Margaret Moore - [Maiden & Her Knight 03] (37 page)

“No! I never will, and I don’t want to!”

“Then you must think of what happened as a nightmare that came to an end.”

“You’re not a nightmare!”

That lightened his grim visage. “Then the nightmare had some better moments.” He became serious again. “But it will be over, and so it must be, in your mind and in your heart, too.”

“Alexander, I—”

“It will be
over
,” he repeated, allowing her no dissension, once more the hard commander. Then his expression softened, if only a little. “Let me think that is so, Isabelle. Let me envision you having a happy life, the kind you deserve.”

“With another man? Bearing another man’s children?”

For one brief moment, he looked as if she had delivered a mortal blow, then his features assumed a stoic calm. “Yes. I dearly hope I have not got you with child, and I will curse myself even more if I have. Now, come. We have a ways to walk yet.”

He crawled out of the shelter.

Isabelle did not immediately follow. She understood why he said what he did, she could even understand how he could picture her living a life without him. And he was right, she supposed, as she felt for the broken lacing and did her best to tie them with her trembling fingers. There was no future for them, and it would make her life difficult if she bore his child. It would be better if she did not, and best if she could forget she had ever met Alexander DeFrouchette.

She finally felt defeated.

Suddenly Alexander cried out, and something crashed through the underbrush.

Grabbing his sword, she scrambled out of the tent—to see Alexander being held in the fierce grip of two soldiers. Another man clad in chain mail and armor held the tip of a sword at her beloved’s throat, and several more soldiers clustered around them in the clearing. Alexander was disheveled, and so were the men holding him, one of whom was going to have a black eye. As for the one holding his sword at Alexander’s throat—

“Connor!” Isabelle cried, still clutching Alexander’s sword as she got to her feet. Her brother-in-law whirled around.

Knowing that it was Connor and his men who had found them, yet also realizing what that meant for Alexander, joy and fear, delight and panic warred in Isabelle as Connor lowered his sword. Abroad smile lit his face as he strode across the clearing and hugged her tightly. “Oh, thank God, thank God!”

Dropping Alexander’s sword, she returned her brother-in-law’s embrace, and for a moment, her tumultuous emotions overwhelmed her.

Connor drew back and ran an anxious gaze over her and her hair. “You are well? You are not hurt?”

Regaining her self-control, mindful that Alexander was in the custody of Connor’s men, she picked up his sword and nodded. “I was not harmed, or attacked.”

More relief flashed across Connor’s face, and she knew that if Connor believed that Alexander had raped her, he would have died on the spot. Indeed, she knew that might be Alexander’s fate unless she could convince Connor that he must be allowed to leave. “You have to let Alexander DeFrouchette go. He was bringing me back.”

Connor clearly didn’t know what to make of her statement, or her demand. “Let him go?”

“Yes. He was willing to forgo the ransom. That’s why we are here alone.”

Connor’s sharp glance darted between her and Alexander. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, Isabelle, but it’s over now. Let’s get you back to Bellevoire.”

She stood her ground. “You have to let him go.”

“I will not walk away and let this man go free,” Connor replied, his tone shifting to one of command. “You are tired and overwrought, Isabelle. We shall return to Bellevoire, and then I will decide what is to be done.”

“
You
will decide? I was the one he abducted.”

“Exactly,” Connor retorted. “You were abducted, by this man and at least one other. I am not about to excuse him for that.”

Her grip on Alexander’s sword tightened. “Connor, you must listen to me.”

Her brother-in-law swept her up in his strong arms. “Not now and not here.”

Before she could voice any protest or struggle her way out of his arms, he set her on one of his soldier’s mounts. “First, we return to Bellevoire, then…” His expression softened a little as he looked up at her. “Then I will listen to what you have to say, after you’ve had a chance to eat and rest.”

As she gazed down at her lordly brother-in-law, Isabelle realized there was nothing she could say or do at present that would make him change his mind. In truth, it might be better if she marshaled arguments a man would understand: less to do with feelings and more to do with vows and agreements.

Connor reached up to take the sword from her, but she clasped it to her breast. “I will keep this.”

His brow furrowed, but Connor said no more about it as he mounted. “Bring the prisoner to Bellevoire,” he commanded his soldiers. He ran another scornful gaze over Alexander. “And let him walk.”

From the moment Connor and Isabelle were spotted near the village, the news that Lady Isabelle had been found spread through Bellevoire like fire in dry grass. By the time they reached the green, a crowd had gathered, full of smiling and obviously curious people. Beaming as brightly as if he’d rescued her himself, Bartholomew led the villagers in a rousing cheer as they rode by.

Isabelle was grateful for such a reception and couldn’t fault them for being curious, but she also knew that speculation as to what had happened to her would be the topic of conversation for months to come. She wondered what they would say if they knew
all
that had happened.

But she still had no regrets, and even now, her thoughts were with the bound Alexander, whose eventual arrival was sure to elicit a far different welcome.

When they arrived in the castle courtyard, the door to the hall flew open and Allis ran down the steps toward them, her arms wide, as if she wanted to embrace them horse and all. “Isabelle!”

At that moment, all Isabelle felt was an equal, overwhelming joy. She didn’t wait for Connor to dismount but threw her leg over the horse and jumped down.

Allis immediately enveloped her in a crushing embrace. “You’re here! You’re safe! Thank God, thank God!”

Still gripping Alexander’s sword, Isabelle held her sister tight. During the long days and longer nights of her captivity, when Alexander had still seemed her enemy, and especially when she had been in that dank cell, thoughts of being back with her family had been her greatest source of hope and strength.

“I’ll take my horse to the stable,” Connor murmured behind them.

Reminded they were not alone, Isabelle let go of Allis and wiped her eyes before regarding her sister with concern. “Are
you
well?” She lowered her voice. “And the baby?”

Her eyes alight with happiness, Allis smiled. “I’m fine—wonderful, now that you are here and safe.” She briefly hugged Isabelle again, then drew back to scrutinize her. “You must rest, and eat, and I’ll have a bath drawn up at once. Edmond is out on patrol, but he will want to see you as soon as he hears the good news.”

“Edmond?” Isabelle cried with surprise.

“I sent for him at once after you were taken,” Allis explained. “Caradoc brought him. He’s out on patrol, too. Neither of them could stand being idle while you were … were…”

“Not here.”

Allis nodded. “Yes.”

The low murmur of many voices reached Isabelle’s ears. She quickly scanned the yard and realized that several people were now watching them with smiles on their faces, except for Mildred, who stood on the steps weeping. Efe, Leoma and Gleda were near her, obviously and avidly curious.

It wasn’t difficult to imagine what they would think if they learned how she felt about Alexander. Efe would assume she’d been bewitched, Leoma would say it must be because of his dark good looks, and Gleda… Gleda would see only the son of Rennick DeFrouchette, a man she loathed.

Allis followed her gaze and, with a tender smile, took Isabelle’s arm. “Everyone in Bellevoire has been worried about you. Now come and let me look after you.”

Isabelle made no move to go. “I need to speak with Connor right away. He has captured Alexander DeFrouchette and he must free him.”

Allis frowned, and her pink cheeks flushed as her gaze flicked to Isabelle’s shorn locks. “He caught DeFrouchette?”

“Yes, he was bringing me back and—”

“Inside,” Allis said. Although there was sympathy and loving concern in her eyes, her maternal tone would brook no protest. “We will talk about that man in private.”

Perhaps that would be better, Isabelle silently acquiesced, glancing at the growing crowd of onlookers.

As she walked beside Allis toward the hall, her sister glanced down at the weapon.

“I want to keep this,” Isabelle said in answer to her silent query.

Allis looked puzzled, and far from pleased, but she did not object.

As they approached the hall, Mildred trotted down the steps to meet them. “Oh, my lady,” she sobbed as she wiped her nose with the back of her hand, “I’m so happy!”

The other maidservants who were clustered on the stairs murmured similar sentiments, their voices like a breeze through the rushes by the river. Isabelle smiled at all of them, while the sniffling Mildred hurried on ahead. “I’ll get some hot water,” she said, anxious to be helpful.

Isabelle and Allis continued on into the hall that should have been Alexander’s. Isabelle could so easily imagine him here, standing on the dais in fine clothes with her, his wife, by his side. A man of such humble origins, he would understand better than most noblemen the troubles his peasants faced—poverty, hunger, injustice.

“You don’t have to talk about what happened, Isabelle,” Allis said, softly interrupting her reverie as they began to go up the stairs toward Isabelle’s chamber. “Not unless you want to. No matter what has happened, all I care about is that you are safely here again.”

“I am here because of Alexander DeFrouchette.”

The corners of Allis’s lips turned down in a displeased expression Isabelle knew well. “You have been through a great deal,” she said, “and it may take some time before you are yourself again. When you are—”

Isabelle halted in the relative privacy of the stairwell. “I’m not an infant, Allis.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Do you see me as a woman, or only your little sister?”

Allis regarded her warily, and with a hint of frustration. “You are tired and upset, Isabelle. Besides, it is not for us to decide Alexander DeFrouchette’s fate. That will be for one of the assize justices to decide. He can be here in a few days.”

Isabelle sucked in her breath, more worried than ever for Alexander. Judges who represented the Crown traveled on set routes, holding court on matters beyond the scope of the local overlord. Because she was a lady, her abduction would be one such matter.

She could guess how such a judge would rule, and it would not be in Alexander’s favor. No matter what she said, a judge was not likely to listen to a woman, especially if Connor contradicted her.

She had to convince Connor to let Alexander go before the judge arrived. And if he would not…

She would think of something else.

His back against the stone wall of the dungeon below one of the many inner towers of Bellevoire, Alexander slumped on a rough wooden bed that had a thin straw mattress and no blanket. Straw covered the flagstones of the floor, and a bucket that was not too rank stood in one corner. He could hear rats scurrying nearby, but none were in the cell, thank God.

There was one small window high up in the wall, grilled, and far too high to look out of. A bit of light made its way into the room, enough to illuminate it a little, and to tell him that he had been here for a night and a day and a night.

So here he was at last, an inhabitant of Bellevoire, the castle that he had never deserved, in a far better cell than the one Isabelle had endured. She had not been to see him here, and he tried to accept that. Now that she was safely among her family, it must seem to her that all that had happened between them on the journey back to Bellevoire had been no more than a pleasant interlude in an otherwise unpleasant dream, best forgotten upon waking.

Sighing, he scanned the room again, although he had the dimensions and furnishings memorized. He had had little else to do but look at them, and think, and try not to wonder about his fate, for that always led to the same conclusion: death.

Voices and steps approached, the voices low and the thud of boots loud. He scrambled to his feet. He would not be found in an attitude of defeat and despair, no matter how he felt.

A key turned in the heavy iron lock in the thick wooden door. It creaked open and two soldiers entered, one carrying a torch. The other was a big, burly fellow whose helmet shone in the dim light. The one with the torch was thinner, and his eyes gleamed with a malevolence that would have done credit to a Brabancon.

“Sir Connor wants to see you,” the burly one said in the low growl of a Cornishman.

Before Alexander could respond, the force of a blow from the burly man’s fist split his lip. As Alexander tasted blood, the one with the torch drew his sword. He poked Alexander’s chest to push him back against the wall. Holding his arms out in surrender, Alexander obeyed.