Authors: Lori Snow
Simon
was still breathing hard. It had been a near thing in the woods. He could not
believe his damned luck. To have Donovan close to stumbling over him was bad
enough but then to fail to hit the earl’s heart? Simon knew he had hit
the earl, but it was not a mortal blow. The wound barely slowed the bastard
down before he turned the hunter.
Two
factors had played to Simon’s favor—the baying of the hounds and the close
proximity of Simon’s hidden tunnel entrance. He’d been headed there when he
discovered the earl in the woods. Too great an opportunity to miss. But he
had
missed. Safe now in the dark tunnel, he lit a taper and began his ascent.
He
stealthily opened the panel into the earl’s bed chamber. His eyes took a moment
to adjust to the brighter light. As much as he disliked the dark, he had blown
out his taper as soon as he reached the top of the passage stairs. The last
thing he intended to do was giveaway his advantage by shining a light through a
crack.
Once
he could see clearly, he took in the details of his surroundings. The large
chamber would suit well when he moved into Bennington. He liked the idea of
luxuriating in the giant four-posted bed perched on the dais. The bed offered
plenty of room for debauchery and posts strong enough to anchor the most
rebellious of wenches. He easily pictured them sprawled and weeping. He did
like to hear them scream…
Shaking
the pleasant images from his mind, he fingered the velvet bed-curtains on his
way to the corridor. The smooth texture brought a heartbeat’s sensual pleasure
to Simon. He prided himself on being a very tactile man. He would have plenty
of time to indulge his appetites on the morrow. Patting the pouch hanging from
his belt, he forcibly reminded himself there was a job needed doing before he
could claim what was his.
One
more night in the damned cave and he would ride through the front gates of
Bennington. All would be in chaos. The people would need a ready leader.
Isabeau would need a strong hand… Right across her impudent mouth, no doubt.
Granya
had already told him his half-sister had made few friends in the castle. The
servants grumbled when she dared give orders. Some had whispered concerns about
Donovan’s inappropriate intention to wed without mourning countess Marta. Isabeau
should be more than ready to leave Bennington’s walls. Kirney would have
already planned a welcome for his virgin bride that Isabeau would not soon
forget.
A
smile, laced with cruelty, curled Simon’s mouth. He was tempted to offer the
return of a portion of the bride-price for the opportunity of witnessing Herzog
Kirney breaking in his lady. Izzy and her bitch of a mother had cost Simon
much.
His
smile only faded when a thought flittered through his mind. What if he failed
to produce Izzy for Kirney’s pleasure? Not much had been left of the last
poor soul to fail Kirney— or of his get.
Simon
shrugged off his fears. He would not fail; could not fail. Not this time. Aye,
he had been close to success before. A few more months and Marta would have
produced the next heir to Bennington. All would have been well had she not
tried his temper. Getting rid of d’Allyonshire’s brat had been simple enough.
Life was often hard on the young and the weak. But the babe quickening in
Marta’s belly—well, he would have been a sturdy fellow—had his mother lived to
birth him.
Simon
made the corridor before Granya came upon him. He knew she hoped to catch out
his secret egress but the bitch could not be trusted. ‘Twas why he traveled the
passage well before the ringing of the sext bells. Even now, her bitter braying
could expose his stratagems.
“My
Lord Simon.” The wrinkled hag almost curtsied in her satisfaction at their
meeting, though Simon noticed her eyes kept darting over his shoulder as if to discover
his secrets. “You are early.”
“Nay,
I am months too late in securing justice for the wrongs done to our countess. I
believe the day has come to bring recompense for Marta and those who remained
faithful beyond her death.”
The
old woman preened under Simon’s false promise of reward. But, so she would not
recognize the pretense in his words, he would distract the woman.
“You
promised to guide me through the castle and inner bailey this day.”
“Aye,
Milord.” Her capped head bobbed up and down like a boat on rough tides. “Where
do you wish to start?”
“Where
is Isabeau’s chamber?”
The
old woman’s tiny eyes glittered with malice. “This way.” She turned on her heel
so fast she almost cracked Simon’s man-parts with her cane. “She and that chit
she claims as lady’s companion use Marta’s rooms just down this corridor.”
“And
she has had no visitors?”
“Visitors?”
She craned her neck to look over her shoulder at Simon. For an old woman, she
certainly seemed spry.
“The
earl has still not climbed into her bed?”
The
witch cackled.
“ ’Tis
a certain. There be some
reluctance on that score, if I don’t miss my guess. Why only yesterday, the
earl turned his back on her during the mid-day meal.”
Granya
tapped on the nearest door. When no voice answered, she pushed into the
chamber. “Lady Isabeau brought a large dowry. Did she perchance take what
wasn’t hers?”
Simon
turned a narrow eyed look on the old besom. “Most certainly.”
Glee
brightened the wrinkled face. “What did she take? I’d be glad to help
search.”
He
suppressed his grin. Isabeau had certainly made an enemy in this bitch. “It can
wait. Now, why not suggest some convenient hiding places large enough for a man
or two.”
Feigning
interest in her list, Simon waited until she mentioned the wine and ale stores.
“What is that? The ale stores? Sounds promising. ”
“Just
come this way, your lordship.”
The
woman moved fast, but then she only tapped the floor with her cane every third
or fourth step. As they descended a back stair to the ground floor, she didn’t
use the stick at all. Simon realized she was accustomed to sneaking about the
place. He wondered if she was a practiced thief or just practiced at escaping
work.
She
led him down another set of rough cut stairs and then another almost
tunnel-like corridor. His eyes quickly adjusted to the sporadic sconces marking
the way. He thought the lit wicks a waste of oil but that they were burning
indicated daily use of the corridors. He wondered briefly how close they were
to the secret passageway. Did other tunnels warren beneath the keep?
‘Twould be one of his first discoveries when he took possession. Secret escape
avenues and hidden caches of reserves would be great assets to Bennington’s new
lord.
“This
is where all of the ale and wine are stored?” he asked craftily. No need to
reveal he’d been here before. Now he knew how to reach this escape from inside
the castle.
“Aye.”
The dingy lace-trimmed cap slid a bit to the side at her emphatic answer.
“Even
that which is for d’Allyonshire’s private consumption?
More
wrinkles formed on the cragged forehead. She was thinking—perhaps too hard for
Simon’s liking.
“Several
casks of Norman wine are in that corner.” Granya pointed a gnarled finger to at
neat pyramid of oak barrels. “He brought those upon his last return from across
the water. ‘Tis served only to the earl and special guests.”
“Just
so,” Simon said with immense satisfaction. Anxious to get the business over—the
sooner done, the sooner he could ride in the front gate—he pulled down the
tapped keg. It took some doing as he wasn’t accustomed to heavy work but he got
the barrel down to the dirt floor. Adding the powder from his pouch took but a
moment and after resealing the vent, he rolled the barrel back and forth to mix
in the toxin. After all his trouble, he didn’t want the stuff merely to settle
on the bottom.
Sweat
trickled down his temples as he rolled the barrel back to the stack. His hands
on his back, he arched, stretching his ill-used muscles. That was when he
noticed the old lady creeping towards the doorway.
“Where
are you going?” he asked with suspicion.
“I
thought you only wanted hiding places for you and a couple of men.” Her voice
crackled with fear now instead of her usual malice. “You don’t be planning a
warrior’s combat.”
“D’Allyonshire
will be dead, what matter the method?”
“I’ll
not be part of murder,” Granya denied as she reached the threshold.
Simon
moved, closing the distance between them easily. He was younger, faster and
more determined. No nosey bitch was going to get in his way again.
He
snatched the cane from her grasp and raised it over his head.
The
first blow brought the woman to her knees.
The
second finished her off.
The
third and fourth were purely for Simon’s pleasure.
He
tossed the cane aside and turned to the barrel. He needed to finish his work.
The cask needed to appear undisturbed or someone might take it into their heads
to taste the contents.
Replacing
the cask was harder. Lifting the barrel from the floor required more strength
than lowering it. But he did it.
Looking
around, he noticed marks on the dirt floor left by the barrel. Using his foot,
he scuffed away any sign of his deeds. Satisfied, he turned to the door. The
old woman lay crumpled. She was of so little account in Simon’s mind, he had
momentarily forgotten her.
He
stared at the body with distaste. It was her presence, not her death which
revolted him. The old woman represented more work when he would rather be
away—preparing for his triumphant entrance.
He
could not leave her in the stores, but where could he stash the body? He
tried to remember what other rooms they had passed by on their trip down.
Bennington was a generous keep with hundreds of denizens running about the
place. How could he be certain the body would go undiscovered for the necessary
length of time?
Then
he thought of the death of another inconvenient wench. He couldn’t think of the
name of Isabeau’s bitch of a mother. She didn’t matter—but the stairs? A
set of stairs could serve his purposes yet again.
Simon
hefted the body into his arms. The bitch’s frail appearance had disguised a
sturdy weight, but maneuvering her was easier than replacing the nearly full
cask of wine to its perch. Laden down with the lifeless body, he better
appreciated not needing to hold a lamp to negotiate the corridors.
Once
he reached to the ground floor and the staircase, he looked up the steep flight
of stairs and choked back a groan. He looked at the body then over his
shoulder. He was far enough away from the storerooms as to not raise questions.
He climbed two stairs, turned awkwardly in the narrow space and the tossed the
corpse to the stones below.
Dusting
his hands, he surveyed the last piece of his work. They would assume the wounds
had occurred in a tumble down the stairs. Why wouldn’t they?
With
only the thought of tomorrow’s triumph, Simon headed to his tunnel.
Donovan
lifted his nose from the crook of Isabeau’s neck. He could feel the throb of
her still racing pulse. Her sweet scent was enough to make his manhood stiffen once
more. He shifted his upper weight to his elbows so he could look down at her
face.
Her
chestnut hair had come undone and lay spread around her flushed face. Her eyes
remained clouded with passion and a ready smile curved her swollen rosy lips.
Her naked breasts continued to caress his chest as she tried to calm her rapid
breathing.
He
leaned down to kiss her nose. She tilted her chin to offer her mouth as a
kitten would arch for a scratch. The action was so natural, he could not help
but compare it to Marta’s repeated withdrawals from his touch.
Isabeau’s
hands still clutched at his shoulders as if etching their imprint there in
stone. When Donovan rolled to his back, she easily followed; landing sprawled
across his sweaty chest. Missing his mouth, she dropped a kiss on the edge of
his jaw. Her eyes widened in surprise when she tried to sit.
“We
are still attached!” she gasped in embarrassment. Her cheeks flamed a deep pink
that he thought went well with the sparkle in her green eyes.
With
a roar of laughter, he tilted his hips. The effect on them both was immediate.
Isabeau shivered as another climax quaked through her slender body while
Donovan’s manhood sought deeper possession. His hand circled her waist while
his hips pumped for his own quick release.
He
kept their bodies joined even after she sprawled limply over him again. She
seemed in no great hurry to move, nor did he. He savored the silky feel of her
white skin against the length of him. He coasted his fingers down the knobs of
her spine from her nape to the skirts, still bunched at her waist. When she
only sighed, he continued petting.
“You
are a loud little kitten when aroused,” he teased.
“And
you have the roar of a lion.” Her retort lost heat as it was muffled against
his throat. “As we both seem to be felines, I guess we are well matched.”
Laughter
and pride at her quick wit bubbled up from deep in his belly. Never had he
thought find humor in the marriage bed. Not after Marta.
“What
troubles you, my lord?” Resting across his chest, she had propped her chin on
her hand. With the other hand, she smoothed at the furrows on his brow.
“You
seem in no hurry to extract yourself from my embrace,” he answered with an
honesty surprising even him.
“I
have never... Have I disgusted you with my wanton behavior? ‘Twas not
that of a countess. I should return to the keep.”
He
held her in place when she would have moved from her perch.
“Nay,”
he commanded gently. “Stay as you are—for a while yet. I am not disgusted. Far
from it. Your generosity gives me the sun, the moon and the stars!”
“Stars…
Isabeau whispered with wonder.
I
am quite pleased that you find pleasure in a duty my first countess abhorred.
Duty? How I hate the word.”
She
ceased her pitiful struggles and searched his face. He could sense her concern.
“ ‘Duty
?’ But you have turned your honor and
services to the king into legend.”
“Meeting
an enemy on the battlefield was easier than visiting my ‘dutiful’ countess in
the marriage bed.”
“How
so?”
He
watched expressions flit across her oval face. Curiosity warred with disbelief.
“Marta
found no pleasure in the deed.”
Disbelief
won.
“How
could she not?”
He
smiled ruefully at the doubt in her voice. He reached up to brush a lock of
hair from her face. “Marta had no liking for a husband’s possession.”
“But
surely... Were you not then
so
skilled in the sorcery
as you are now?” she asked suspiciously. “I have heard some of the serving
maids whispering of the skills of their men and I know not all husbands take
your care.”
Laughing,
he gave her a squeeze. “She did not enjoy men.” A sennight ago pride would have
kept him silent, but Isabeau’s enthusiasm seared through her initial virginal
trepidation. Her reactions went a long way towards erasing the ghosts of
Marta’s rejection.
“I
do not understand.”
“Marta
preferred the touch of a woman.”
“But
how could…” She twitched her hips where he was still buried deep inside her.
“How could she find pleasure when another woman does not have your parts?”
“I
know not, nor do you need to,” he stated with surprising ease. He lifted her
and craned his neck enough to lick first one nipple then the other. “I only
know that I will not mind the trip to the countess’s chamber now that you will
be waiting for my visits.”
“You
did not find pleasure with her either? No, how could you,” she answered
her own question. Her voice became more distracted when he latched his mouth on
her nipple and began to suckle in earnest. “Blanche said that a man -- could
find release -- in a woman’s body even if… She were drunk with the juice of the
poppy… But…”
She
whimpered when he pulled his mouth away but he needed to see her eyes.
“I
knew I needed an heir but my feet felt weighted with lead with each step closer
to the marriage bed and never once did I find my wife waiting in my chamber.”
Isabeau
glanced down at her distended nipple still glistening from his mouth before she
looked back to his face. She licked her lips and he wondered what she tasted.
“You
would not find it improper if I should visit your chamber?” she asked as her
gaze drifted down to his mouth.
He
shook his head. “I would unwrap your body, layer by layer, as a hungry man
peels fruit. You would be welcomed any time,” he assured her before pulling her
down to his mouth once more.
“Unwrap
my body?” Isabeau murmured.
Sometime
later, after a slow and leisurely loving, Donovan found the strength of will to
drag his sated body from Isabeau’s embrace. He prided himself for not staggering
to the creek bank. Only when he retrieved one of his torn sleeves did he
remember the wound on his arm.
The
reminder of Isabeau’s vulnerability brought a scowl to his face. He dipped the
sleeve in the cold water and mentally wiped away his worry before turning back
to Isabeau. She lay where he left her, drowsily watching his approach.
“’Tis
my turn to tend to your wounds,” he informed her as he held out the wet cloth.
She
covered a delicate yawn with her hand.
“I
have no injuries.”
He
kneeled beside her and rested his empty palm on her belly—holding her in place.
“Don’t you?”
Giving
her no warning, he began to clean the remnants of her virgin blood and his seed
from between her white thighs. He thought her maiden’s embarrassment caused her
initial wriggling but the soothing cool rag caused her to relax, her knees to
fall open.
She
had been temptation. She had given herself to his care. He had broken her
maidenhead. By their marriage contract, she had sealed her fate the second she
allowed him entrance to her body. Isabeau was his wife—his countess—and his
lover.
He
bent over to press a reverent kiss in that most private place.
“I
would that you could take me again,” he whispered against her curls. “But we
must return to the keep. Mayhap you can nap in your chamber on our return.”
Donovan
sat up reluctantly and curled his fingers around her wrist. She looked fragile
in his grasp, yet he knew her woman’s strength.
“I
can’t leave yet.” Isabeau frowned. “I should stay here as I am a while longer.”
“As
you are?” Refolding the cool cloth, he brushed it from her throat, trailing it
between her breasts to rest again at the apex of her thighs.
She
blushed brightly as she tried to push his intruding hand away. “Blanche said I
am to be still for at least an hour to ensure my lord’s seed has a chance to
find purchase.”
“Blanche
said—Blanche said.” He tried to mimic his future countess as he moved to cover
her lower belly with his splayed hand. Her skin was cool against the heat of
his palm. “Already, I can feel the curve of my seed growing inside you. My son
or daughter seems anxious to come into being.”
“Surely
it is too soon to know?”
He
pounced on her doubt. “How many babes have you birthed?”
“None.
How many have you birthed.”
“I
fathered Christian so I have the superior knowledge,” he bluffed smoothly.
“Now, stand up and I will help you dress.”
She
eyed him with great suspicion but she allowed him to assist her to her feet and
then to put her clothes back in order. While patient with his clumsy fingers—he
was perhaps more practiced at dispensing with a woman’s clothes than dressing
her—she looked at him with speculation.
“Donovan?”
she asked as she watched him yank up his leggings then pull his tunic over his
head.
“H-mm?’
“Do
you have many lemans?”
He
poked his head through the neck hole and looked at her through narrowed eyes.
“Nay.”
“Good.
In spite of Blanche’s lessons, I find the idea of you sharing your bed with
another…” she paused.
He
waited patiently while she searched for the word.
Isabeau
finally chose. “Hurtful. I know a husband is not necessarily bound only to his
wife—especially one as powerful as you—but I do not want to share you.”
Isabeau
would be
jealous
? He found her professed possessiveness novel and oddly—comforting.
A wife who welcomed his embrace? Marriage with Isabeau was promising to
be a different venture than his previous experience.
Hands
on hips, he eyed her from nose to toes then back again. “I vow to be as
faithful as my countess. But I promise you this—should even your gaze stray to
another male—I will impale him with my broadsword and roast him over the
nearest spit.”
A
demure smile spread over Isabeau’s gentle features. “There will be no need for
such violence.” She crossed the distance between them and lifted on tiptoe to
whisper against his ear. “You can impale me with your
broadsword
anytime
you wish.” Her emphasis on ‘broadsword’ left him in no doubt as to her meaning.
He
laughed and pulled her into a tight embrace, smothering her taunting giggles
with a deep kiss. Then, still enjoying each other’s bodies, they brushed and
pulled moss, leaves and grass from their clothing and hair. Life with Isabeau
was going to be more of an adventure than any missions completed in the king’s
name.
They
made fast work of packing their picnic remains. Then he signaled the well
trained dogs that had imperturbably guarded their bower. He pulled Isabeau
towards the nearest path with their linked fingers. The only time during the
trip back to the castle that he released their grip was when he told her to
hold while he took a quick detour into the brush. He retrieved the vile knife
still embedded in a tree, knowing she thought him seeing to his personal needs.
He did not disabuse her of the notion. Donovan wanted nothing to erase the
mysterious smile bowing her pink lips.
The
trip back to the castle took much longer than the one into the woods. He wasn’t
the only one to stop on the path. A stolen kiss, the brush of a hand along the
other’s arm. Both of them knew, once inside the bailey, their every move would
be watched.
Tempted
as he was to enter the bailey boldly through the front gates, he thought better
of it. While proud of his lady’s affection towards him, her welcome was still
new enough for him to savor it in privacy. Her reputation was also a
consideration. He wanted none to speculate on the extent of their intimacies.
Rather than wait until the coming Saturday, he was determined to wed on the
morrow—soon enough for her to endure the ribald jests. After the latest assault
on his person—as well as their tryst—he felt it imperative to protect Isabeau
with his name and titles.
He
would speak to Father Matthias immediately and then to his scribe. He would
have his instructions noted and signed and then send a messenger to the king.
Should anything happen to him, he could trust Carstairs to protect his
countess.
They
made it through the postern gate and succeeded in circumventing the outer
bailey with no one the wiser about their absence. They traversed the path near
the jakes without notice. Even the hounds cooperated by keeping their muzzles
silent.
At
a little used door on the west wall, Donovan bowed over Isabeau’s hand and gave
her a kiss. She blushed, a deeper pink at the simple courtesy than she had on
the night he had issued his test—when she had waited in his room and bared her
body for his pleasure.
Donovan
watched her disappear into the shadows of the inner castle before turning away.
He needed to speak to Carstairs, but first he would see to the arrangements
with Father Matthias. The priest could pray over their marriage before the
evening meal. Conscious of the smile curving his mouth, an unusual sensation,
Donovan contemplated sharing Isabeau’s bed. Suddenly, the distance between his
and the countess’ chambers seemed too far, not the previous dreaded obligation.