Exile’s Bane (14 page)

The hall finally settled, with the various comfortable sounds of eating and drinking, small talk here and there. Platters were passed along the high table and throughout the lower tables. As the night wore on, I moved around frequently in my hard wooden seat. My dress was too tight, the boned bodice digging into my sides.

But servants continued to bring trays into the hall, adding to the bounty. The Simpson brothers, in spotless smocks, approached the high table, one on each end, with trays full of individual baked portions of a meat pastry. The boys made their way behind the table, moving inward. Paul Simpson offered the tray to Thomas, who took two. I declined, as my plate was already full, and I had no appetite whatsoever. I nodded pleasantly at him and he passed on.

“I love these. Have not had one in years,” Thomas said, making room on his full plate. He greedily cut into one of the two pastries with his edged spoon. “It’s almost as exciting as killing the deer, you know?” Red wine and chunks of venison spilled out around his spoon. Thomas took a quick glance at his benefactor, Gorgon, then gobbled it down.

By this time, Gorgon had taken a pastry and the boy had worked his way past him. Gorgon’s hand darted out and tweaked the boy’s buttocks. Paul squealed and turned with astonishment to frown at Gorgon. Gorgon backhanded him with so much force the boy was thrown to the floor, his platter of pastries thrown under the table before the earl’s feet.

“I am sorry, my lord,” little Paul whimpered at the frowning earl. He scrambled to recover the fallen pastries. Chomping and gulping sounds came from under the table. The earl looked further enraged, for it was Boye at his feet, enjoying the bounty. Paul came up in near tears with no more than three pastries and each of those leaking wine onto his tray.

“Boye. Here,” Prince Rupert called firmly with a snap of his finger at his left side. The prince retained his composure, though one corner of his mouth quirked in amusement. The dog quickly came around to the other side of the prince, still licking his red-tinged mouth.

The earl seemed to be holding his breath, his face gone gray. He was furious. But rather than insult the prince, he turned to Gorgon and pointed a shaky finger at Thomas.

“That man does not belong at the high table,” he complained with a snort.

Beside me, Thomas froze, his lips pressed tight together in dismay.

I shook my head in annoyance. Why could the earl not leave Thomas alone?

“The great Lord of the North fears this useful man?” Gorgon boomed.

For once, I agreed with Gorgon’s reasoning. Beside me, Thomas responded with a daring, genial nod at the earl.

“He’s my creature now,” Gorgon spouted, saliva spewing from his mouth. “Are you telling me to leave the table?”

“No,” the earl said. He sniffed in indignation. “But I would have Thomas join the commoners at the lower tables.”

Thomas shook his head, unabashed, now clearly in control of his destiny.

“He stays where he sits. I like it at Tor House,” Gorgon said in a level, menacing voice. “I think Thomas and I will be very comfortable here. We will stay for some time, I think.”

“As you say, my lord,” Thomas said, digging into his meal.

Gorgon bent solemnly over his food.

The earl sat white-faced, a spoon in one hand and a knife in the other, his fists on the table, and stared at Gorgon. The veins throbbed at his temples, a sure sign of his fury. He looked as though he might boil over, like milk left too long over the fire. Spittle flying, he finally managed to speak.

“Steward Gorgon,” he shouted. “Have you forgotten the terms of your betrothal?” The color of his face fluctuated from white to red and back to white. His fist hit the table, rocked the wine in the glasses, and shook the candle flames on the candelabra. “How can you marry Elena on the isle,
which was our arrangement
, if you linger here?”

Gorgon surveyed the earl with a pleased sneer. Sudden silence dominated the room, servants, soldiers, and cavaliers frozen over their meal or in conversation. The heavy air seemed too warm and thick to breathe. Perspiration erupted on my forehead, my upper lip. It trickled down my back under my dress.

With haughty good humor, Prince Rupert ignored the disagreement and tended to feeding Boye from his plate. The dog’s small gulping sounds stood out in the deafening silence.

“They could marry in the morning,” the countess said in a hoarse whisper. “In the chapel tower. My personal priest, Father Theobald, happens to be here.”

“That was
not
the betrothal agreement,” the earl growled at his countess. “The isle. He is to take her to the isle.”

“Do my desires not count?” I cried. But my plea went unheard. I might as well have not spoken, for the stern faces around me remained unmoved. Would they force me to marry this animal? Was I no more than helpless chattel, a slave forced into a deadly cage?

My face was on fire with these thoughts. I looked toward Duncan and found his face flat with surprise and gray as the ash in the hearth. Pain hung at the dull center of his gaze. If he had missed it before, he knew everything now. With a wrench deep in my chest, I looked away. I did not want to witness the inevitable rise of hatred in his face.

Beside me, Gorgon drew a massive breath, but before he could speak, Prince Rupert spoke at the earl’s side.

“There is no time for a wedding. I need your forces, Devlin, and yours, Steward Gorgon. We depart in the morning. We must have Liverpool’s seaport open behind us before we strike northward to the relief of York. There is no time for betrothal disagreements and sudden marriages. Put it behind you, gentlemen. The King’s war must be won.”

That said, the prince thanked the countess, hoped she would excuse him, and left the table, Boye at his side. Three of the prince’s lifeguards peeled out of the crowd and fell into step behind him as he departed down the main hall.

Duncan remained at his table, staring intently at Gorgon.

Someone had let one of the hearth fires go out, a relief from the pressing warmth. There was a great hubbub over that discovery. Mrs. Lowry waded into the midst of her servant boys and chastised them severely, though she did not have the fire rekindled.

It was only then that I missed Peg. I studied the crowd carefully. She was not in the hall.

I begged leave to depart the table, but the countess squawked back that I would stay where I was until my betrothed chose to depart. The earl, he who once introduced himself as my good uncle Charles, stared at me in utter hatred. A smirking Gorgon, wine goblet in his hand, leaned toward me.

“You haven’t eaten a thing, my dear,” he crooned at me.

I needed something to quickly fortify me against these onslaughts, and so reached for my own goblet, but never tasted the wine for the sudden chill of wind and driving rain. A dark sea encompassed me. I gasped and struggled against the looming dream.

Not here. Not now.

Something massive shifted within me.

In the stark reality that only my dreams possessed, I found myself thrown about in a sudden chill of wind and driving rain. I wiped the rain out of my face and gawked at a distant shore that disappeared in a swirl of windswept water. At the plunging bow, the ship’s barnacled figurehead slammed in and out of the dark, racing sea. The spouts of water that assaulted me were in fact the wake from the bow streaming over the ship, for a weak sun shone on taut overhead sails that seemed to rise to the sky. The ship plunged onward across high, wind-swept seas. I struggled to keep my footing on the wet deck, my hand clenched on an overhead rope.

My fingers ached from the cold. I attempted to tighten my grip with a frantic grab at the rope
. . . but found dry, warm satin and the rumple of lace within my grasp. The old wine stench of someone’s breath blew in my face.

I opened my eyes to an anxious Edward Gorgon leaning over me. He held me in his arms, holding me close.

“What did you see, eh? Tell me, Elena. Were we here at Tor House together? What happens after the war? Um, you smell of lavender.”

“What?” I jerked my shaking hands away from his lace collar and his satin doublet where I had grabbed great swaths of material, not a wet rope on a ship at sea. “Put me down,” I cried in a warbling voice. I put my head down, wresting myself from his intense gaze.

He leaned over and placed me on a soft surface. I looked wildly around. I lay on a huge four-poster bed with half-drawn black hangings. Darkness loomed where the ceiling should have been. We were in the guest room at the top of the private tower with its high ceilings—Gorgon’s rooms. I tried to rise and his big hand pushed me down on the bed.

“What did you see?” He slipped off his surcoat, turned back, took me by the shoulders, and shook me. “Tell me.”

I struggled to recover from the soul-wrenching effects of the dream, yet had the sense to understand the mortal danger that leaned over me.

“What are you talking about? Did I faint?” I asked in a tremulous voice.

“That’s what everyone else thinks.” He stood over me and smirked, a hint of doubt in his stance. “I, and you, know better. My mother had the sight. She would swoon into a trance exactly the way you did just now.”

“I must have fainted,” I insisted. I tried to rise, but my stomach rebelled, reminding me of the soup I had eaten earlier. Its acid taste coated my throat.

“With open, searching eyes, reaching hands? No, you did not faint. Luckily I saw what was happening and got you out of the hall.”

“I remember reaching for my wine, nothing beyond that,” I said, in a sincere tone of voice.

“Has this happened to you before?”

“Do I faint? Generally, no,” I said with some hauteur. My hands seemed to have a mind of their own, clenching and unclenching. I clasped them tightly together to stop their unnatural movement, a sure sign of my immediate terror. If this man knew of my dreams, I was doomed.

“I do not believe you,” he said. He stood over me and studied my dishevelment for some time, then rubbed his palm along the scar within his beard. Finally, he sat down on the great bed beside me. “We have much in common.”

“We have nothing in common.”

“I am not convinced you don’t have the sight. Perhaps it is just developing. You must to listen to your dreams. I have need of their guidance. As well, we share a desire to keep Tor House, your home.”

His words made surprising sense and in his thoughtful face a brutish, lordly attractiveness reached out to me. I studied the ominous ceiling to avoid his further reason.

“Do you really think my uncle would allow a Manx lord on his seat of power in Lancashire?”

“Exactly. Which is why you and I must remove him. We need one another, dear Elena. Should we not combine forces, since we are bound to wed anyway? We are fated, you know.”

“Tor House is my soul and I will find a way to fight for it, without you.” I clenched my mouth against my rebellious stomach and sat up suddenly. I placed both hands on his barrel chest and shoved him away from me.

“Tell me about this captain, this Comrie fellow,” he said, having no choice but to stand up. His brooding gaze bored through me, his lower lip thrust out. “He seems to have feelings for you. I saw his look.”

“I do not have the sight, I hate you, and I have no idea what you’re talking about. Duncan has been my protector at the behest of the prince. No more than that.”

“Duncan, is it? You belong to me. Remember that.”

“I will never marry you,” I said in a voice as solemn as an oath. I drew a ragged breath and threw my feet off the bed, reaching for the floor.

“There is another way.” He grabbed my shoulders and kissed me, crushing my mouth. He lifted my legs onto the bed once again, only this time he reached into my bodice with his big red hand and tore the material downward. I screamed and he fell upon me, his mouth reaching down for my exposed breast, a hardness pushing rhythmically at my groin through my dress and underskirts.

A smooth, rubbing sound came to me, but I paid it no mind. Anger swelled within me, lending me strength to fight for my honor, my freedom, and my life. I scratched him, bit where I could find flesh, and kicked at available limbs.

“You would take her in her infirmity?” a trembling male voice asked, right beside us.

Gorgon’s enormous girth rolled over me, and he came to his feet before my uncle, whose face was livid.

The rubbing sound must have been the door.

“What kind of man are you?” the earl railed, sniffing and huffing in umbrage, that terrible grayish-white circling his mouth within his extended mustache.

“You admire my tactics.” Gorgon grasped my arm with one hand and shoved the earl back with his other. “Many times you have told me so.”

Gorgon pushed me into a chair beside the bed. He backed into me, apparently determined to keep me in place while he dealt with the earl, which gave me an opportunity to pull my bodice together.

“You will not remain in this room, nor in this house,” the earl shouted. He struck the bedpost, wobbling the overhead canopy.

“You promised me the heiress, which means this house,” Gorgon rumbled in that cold, guttural voice I remembered from the gallery. “I will have her, and I will have Tor House—and not as your blasted lackey.”