Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor (27 page)

“John?” she whispered when he released her.

“Yes,” he said grudgingly, remorse rushing through his veins. “John. I have come for you.” He caressed her cheek, where his fingers had left four red whelps. “We must escape before Jamot awakes. Can you walk?” He clutched at his chest and struggled for a breath. “I do not believe I can carry you.”

She ignored his suggestion. “Why?”

John caught her elbow to turn her steps. “Why what?” he asked with difficulty.

“Why will you not permit me to go?” Satiné spoke with reason when there was none.

John stopped suddenly. “Go where?” His frown lines deepened in disbelief. “Leave with Henrí? Follow your prince to France?” His voice rose with each accusation. “To be Rintoul’s whore?” He sucked in an agonizing breath. “You are not my mother, and I am certainly not Jeremiah Swenton! You will return with me to Marwood where I will oversee your care. I mean for you to deliver a healthy heir for my title.”

His wife’s vision cleared, and John knew his world had tilted on its axis. “There is no heir: My monthlies have returned.”

Darkness consumed his soul.
No heir
. His mind beat out the words in a rapid tattoo. No heir. No future. No dreams. Only emptiness. He had placed his fate and his family’s name in the hands of constant manipulator. “I suppose it is best,” he reasoned aloud. “A child should know the love of both his parents. I, of all people, should recognize the futility of a disastrous birth.” He had not cried since he was a child, but tears misted John’s eyes. He had lost everything: After discovering his marriage vows null, he should have thrown caution to the wind and chased after Isolde Neville. A cry of anguish choked his throat, but John forcibly drove it away. “We will continue this once we reach York.” He caught his baroness’s hand and dragged her around Jamot’s body. “Come now,” he demanded.

“But the bad troll will catch us,” she protested in a childlike voice.

John turned to glare at his wife. She was lost in her delusions once more. “I will protect you,” he said a bit testily. His frustration had risen quickly, adding to his continued ire. “We must hurry though.”

Exiting the small room, John turned toward the interior steps for the exterior ones had collapsed long prior. The blood and his badly bruised pride pounded in his ears, mixed with Satiné’s continued delusional protests, and so he had not heard Jamot’s rise from the floor to give chase. John felt, rather than heard, the Baloch’s approach, but it was too late. “Run, Satiné!” He shoved his wife forward just at the weight of Jamot’s body drove John, face first, into the stone floor.

*

She ran as her husband had ordered, but the shadow of another upon the stairs had frightened her. In her laudanum-assisted brain, Satiné recognized the monster from her childhood–tall, some ten feet, and dark and brandishing a weapon.

Instinctively, she had turned to the right and hid behind a column of stone as her worst nightmare barreled past her. She bit her lip to stifle the fear rising to her throat, and although the dark shadow had taken no note of her secret place, she felt no relief, for the large troll of her dreams possessed many followers, each trained to defend his king. It had been the troll king who had claimed her parents. No matter what her Uncle Charles had said of her misgivings being foolish, Satiné had known differently. If she had not cowered in fear when the troll king had arrived upon her nursery room threshold, her parents would not have met such an awful death.

Mustering her fleeting courage, she surveyed the room: immediately, she realized she had erred. Hiding from the king had delivered her into the hands of four of his minions. Satiné opened her mouth to scream, but the troll’s followers had stolen her cry from her lips. Frightened, she jammed the knuckles of one fist into her mouth to silence the sound.

Do not be frightened
, the quartet said together. It was all so odd, their lips moved, and although no words escaped, Satiné understood them perfectly.
We mean only to assist you to freedom. We will permit you to follow your dreams
.

She wished to ask them how they meant to foil both Lord Swenton and their king, but she followed their silent commands and retrieved a small stool. The tallest and most handsome of the quartet motioned her to place the stool before the window. When Satiné hesitated, the trolls bowed prettily and gestured her forward. This time her feet moved, although if asked, she would have claimed she had floated upon the air.
Step up
, they told her.
Step up, and the clouds will carry you home
.

*

John could barely breathe, but when Jamot rose to strike him again, he managed to use his arms to flip himself onto his back. The Baloch’s fist punched the stones cut to form the floor, a curse announced his enemy’s pain; yet, Jamot ignored John’s manipulations and attacked again. In many ways, John admired the Baloch: Jamot was a skilled fighter, one trained to persevere over all odds; however, his respect for the man’s ferocity would never override John’s response.

Suddenly, a shadow filled the still open door, one strong enough to rip Jamot from where he pressed John into the floor. He rolled to his left side and fought for a breath that would bring excruciating pain to his chest while behind him the battle raged on. Without looking to the sound of men in battle, he knew Aidan Kimbolt had arrived in time to save John’s life. With difficulty, John crawled to his knees: Duty demanded he return to the fray. He could not permit Lexford to be injured or killed. His friend possessed a wife and family, something John would never know.

Staggering to his feet, he righted his stance just as Lexford caught Jamot’s wrist and wrenched the knife from the Baloch’s hand. Jamot must have recognized the danger of fighting two for the Realm’s enemy kicked Lexford in the gut as the viscount advanced, doubling Lord Lexford over, before striking John with a stiff forearm across his chin. John fell backward, and the Baloch rushed from the room, his boots a quick drumbeat upon the stone steps.

Out of breath and clutching his manhood, Lexford asked, “Are you injured?”

“Been better,” John growled through winces of shooting pains. “Is Satiné safe?” he asked as he slumped hard against the stone wall.

Lexford stiffly straightened. “I did not see your lady.” His friend started for the door.

“No!” John stopped him. “I cannot…confront Jamot again. You must chase…the Baloch. I will seek out…Lady Swenton. She is far from coherent…and may look upon you…as an enemy.”

Lexford nodded. “Be safe. Once I have dealt with the Baloch, I will return for you.”

As his friend passed, John caught his arm. “Aidan,” he said softly. “Take no chances. Lady Lexford…and your son…require your return…to Cheshire. If necessary…permit another…to claim…Jamot’s life.”

“Soon you will know a child’s love,” the viscount assured. “You will escort Lady Swenton to Marwood.”

John experienced the customary emptiness as it returned to his soul. “Before she sought the safety in the tower, Satiné informed me there is no child.” He closed his eyes to avoid the pity in his friend’s expression. “Now hurry. We must know of Jamot’s plans.”

With the viscount’s exit, John readjusted his waistcoat and jacket. He had lost several buttons and the back of his sure-fine was in shreds. Gathering his remaining strength, he recovered his gun from Satiné’s makeshift bed and exited. Looking to his right, he thought aloud, “If Lexford saw nothing of Satiné as he climbed to this storey, then…” John’s eyes skimmed the steps leading to the ground floors before realizing his wife must have turned to the left instead. “She went up.”

Biting away the stabbing jolt of pain, which accompanied each breath he swallowed, John slowly climbed the stairs. Above was the battlement. Yet, when he reached the parapet, his wife was nowhere to be found. “Bloody hell!” he growled. “Satiné! Where are you?” he called angrily. It would be necessary for him to search each of the levels again to locate her. He turned to the steps, but a familiar sound caught his attention. “What the…?” His eyes scanned the area, but he was the only one on the top of the tower; yet, he knew his wife was close. Satiné was talking. No, his wife was singing.

Rushing to the crenellation, he leaned past the crumbling merlons to view the floors below. “Lord God,” he prayed when he saw the top of her head.

He bolted to the stairs, running down them, sliding over the smooth stones and skimming over the edges. “Please, God,” he repeated with each step. “Protect her.”

John ignored the room in which he had fought the Baloch; instead, taking a second set of stairs, he came to a skidding halt in a nearly empty room. The only piece of furniture not in shambles was a small stool, one set before the window.

The tower sported five storeys, counting the battlement. The window, some three feet wide by four and a half feet tall, was one on the third storey, and his wife had walked or crawled out upon the narrow three-inch ledge, which was an extension of the roof of the room below. John spied upon her from the window: Satiné stood, back to the wall and looking out upon the fields below. She was too far out for him to reach her easily. The one from which he peered was the only window in the room: Like it or not, he must go after her.

Not wishing to frighten her, John leaned out the window and spoke in soft tones. “There you are, my Dear.” He spoke as if he had come upon her in Satiné’s favorite sitting room. “May I join you?” With difficulty, he had removed his boots and jacket before he lifted his weight to the framed opening. He had ripped his cravat from about his neck and laced the end of it through a metal ring mortared into the wall, one similar to those, which had imprisoned her in the other chamber. He would use the tether to keep his balance: John tied the end of the cloth about his right wrist and forearm.

His wife had not answered; she continued singing a sad Scottish lullaby, but Satiné had not warned him away. Carefully, John inched closer to her. Again, fearing it might frighten her into action, one that could prove disastrous, he did not reach for her or touch her–just moved close enough for a strategic grab, if necessary. His right hand had a death grip on the window’s framing and his left palm rested against the rough bricks of the tower’s exterior. “I am here, Darling.” John offered no move in her direction; he simply held his breath and waited for Satiné to react to his presence.

She ceased her singing and turned her chin in his direction. Although Satiné looked upon his countenance, John suspected she did not truly see him. Rather, she imagined an image, which had driven her to seek this lofty perch. “Did the trolls provide their permission for you to join me?”

John purposely held her gaze. “Yes,” he said soothingly. “They thought you might require my company.”

She smiled faintly. “It was kind of them. When I was a child, I thought they might carry me from my bed.” Her gaze returned to the valley. “Of course, the Troll King still cannot be trusted.”

John wondered how long such nightmares had frightened his wife. Her words spoke of the mania, which now ruled her. “I agree, but perhaps together we might outwit him.”

Satiné shifted ever so slightly, and John tensed in anticipation; yet, she made no false moves. Instead, she said, “Cashémere thought to best the Troll King when we were on that ledge in Scotland.” John recognized the lingering effects of the laudanum in his baroness’s slurred speech. It would be necessary for him to tempt her to return inside before the opiate robbed her of her consciousness. “The King had beckoned me to join him in a merry dance about Charters’ body, but my twin insisted I remain with her. Cashémere claimed to love me, but she only held room in her heart for Lord Yardley.”

Without actually touching Satiné, John inched his fingers closer to hers. “I would imagine the countess capable of all kinds of love.” He ventured, “If you will return inside with me, we could set a course for Berwick’s estate. You may visit with your niece and nephew and enjoy your sister’s company.”

Satiné shook her head in denial. “I think not. Do you not realize my sisters ruined everything? When I was a girl, I thought it wonderful to have another part of me in the world, but I erred. Uncle Charles and I were happy until Velvet and Cashémere came into our world. Velvet in her perfection and her winning the duke’s heart and then Cashé’s troubles–they all drew Uncle Charles’s attentions from our life together. He insisted I share my clothes, my lessons in deportment, and the only ‘parent’ I truly remember with my twin. I made Cashémere into the woman Lord Yardley desired.”

John disagreed; yet, he left his opinions unspoken. He had suspected Marcus Wellston’s fascination with Cashémere Aldridge long before the girl had changed her residence from Viscount Averette’s Scottish home for her Uncle Ashton’s manor. The earl had eyed the girl with a strange attraction when Lexford had escorted Miss Cashémere to Prinny’s celebration, the one where Sir Louis Levering had met his doom. He doubted Wellston had even been aware of the look of longing he presented to anyone with an eye for the difference displayed upon his friend’s countenance.

“My sister first stole the affections of the Earl of Berwick and then my Uncle Charles.” His wife offered no more explanation of the offense her twin had supposedly conducted. She simply scowled with discontent.

“Would you rather spend time with your uncle? I would escort you anywhere you wish to go,” he said encouragingly.

Again, she turned her head to look upon him in that strange distant gaze he had noted previously. “What if I wished to walk upon a cloud? The trolls assured me the clouds would see me home.”