isabeau raised Carrie’s skirt above her waist until is stuck against the girl’s wounds.

  Would it be better to pull it off quickly or slowly?

  She began to peel the cloth away carefully but the scabs were obviously recent and began to bleed. Carrie sucked in her breath.

  “Carrie, you are beginning to bleed again. I am going to take your dress quickly over your head.” Isabeau gave the girl no chance to protest but tore the fabric from her back as she spoke, gritting her teeth as she did so.

  It was horrible. Isabeau grabbed her own discarded shift and dipped it into the babbling river. She twisted out some of the excess water before draping the wet cloth over Carrie’s back. Carrie shivered—against the cold or pain, Isabeau couldn’t take time to decipher.

  “Who did this to you?” she demanded without ceremony.

  Carrie dropped her chin against her chest and shook her head.

  “Was it your father or mother?”

  “No!” Carrie snapped her head back to stare at Isabeau with surprise bringing at least some color to her face that was white beneath her tears.

  “No,” Isabeau agreed. “Your mama and papa would not beat an animal, let alone one of their children.” She reached out and pushed a lock of blonde hair away from Carrie’s comely young face. She remembered the spilt wine. “Lord Simon did this to you, did he not?”

  Carrie dropped her chin down and stubbornly remained silent, but Isabeau noticed she did not deny the deductions. Then she remembered the oath Carrie had given Donovan only the day before.

  Carrie was never to speak of those at Olivet.

  “Wait here.” Isabeau instructed softly.

  “Milady, I mustn’t delay the earl.” Protest sounded in Carrie’s voice as she tried to stand.

  Isabeau waved her back down. “Stay here. I am only going to see if anyone has some healing salve. We want you on the mend when we arrive at Bennington. I don’t think you would enjoy having to peal off your shift a second time.”

  Thankfully, the girl obeyed as Isabeau slipped through the trees in search of Donovan. He would know who to ask about the salve. She couldn’t imagine his troop not being prepared for all contingencies.

  She found her betrothed, his back to her, as he and Carstairs received a report from Malak.

  “My lord?” she interrupted firmly, even as she smiled her welcome to the engaging young courier.

  “Isabeau,” Donovan swiveled in her direction. “As soon as you eat, we can be on our way.”

  “I have come to ask if you have a healer amongst your men who could lend me some salve.”

  Donovan’s face turned cold and fierce in the same instant. “You told me you were unhurt,” he demanded between his teeth.

  In spite of wanting desperately to turn tail and run away from this stranger, she stood her ground. She put a gentle hand on his sword arm to prevent him from needlessly drawing his blade.

  She shook her head. “’Tis not for me, Donovan.”

  “Then…” He was quick to comprehend. “The maid? How bad?”

  “Bad enough to make her shift stick to her wounds. She would rather ignore the pain than cause you delay. I do not want to take the risk of fever or blood sickness. I will tend to her. It is my duty—my fault.”

  Donovan stared at her for a moment before asking, “Why do
you take the blame?”

  Isabeau sighed before confessing. “She refuses to break the oath she gave you, but I am not stupid. Simon hit her once because I spilled his wine. I have been the source of much of his unhappiness and he has taken it out on others.”

  Donovan seemed about to say something before he swallowed his words and turned to Carstairs. An unusually somber Carstairs straightened to his full height. “I will bring you Hemrick’s pouch.”

  Before Isabeau could thank him, Carstairs had threaded his way between the men readying their horses and packs. She felt another stab of guilt. Once again she was the cause of so much trouble.

  “Again, I apologize for—for…”

  “For what, Isabeau?”

  She wasn’t sure if a smile or a grimace curved the corner of Donovan’s mouth. She shrugged helplessly.

  “For everything. I have been nothing but a hindrance to you since we met.”

  “A distracting hindrance -- if a bit of a braggart.”

  “A braggart?” She glanced up into his blue eyes.

  “You try to claim all credit when others should take their due.”

  “Carrie has…”

  “Has no blame to claim. I agree. I know the culprit,” Donovan interjected sternly.

  “Here you are, my lady.” Carstairs’ sudden reappearance stifled whatever reply Isabeau might have made. “If you need any assistance, Hemrick knows what he is about.”

  Isabeau took the pouch and glanced back at Donovan. “I was wondering, my lord, if I might ride in the wagon with Carrie today—at least part of the way. I know my place is at your side but the side saddle was not made for long distances.” A mischievous snipe got a hold of her tongue and she spoke before thinking. “Surprisingly, being the earl’s courier can be more comfortable than being his betrothed.”

  Peals of Carstairs’ laughter followed her back to the river.

  C hapter 13

  Donovan, leading the party to Bennington, found Carstairs at his side. They were probably making better time since Isabeau rode in one of the wagons.

  She claimed it was for comfort, but he thought he knew her. She wanted to watch over Carrie without his blaming the maid for the change. Even after such a short acquaintance he saw that Isabeau bore the weight of Olivet’s ills on her shoulders.

  Donovan was certainly not prepared to reveal Syllba’s insanity. He did not think the sick truth would ease her burden. He did not think he could stomach corrupting the bright innocence that miraculously still remained in Isabeau’s hazel eyes.

  Carstairs seemed content to ride silently, for which Donovan was grateful; not yet ready for his lieutenant’s skewed sense of humor. He groaned when Carstairs broke the peace. “My lady seems quite content back there.” Carstairs wagged his chin towards the rear of the procession.

  “Aye,” Donovan agreed noncommittally.

  “She’s clucking over the maid like a mother hen with a lone chick.”

  Donovan didn’t respond; answering Carstairs was to encourage conversation and Donovan needed to think, not talk.

  Why had he laid claim to Isabeau’s dowry? And to Isabeau?

  The last thing he wanted was another wife.

  His marriage had offered nothing but grief. No amount of land or gold was worth the misery one female could heap upon the head of a man. A woman might seem small and defenseless, but she could cut through a man’s heart and soul with one swipe of her dainty little tongue. The only peace a man could find was to discover a new war.

  “Quite a change, heh?” Carstairs tried again.

  Donovan continued to stare straight ahead. He searched the road intently. To avoid this conversation he would almost welcome bandits.

  “’Tis quite a change, to be traveling with a couple of ladies in tow.” Carstairs the long piece of straw he had been chewing from the corner of his mouth and waved it in the air. “Why, we even lit fires last night. ‘Tis a good thing we supped at Olivet or you would have the men hunting by moonlight instead of our usual fare.”

  Donovan could not keep from grunting, though he pretended not to listen. He inspected a fallow field on the left side of the road with great intent.

  “My lord’s station in life has taken another turn, now. Why, only a few days ago, we were hefting mighty fine ale with Sir William, and you made the bold statement that it would take more than a royal decree before you made another meeting at the altar.”

  Donovan narrowed his eyes and clenched his back teeth—hard.

  Carstairs grinned. “And look at you now. Donovan d’Allyonshire has whisked away Olivet’s prize and is rushing to sacrifice the lady on the altar at Bennington’s chapel. I have never known you to be so—what is the word? Impetuous. To swear your troth so quickly? You practically held your blade to Lord Simon’s throat. She’s a sweet bit, no doubt—with a bite of spice thrown in the mix—but marriage? ‘Tis ‘til death, remember.”

  “I remember,” Donovan growled. How many times had he faced death rather then his loving bride?

  “A betrothal is as legally binding as a marriage and as constricting to a man as a slave collar,” Carstairs continued as if he had not heard Donovan’s response.

  “I was careful.” Donovan said defensively.

  “Careful?” His lieutenant gave him an exaggerated astonished stare. “How were you careful? You are betrothed—as tethered as one of Felix’s hounds.”

  “I ensured the betrothal was one of Per Verba de Futuro not a Per Verba de Praesenti,” he hissed between his teeth.

  “Does the lady know the difference?”

  Donovan’s irritation was plain in the scowl he directed at his man—supposedly a friend.

  “ ’T was a promise to perhaps wed. We can mutually break such an agreement once she is out of that viper’s pit.”

  “Viper’s pit?” Carstairs questioned. “Ah.” Carstairs nodded once. “And as you did not kiss her at the ceremony, all gifts will have to be returned.”

  Donovan tightened his reins in surprise. His horse obediently stopped. The irritated earl clicked his tongue to resume the gait. “Why should it matter?”

  “I do not know.” Carstairs shrugged. “Not many women would relinquish the opportunity to become a countess. She could easily run to the church and cry “Cum Cupola” Only Scotland requires the prospective groom’s written acknowledgement of consummation. I wonder if it is already too late for you.”

  “Isabeau would not…”

  Carstairs laughed. “You are caught and bound for true, my friend—like a pig for the high table. How long will you be able to resist the tasty morsel before you share her bed and satisfy the terms of Cum Cupola?

  “Would you just keep your mouth busy chewing on your straw and be quiet?”

  C hapter 14

  The woman under Simon whimpered. He smiled as he grew hard. He loved the sounds women made when he took them. From the gasp when they realized they were subject to his ultimate power to the last cry as they crawled from his presence, the music stiffened his rod.

  Where another man might find enjoyment in a woman’s climax, he found his pleasure in the sound of a woman’s agony. Not just pain but agony. The sound that escaped a woman’s mouth when she was beyond crying—beyond begging for his mercy—would often make him climax another time.

  He pushed up on his elbows and looked down on the bare breasts beneath him. Four perfect ovals were already turning blue around the top of the white globe, a fifth one formed underneath the soft nipple. He lifted his hand and fitted his fingers to the fresh bruises and squeezed.

  The woman tried to twist away from the new pain, but Simon’s weight held her in place. She would not move until he was finished. He was far from finished. Far too much rage burned inside of him for his usual coupling to satisfy the fire.

  Bennington had yet again taken what should have been his. He pulled from the wriggling body and viciously thrust into the unwilling woman again. She cried and Simon began to pound into her in a flurry of motion. He
let out an exultant scream of triumph as he came, then plopped down, squeezing the breath from the weeping wretch.

  He was soft now—but he wanted more. Mayhap he would…

  “Simon.”

  Syllba’s silky voice interrupted his contemplation of what toy he would introduce into the woman.

  “Leave me be, woman.” Simon growled. “Can you not see? I am busy.”

  “I see very well, husband.” Syllba sighed. “My lord’s enthusiasm has pushed her beyond the point of your satisfaction.”

  He craned his neck back to look at Syllba and watched a moue curl her red lips. “You did not invite me,” she added with a pout. She knew him too well for his comfort.

  “Next time,” he promised, “we will pick a novice to our games. I adore watching the expressions of shock as you take them the first time. Their mothers may have told them to beware of men, but they are always unprepared to be savaged by a female.”

  He noted the dreamy anticipation in her drooping eyelids leak away.

  “Husband, we have much to discuss.” The cold focus in her blues eyes usually preceded their shared pleasure of dispensing pain upon an unsuspecting head. Perhaps, he would not be spending a monotonous night after all. She jerked her chin towards the prone woman. “Get rid of the flotsam.”

  Simon rolled over and dropped to his feet beside his counting table. He liked the unsteadiness of his knees. The spongy sensation gave evidence to the amount of seed he had expended inside the limp nag. Perhaps she would bear his bastard—though he would deny the brat. He stiffened his arms and pushed the wench across the hard boards and unceremoniously onto the floor.

  “Get out of here,” he ordered. “Remember, say a word and you will be taken to the outer bailey, stripped naked and every cock in Olivet will have at you, including the goats.”

  Still on her knees, the woman scooped up her clothes. Unable to stand, she crawled to the door and only then pulled herself up by holding onto the latch.