Enchanted (23 page)

“Lie? I but tell the truth. I am the one who
awoke to find my rod in your mouth and then in your hungry
wet—”

“
Liar
.”

“Ah, I bring color to your little
cheeks.”

“You bring vomit to my throat.”

Geoffrey laughed. “I shall stop it with my
rod.”

Abruptly Ariane realized that baiting her both
amused and aroused Geoffrey.

Nausea coiled again, more urgently. Knowing that
Geoffrey took pleasure in her feeble struggles had been one of the
worst parts of Ariane’s nightmare.

“What? No more adorable protests?”
Geoffrey asked. “Does that mean you long—”

“—to see the last of you, aye. Most
fervently. Are you afoot? If so, I will give you a horse if you
promise to ride it from my sight.”

There was no emotion in Ariane’s voice. Nor
was there any in her face, save that which throttled rage streaked
in red across her cheekbones.

“My horse is waiting in yonder woodland while
I investigate the sound of harp music I had thought never to hear
again.”

“Then be gone. I promise I won’t
follow.”

“I am wounded,” Geoffrey said, holding
his hand over his heart. “No sooner do I heal from that foul
sickness and come to claim you than you spurn me.”

“I am already claimed by Simon.”

“That coward,” Geoffrey said,
dismissing Simon with a curl of his lip.

Ariane’s breath came in with disbelief at the
contempt in Geoffrey’s voice and expression.

“Simon is the bravest knight I have ever
known,” she said, remembering her husband standing alone and
outnumbered so that she could flee to safety.

“Is he? Then why doesn’t he kill his
faithless wife and throw her into the sea?”

“I am not faithless!”

“Truly? You came to him well-used by another
man.”

“
Ill
used.”

“So well-used,” Geoffrey continued,
ignoring Ariane, “that you refuse to give your body to your
husband because you long for the body of your first
lover.”

“I long to watch vultures feast on your
bones!”

“Knowing that you are not a virgin, and that
you refuse your husband, who will believe that you don’t put
your heels behind your ears for a knight such as Geoffrey the
Fair?” he asked, smiling like an angel.

If Ariane had been pale before, Geoffrey’s
words leached the last hint of color from her. With unnatural calm
she put away her harp, slung the carrying bag over her shoulder and
stood up. At every heartbeat she regretted leaving her dagger
behind.

’Tis a pity the weaver
of Learned cloth didn’t foresee the need to wear a weapon
with this clever dress
, Ariane thought bleakly.
I would trade my harp for my girdle and its dagger
sheath
.

Ariane stepped toward the path. Geoffrey remained
unmoving, blocking her way.

“You are standing across the path,” she
said evenly.

“Aye. Lift your skirts high, little girl. I
have come a long way to see your thighs open to me
again.”

“You will have to kill me first.”

Geoffrey started to laugh. Then his laughter faded
as he saw the certainty in Ariane’s savage amethyst eyes.

“Have you told your husband?” Geoffrey
asked harshly.

“That you raped me?”

“That I lay between your thighs until I was
too weak to rise again.”

“If my drugged memory serves, you sweated
like a pig to rise even once. Your manhood was more like beached
seaweed than the ‘rod’ you speak of so
proudly.”

A flush stained Geoffrey’s unblemished skin.
His smiling lips curled into something more like a snarl.

“But then, what would one expect of a craven
who first drugs and then rapes a virgin?” Ariane continued
softly. “No
man
would have to
stoop so low.”

Geoffrey lifted his mailed fist.

Ariane smiled like the witch she once had been.

“You try my patience,” he said between
his teeth.

“You try my stomach.”

“Do you ache to feel my fists
again?”

“I ache to see you in hell.”

Spine straight, eyes unflinching, Ariane waited for
Geoffrey to lose his temper as he always had when thwarted.

But somewhere between Normandy and the Disputed
Lands, Geoffrey had learned caution. He considered Ariane
curiously, as though he had expected to find something quite
different.

And indeed he had. The weeping, ravaged girl of his
memories had all but crawled beneath her saddle to avoid being
noticed by Geoffrey during the trip from Normandy to England. She
had spoken so rarely that the knights had taken to placing wagers
on when she would say a word.

“What a pity that you have recovered your
wits,” Geoffrey said. “They were always the least
appealing part of you.”

“Thank you.”

“Is your father here?” Geoffrey
demanded. “Is that why you’re so brave?”

Ariane blinked, puzzled by the direction of the
conversation. Geoffrey had always been better informed about the
baron’s movements than Ariane had.

“Why do you ask me?” she said.

“Just answer me,” Geoffrey said,
“or I will go to Blackthorne Keep and tell your cowardly
husband that you came to me today and begged me to give you the
thorough plowing that he cannot!”

“Simon won’t—”

“Believe me?” Geoffrey interrupted
mockingly. “You tried that on your father, the man who knew
you best. Did he believe you?”

Ariane closed her eyes and swayed as though she had
been struck. Geoffrey’s voice was resonant with sincerity and
concern. It made others believe that he had those emotions.

But he used emotions rather than having them.

“Nay,” Geoffrey continued smoothly.
“Your father believed me, for I was but the poor victim of
your wanton lechery. The bottle with the hellish love potion, the
very witch brew you poured into my wine, was still tangled in your
bloody sheets. It was all there for your father and the priest to
see. And they did see it, didn’t they?”

Then Geoffrey laughed with the malice he revealed
only to whores and serfs.

Ariane wanted to put her hands over her ears, but
would not give Geoffrey the satisfaction. Both of them knew all too
well who had been believed and who had been betrayed.

Would you believe my
innocence, Simon? You, who hate witches? You, who speak so savagely
of being in thrall to any woman
?

Especially a witch
.

And even if you did believe
me, what then? Mortal combat with Geoffrey to determine who is
truthful and who is not
?

The thought made another cold sweat break over
Ariane’s body. Once she would have relished the chance to be
vindicated by seeing Geoffrey die. But she no longer believed that
truth was a useful shield against lies, particularly lies spoken by
a knight such as Geoffrey the Fair. He had killed too many men,
bandits and knights alike.

He enjoyed the sight of blood spilling over his
sword. He yearned for it with an eagerness that was chilling.

No matter how quick Simon was, no matter how
skilled, he was shorter and at least two stone lighter than
Geoffrey. More telling than mere size, Simon lacked
Geoffrey’s bloodlust.

“Rumor says that Baron Deguerre is in
England,” Ariane said tonelessly.

“Then he comes to Blackthorne
Keep.”

“No word has come directly to me.”

“Why should it? You are not beloved by your
father.”

Ariane made no argument with the truth. If her
father had ever loved her, he no longer did. The last words he had
spoken to her had made that very clear.

Whore. If I dared kill you, I
would
.

“’Tis certain he hasn’t come all
this way to see the wanton daughter who dishonored him,”
Geoffrey said as though following Ariane’s thoughts.

“Perhaps he seeks an alliance with the
English king instead of with the king of the Scots.”

“More likely your father scents weakness
somewhere,” Geoffrey said.

A slow smile crossed Geoffrey’s lips. The
smile was as cruel as Ariane’s memories, but Geoffrey kept
whatever he was thinking to himself.

Sensing that she was no longer the center of his
attention, Ariane began edging beyond Geoffrey’s reach.

“Of course,” Geoffrey said, focusing on
Ariane once more. “You.”

“You think he finally believes me?”
Ariane asked, startled.

“He believes the truth, which is that in the
grip of an evil witch’s potion, I plowed you as thoroughly as
any oxen ever plowed a field.”

Biting the inside of her mouth against the rage
that threatened to overrun her control, Ariane eased farther from
Geoffrey’s reach.

“
You
are the
weakness he scents,” Geoffrey said. “You are the Norman
fox set among the Saxon chickens.”

“You are mad.”

“No, simply more clever than other
men,” Geoffrey said casually. “The baron knows you came
deflowered to your marriage, yet no hue and cry has gone
up.”

Geoffrey pulled his lower lip between his thumb and
forefinger. Then he laughed as cruelly as he had smiled.

“The Glendruid Wolf and his loyal pup must be
weaker than they seem,” Geoffrey said in a low voice.
“Trust
that shrewd old carrion eater to
know it and hurry in to pick clean the bones.”

Ariane looked at the ground, afraid that Geoffrey
would see the truth confirmed in her eyes. The Glendruid Wolf was
indeed worried about his hold upon the Disputed Lands, or he would
not have given his loyal brother over to a marriage that neither
had sought.

You deserve a better wife than
this cold Norman heiress
.

But Simon’s response to Dominic had been
swift and painfully pragmatic.

Blackthorne deserves better
than war. And so do you. Surely marriage can be no worse than the
sultan’s hell you endured to ransom me
.

Too late Ariane caught the movement of
Geoffrey’s hand from the corner of her downcast eyes. Before
she could jerk away, she was yanked so hard against
Geoffrey’s hauberk that the breath was driven from her
body.

The smell of stale wine and something worse washed
over Ariane, making her swallow roughly. At close range, she could
see that drink—and whatever passed for Geoffrey’s
soul—was slowly eroding the angelic purity of his face. The
skin was becoming coarse. Burst blood vessels had left red
traceries on his nose. His breath was as vile as his deeds.

“England hasn’t been kind to
you,” Ariane said through her teeth. “Go back to
Normandy, where people still believe your lies.”

“I have my heart set on a noble
widow.”

“Then leave me and get to
courting.”

Geoffrey smiled. “The courting is done.
’Tis the widowing that remains. It won’t take long.
Then Carlysle will be mine, and you with it. It shall be as your
father meant it to be.”

“If you challenge Simon—and
survive—the Glendruid Wolf will kill you.”

“I shall survive, but it will be Simon who
challenges me. No blood feud can come from that!”

“Go back to Normandy,” Ariane said.
“Simon won’t challenge you. The Glendruid Wolf
won’t allow it.”

“I think not, little cabbage. There will be
no choice. You will see to it.”

“I?
Never
!”

“Truly? Have I finally heard the last of your
whining about rape?”

Smiling, Geoffrey shook off one gauntlet, plunged
his hand inside Ariane’s mantle and jammed his fingers
between her thighs. The smile on his lips instantly became a snarl
of surprise and outrage. He yanked back his hand and released
Ariane so swiftly that she staggered.

“Jesus and Mary!” Geoffrey rubbed his
fingers harshly over the chain mail of his hauberk. “Since
when have you taken to wearing hair shirt and nettles? You
misbegotten slut, you have blistered my fingers with your
tricks!”

Ariane’s freedom registered sooner on her
mind than Geoffrey’s outraged complaints did. She caught her
balance and was running toward the keep before he realized it.

“Come back here!” he shouted
furiously.

Ariane picked up her skirts and ran faster, sending
the harp banging against her back with each step.

Cursing and nursing his hand, Geoffrey ran toward
the horse he had tethered out of sight in one of the keep’s
woodlots. He had no doubt that he could catch Ariane before she
reached the keep.

Neither did Ariane.

She went no farther than a tangle of bracken,
brambles, and rowan trees before she looked over her shoulder to
see where Geoffrey was. He had his back to her and was running
toward the nearby woodland where Blackthorne’s foresters got
much of the keep’s lumber.

As Ariane had hoped, Geoffrey had chosen to run her
down from the back of his horse rather than on
foot, slowed by his hauberk, helmet and sword.

Unseen by Geoffrey, Ariane swerved aside from the
trail and plunged deeper into the tangle. Branches raked over her
mantle to the dress beneath, but found no hold there. The tough
cloth resisted even the sharpest of the thorns.

When Ariane was certain she couldn’t be seen
from the cart road that led to the keep, she dropped to her knees
and fought for breath. Hair fell into her eyes, for the thicket had
raked her artfully coiled braids until they were half-undone.
Impatiently she pushed the hair away and held her palm hard to her
side where pain turned in her as a rogue knight’s dagger once
had.

Have I opened up that
wound
?

The thought froze the breath in Ariane’s
lungs. Frantically her fingers stripped laces open until she could
see the wound just beneath her breast.

No blood greeted her eyes. In fact, the scar itself
was barely a pale line drawn against the smoothness of her skin.
With a broken gasp, Ariane sank to the ground, heedless of the leaf
litter and earth that were soiling her mantle.