“We are the trap, you loggerhead!” Ram made no effort to disguise his impatience. But then he never did. He was always as prickly as a bag of thistles. “What do you think? I’d be so foolhardy as to set a trap inside someone else’s trap?”
“How should I know?” Talbot shrugged, continuing to survey the path beside the river beyond their hiding spot. After three score and two years of putting up with Ram’s ill-temper, it affected him no more than the nip of a flea. Plain old jealousy, that’s all it was. ‘Twas the curse he must bear for being born better looking than his twin—thicker hair, darker eyes, and if he was not mistaken, his cock was a hair longer.
But, at a time like this, he would give it all up, well mayhap not the latter, ‘twas difficult enough to lure a comely wench to his bed, but certainly the rest, not to listen to Ram prat on and on about his almighty wisdom. “If it were a clever trap, you wouldn’t know.”
“I’d know,” Ram squeezed out between clinched teeth, “
Cause
his lordship said so.”
“But he can’t be certain. He didn’t know who sent the message.
‘Twas a serf who come to his tent at the tournament.
Verily suspicious if you ask me.” But life had never given him a reason to trust anyone but his brother.
“What do you think, a traitor’s going to march right over and reveal himself to all? Not likely.” Ram cast a smoldering glare his way. “Now cease your whining! ‘
Tis unsettling the horses.”
“‘Twill
be
unsettling to the Lady Isabeau when she spies us.” Talbot grinned with glee, the sound of her name making him fairly quiver.
“Yea,” Ram agreed. “We’ll need to work fast, leaving her no time to send up a cry.”
“I wonder what it would sound like, her screaming.” Talbot had heard the sparkle of her laugher many a time, but he had never seen her in an ill temper, being a high-spirited maid, ‘twas verily an awe inspiring sight.
“If you do what I told you and keep your wits about you, we shan’t have to find out.”
“She never seemed to me to be the screaming type.”
“Nay, she’s the biting, scratching, kick you in the bullocks type,” Ram said.
“All the more reason to get it right.”
“But we’re saving her.”
“She
don’t
know that.”
“She will if we tell her—talk to her real soft, sooth her fears.” Talbot gazed at the sparkling surface of the river in the distance, imaging what it might be like to hold the Lady Isabeau tight against his chest and stroke her sun-streaked hair. The mere thought of it made his hands shake.
“There won’t be
no
time for talkin’, just riding fast if we’re to make the meeting place before dark. If Fortin returns from the hunt early, we’re both dead men.”
“You were the one who did him the most damage.” Talbot flicked Ram an accusing look, remembering the pleasure he took in beating Fortin to a pulp. “I just held him and watched.”
“You think he’ll spare you for that?
“I knew ought was amiss.” Talbot felt a tremor run up his back, remembering the rage in Fortin’s eyes—the coldness in his voice when he promised to get even. “I knew we had the wrong man.”
“You knew nothing of the kind.” Ram’s tone changed to a high-pitched squeal. “Geld him, geld him! You kept sayin’.”
“I just wanted to get it over with.
But, nay.
You had to drag it out, like you do everything else.
Do
it this way, do it that way, you’re not holding him down tight enough.”
“’Tis as well he wasn’t gelded, else ‘twould take more than a bag of silver to avenge Fortin’s honor.”
“But, he isn’t getting’ the ransom.”
Ram smiled, his black eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “That’s right, he ain’t.”
***
“Abigail and Dominic rode on ahead with the Langley’s and the rest of the party. There’s no need for you to stay,” Alec told Darcy, nodding toward a leafy path, tunneling south through the trees.
“I bagged the brute.” Darcy dismounted to inspect the stag, two of the huntsmen had already begun to gut. “’Tis my duty to see it brought home safe for the spit.”
Alec followed suit, bristling at his father’s stubbornness. “I’ll see to it. You’ll need an early night, if you’re planning to set out at first light.”
“Save your coddling for the wee maids you’ll father one day,” Darcy said in a mocking tone, as usual, attempting to get a rise out of him. “I’m not as feeble as you think.”
“’Tis the first I’ve heard you encourage coddling.”
“Oh, ho!
So, you feel hard done by do you?” A wounded expression chased across Darcy’s face. “You’d rather I’d lavished praise on you night and day, held you close to my heart like some swaddling babe—kissed your every hurt?
A fine warrior that would have made.”
“The faintest hint that you had faith in me might have helped,” Alec said, surprised that his voice sounded so flat—with no sign of bitterness, as though saying the words had managed to finally vanquish it.
“I pushed you hard because you were worth it.” Darcy’s tone held a slight tremor. “You had the makings of a warrior from your first lusty cry. But coming early as you did, and being so small, your mother petted and pampered you beyond reason. I thought she’d ruin you for certain, before you were old enough for me to train. But I needn’t have feared. You proved your salt once I managed to wrestle you from her bosom, growing even taller and broader under Beaufort’s care.”
The pride in his father’s voice lifted a weight from Alec’s heart. He had thought he had put the past behind—buried it in the dessert, but hearing his father’s praise lifted his spirits.
Alec had made up his mind to live his life for himself a long time ago—not to satisfy anyone else. But a tiny piece of him still yearned for his father’s love and respect, no matter how much he denied it.
‘Twas reassuring to hear his father finally put his affection into words.
“Maids are a different matter.” Darcy went on to say, rubbing his chin with a thoughtful tilt to his head. “’Tis well I never fathered any. I’ve yet to figure them out.”
“Nor I.”
“’Tis best you cultivate an understanding for their complications then.” Darcy wrinkled his nose, sending him a long look. “You’ll get no sons out of that feather-brained giggler of Langley’s I warrant. A sillier maid I’ve yet to meet. If her mind turned as fast as her mouth flapped, she’d be a danger to herself and all who came near her.” Darcy tilted his head considering. “The younger one is a different bird, but she’s too young to wed.”
That his father should have the spleen to criticize his choice of wife brought a wry smile to Alec’s lips. “You preach to me out of experience I warrant, since you’ve hardly known Lady Anna long enough to judge her character.”
“It doesn’t take a scholar to see what’s right under your nose, unless her tits have blurred your vision. They’re a sight to behold, but hardly worth the cost of taking on the burden of an empty head.”
“I had no idea you’d spent so much time considering it,” Alec returned dryly, not able to help the next words from flying out of his mouth. “’Tis a pity you hadn’t the same foresight when choosing a wife.”
Darcy cast him a sharp look under his black brows. “Abigail isn’t perfect. But remember, I’d already produced an heir and two spares by the time I married again. There was no need for caution. I only needed someone to warm my bed, and she serves that purpose well.”
‘Twas a pity he didn’t know how many other beds she warmed as well as his, Alec thought. “As long as you’re happy,” he said aloud what he’d told himself many times over the years to keep from speaking his mind—revealing to his father the true nature of Abigail’s character, would do little good. Darcy’s obsession for her left him blind to her disloyalty and deft to all attempts to set him straight.
Thankfully their conversation turned to domestic matters during the ride back to Highburn, and Alec was able to keep his tongue in check.
The huntsmen followed, carrying the stag tied to a pole.
Having many ships of his own on the coast of Cornwall, Darcy was ever eager to discuss trade and pass on any bits of knowledge he’d learned over the years to his sons.
Alec was grateful, but his attention waned as they neared the gates of Highburn.
Thoughts of Isabeau crowded his brain. He hadn’t laid eyes on her all day, though he’d envisioned her in his mind many times. Come the morrow, when his family departed, he would have her to himself once again.
By the time they cantered into the courtyard, he barely heard a word his father was saying.
He threw Mercury’s reins to William,
then
strode for the hall, assuring his father he would join him anon.
“The Lady Isabeau, where is she?” Alec’s voice sliced the air of the corridor outside the opened door of his chamber, halting Myrtle in her tracks.
“Is she not here?” Myrtle hustled past him to sniff out the chamber like one of the hounds. Finding the room empty, she turned, her forehead puckered in a disapproving frown. “They should have returned by now.”
“Returned?” Tiny prickles rushed up Alec’s neck to crawl over his scalp. “Returned from where?”
Myrtle took a step back, wringing her hands, her lips working to and fro. “I told her not to go. But Lady Abigail bleated on and on about her fine clothes and how she wouldn’t see them ruined, how she’d be leaving and it would be the last time she’d ask. Oh, I should have known!”
Alec squeezed his hands into fists.
Abigail.
Wait until he got his hands on her.
She’d gone too far this time.
“And the maids from the village?”
Alec clinched and unclenched his fists. “Where are they? Have they returned yet?”
“I’ve not seen hide
nor
hair of them since they left.” Myrtle fretted. “But then I wouldn’t, would I. They scamper right back to the village when they’re through, leaving the baskets inside the hall door. I was just heading down to get them.”
“I saw no baskets.”
“Surely they wouldn’t have returned to the village if aught was amiss, without a word to a soul,” Myrtle said, but her expression held much doubt.
Alec stalked back down the corridor toward the stairs, the muscles in his jaw growing tighter with every step.
Myrtle trotted beside him, plucking at his sleeve. “You mustn’t be too harsh with them, my Lord. ‘Verily their fear overcame their good sense, though most days I’d swear they hadn’t any.”
“Go to the stables. Bid William saddle my horse.”
“Yea, my lord.”
He spied Abigail hastening toward her chamber door, splattered in mud from the hunt, one brown braid falling over her shoulder in an untidy loop. He strode forward, using all of his restraint not to trample Myrtle, who shuffled ahead of him at a snail’s pace. “You sent her to the river, when I forbade it?”
Abigail turned round to face him, her expression as bland as broth. “I assume you mean the Lady Isabeau.” She gave a delicate shrug, her features reflecting little concern while she continued in bored tones. “If I remember correctly, you did not expressly forbid it.”
“Nay, but I made my displeasure quite clear.”
Her mouth remained still, yet he sensed a smirk lurking beneath the surface of her lips. “I didn’t think you’d mind. After all, as you said, she’s no ordinary prisoner.”