Authors: Jennifer Horsman
*****
Chapter 5
Torches lit the darkened cellar beneath the great hall where Vincent and Wilhelm, his chef and his assistants, stood examining the bare shelves of foodstuffs. Two bags of grain, a half-empty barrel of lard and moldy cheese, that was all that was left. No sugar or spices. Despite a lifelong familiarity with his younger brother's weaknesses and flaws, the implication of the starkness of these shelves was obscene and unbelievable.
Little wonder the girl had murdered him.
"Merciful Madonna," Wilhelm said in a whisper, as if frightened or awed. "What the devil was Edward doing? What could he have done with all the monies and supplies? There's not enough for a night, let alone the summer long?"
Vincent's aging chef, Mason, leaned hard on his cane as his gaze continued to sweep in wide circles over the bare shelves, certain he missed something. "What we have might last a fortnight, no more." He approached the lard barrel and with glass to his eye, he peered inside, looking for signs of rot or mold. "I fear ye'll have to send for supplies at once, your Grace."
"Aye." Vincent nodded, and feeling his temper building, wanting his servants dispensed before he exploded, he rushed with the orders. "Make a list, old man. Have James check it and send it out today with, ah—"
"Send it with Coitine," Wilhelm supplied. "He's quick as a hare, and with his wife just coming into her time—"
"Aye, and send out four or five patrols to scout supplies in the area. Offer up more than a fair market price for any livestock save chickens, maybe ten percent more. Hunting can keep us fed if it comes to that, but later. And put all men on their off hours out at that river with fishing poles—we'll need all the help we can get."
"Fish, a poor man's diet—"
"At once, your Grace."
Amidst clucks and shakes of heads, the men left Wilhelm and Vincent standing in the cold, barren room. Wilhelm waited patiently as, with thoughts racing, Vincent continued to stare at the empty shelves of what should have been a full cellar. Add to it the hesitant tales of the people's hardships under Edward's reign here, and Edward's legacy grew darker and darker.
"I had always thought Edward only a small-minded cockscomb." Wilhelm broke the silence, using the word normally reserved for those with the red caps, the men who made their profession being a fool. "But this—" His hand swept the naked shelves before them and he asked the question. "Do ye think he had the grit necessary to murder good Saladyn?"
A damning thought and Vincent said as much. "No one seems to know what happened to any of the men we sent, but may he be forever damned if he did." He shook his head, clenching his fist as if to contain the pressure of his fury at the thought. "Curse him to hell! My brother got even in the end—look at this cesspool of morass and terror he left for me!"
"Aye, and Reales and the young countess be hardly the worst of it, too."
"Aye. The worst of it is cradled two hundred miles north, the whoreson whose mother is no doubt celebrating the sudden fortune of Edward's death. No doubt, it saved the harlot the trouble of murdering Edward herself. 'Twill take two years to clean up this mess."
Both men turned as footsteps approached from the hall.
An anxious-looking guard rushed toward the cellar doors. "Your Grace! The lady, the lady—"
With hands on hips, Vincent asked, "Now what has she done?"
Breathing heavy and obviously alarmed or angered, the young man stopped before the two men and, forgoing the formality of a bow, motioning wildly with his hands, he hurriedly explained, "The lady was missing from her chambers at supper. Of course, since I was on guard with Mickael, we knew she could only have tried to escape again down through the tunnels. I know not why, as it was made clear to the lady since yesterday that the tunnels have been filled with rocks and mortar. Yet she was gone and that is the only way out. Her women would say nothing, refusing to answer any questions put to them, so I called forth four men from the yard and sent two of them down there to fetch her—"
"Yes?"
"Then nothing. They do not answer my calls, and it has been over ten minutes down—''
Vicious curses sang loud in the still night air. He was already running.
No light lit the space and the air smelled dank and of rot. Donned in Joan's tattered black mourning gown, Roshelle hid her face behind a black mouchoir. Her auburn hair fell in loosened waves down her back. Only the trembling white of her small hands showed, but they, too, disappeared behind her as she pressed herself against the cold stone wall, her eyes wide and luminous, her breathing fast and furious.
Cisely, Cisely, Cisely!
Oh, God 'twas not working! Cisely was supposed to call down when the hall was clear, if it got clear. Just as they feared, more guards must have been summoned to her chambers before these two went down into these dark tunnels. Yet how many now stood on guard? If only two, and if those two decided to come after her in here, then maybe—
Please saints in heaven make it so!
'Twas the only escape offered her! She had to try. The duke meant to lay her head to the guillotine just as soon as he fabricated her trial for his brother's death and high treason. She had to escape! All of a sudden she could only too easily imagine her death—and as she had heard it reported four times now, the duke was oft heard saying, "If I do any one thing here, 'twill be to see that one hundred pounds of trouble hanging in the breeze."
Her hands went to her neck and she swallowed, closing her eyes as she imagined Charles receiving the news of her death. Aye, he would be weak with grief and mourn her death, but she had to face squarely the fact that he would not seek retribution against such a powerful adversary as the Duke of Suffolk. The duke not only could get away with hanging her but no doubt would—
What was that?
The hairs on the nape of her neck slowly lifted. She tensed, alerted. Slowly she knelt down and grabbed the iron tongs—he had removed all her other weapons from her chambers, of course, but no matter that. With all her strength, she'd used the tongs to drop the guards where they stood before they even had a chance to draw their swords. Straining to see through the darkness, she watched the tunnel. With a little more luck, this man would also drop as easily. Then she would race down the tunnel and through the door...
Gripping the tongs tightly in her hand, she raised it over her head, forcing her breaths through her nose and wishing she could silence the loud thud of her heart.
She needed only a one-second advantage.
A faint scraping sound came from ahead. Unseen rats scurried toward her, the tiny pitter-patter of their feet the only sign of their presence. Oh, mercy—
What was it?
Not rats. The sound drew closer and closer. The light of a torch stretched around the turn. Someone moved slowly toward her! Hidden in the darkness, her knuckles turned white on the tongs. She held her breath, her eyes wide with anticipation.
A torch flew through the air. A surprised scream sounded. Blue eyes flew to the ball of light rolling at her feet. He leaped before her. Twas him! She swung the tongs down with sudden energy. Too late. Vincent ducked his head just in time, taking the blow on his shoulder.
Roshelle wasted no time in marveling at the force expelled from his lungs. The tongs swung again. He caught it in his hand and, with a vicious curse, twisted it from her grasp while simultaneously pinning her to the wall with his bare hand at her neck.
The tongs dropped with a soft thud to the dirt floor. Small white hands flew to his to stop him from killing her. She understood the metaphor frozen with fear as she never had before and she closed her eyes, waiting for him to squeeze the life from her.
Vincent shouted back to the men, "I have caught the little vixen. Rest easy."
Her blue eyes flew open, her stomach turning somersaults, settling like the uncertain wings of a bird as it landed. Every sensation felt strong and stinging. He would be killing her now for sure-
Torchlight lit his face, highlighting the anger in colors of gold and orange as his dark gaze bore into her. His long hair was pulled sharply back, accenting harsh lines that changed his eyes and crossed his forehead, as if he were considering something unpleasant indeed. She hated his height, the way it made her have to look up to him and, taken with his unmatched strength, a strength she felt even in the fingers that held her neck, made her feel so curiously weak and utterly, fatefully helpless.
She hated that most of all and she spat, "If you mean to kill me, be done with it!"
"Kill you? Nothing half so pleasant. Yet." Vincent felt her pulse fluttering wildly beneath his hands; her fear was palatable. He made absolutely no move to lessen it. "An escape attempt, I suppose?"
She saw no reason to lie and every reason to confess. She barely managed a nod beneath his grasp at her neck. "The guards? Where are they?"
Roshelle cast her gaze hesitantly behind him to the place where the two men sat tied and bound, still unconscious. Without releasing his grip, Vincent looked behind him. He could barely make out the shapes of the two men bent into balls on the ground.
"Two men in need of help down here—at once!"
Her gaze flew wildly around the dark space. Hope left her with her next breath and she bit her lip with a pained expression. He could not blame her for trying! She had to try to escape!'Twas her very life!
There was only one chance left now. One chance that depended wholly on her circumstances changing after this feigned trial he insisted on—
Abruptly she saw how he stared at her.
A look magically connected to her still trembling stomach. She drew a sharp breath as his gaze brushed over her as if she stood naked before him, and it made her want to cover herself. Her heart hammered with warning when this was not necessary.
A strange light lit his eyes and why, yes—she could tell she amused him. "Milady," he asked with honeyed sarcasm. "Are you frightened by something?"
Heat rose on her cheeks. She tried to look away, to collect the tumble of her thoughts, but his gaze held hers. More men rushed to this place at the end of the tunnels, filling the small space with torchlight, heated explanations and "Oh, my Gods." His fingers on her neck became light as a breath, teasing almost. Conscious of every movement, she swallowed, still lost in the depth of his eyes.
How did he do this to her?
Vincent pressed his weight against her slender form to make room as his men cut the bindings and lifted the two men to carry them out. The movement put the deep warmth of his body on her. She inhaled the rich, clean scent of him and breathed quickly, deeply, suddenly unable to get enough air, impossible as the muscles of his thighs pressed against her hips over her loose and full skirts. A quivering sensitivity made her thighs tingle. Like two reeds in the wind, her knees went weak.
She swallowed once and closed her eyes. A mistake. Every sensation grew in force. Her heart beat fast, signaling an alert as the memory of the morning she had awakened him in bed darted quickly across her mind. She remembered how his weight had pinned her to the bed, keeping her still and trapped and frightened. What that had done to her! The touch of his lips to hers, the pinpricks of pleasure as his arm crossed her breasts. Like being sprinkled with fairy dust, it made a queer pulsating rhythm in her most secret part. The worst—all this appeared in embarrassingly immodest dreams over and over as if, as if—
He had placed her under a spell.
She opened her eyes to see his, their slight narrowing, the barest suggestion of amusement or mockery or both as he seemed to guess her predicament.
Mortification made her lashes lower.
Which he understood only too well. He stifled the urge to brush the stray wisps of hair from her face and to banish the small smudge across one cheek. He tried to banish all unwanted urges she inspired, of which there were many. Far too many.
Such as the urge to take her lips in his and drink from the sweetness of her mouth as he lifted her skirts and stroked her sex—
"Anything else, milord?"
Vincent shook his head. Roshelle's eyes flew open in alarm as she watched the last guard retreat. She found his eyes instantly. His disastrous intentions seemed plain. She started to shake her head. "Loose me—"
She pushed on his hands, still at her neck. Yet he made no move to release her. "Not since Cleopatra has a woman given the world more trouble. I'm tired of your shenanigans—"
"Shenanigans?" she heard herself repeat in a question, her voice sounding strangely distant and far away. No doubt it was an unpleasant English word.