Seize The Dawn (8 page)

But she couldn't seem to do so. "DearGod!" she exclaimed. "Surely, the illness has wasted me tragically, since I've heard that your people are exceedingly fond of even sheep!" He had closed his eyes; he opened one, eyeing her casually. "The sheep usually look a lot better," he told her. "I do then," she whispered, "most heartily thank the Lord for good-looking sheep!" She managed to turn on her side, staring into the wall of the cabin, stunned that she could have gotten into such a discussion with this, of all men. A second later she nearly screamed, and almost leaped from her skin. No sound had warned her of his presence, not the slightest whisper of air. But he was there, by her side, whispering into her ear.

"Alas, my lady, maybe you'll improve before we reach France." "I should rather die!" she informed him. "Alas, so would I! But duty calls ..." Her shoulders couldn't have been stiffer; the soft, barely concealed laughter she heard made it all the worse as he walked away from her again, and this time, for good. And yet . .. His fingers had lingered just a moment too long in the strands of her hair.

Chapter 4

Corbin Clarin had just sat down to a breakfast of delicious baked fish and fresh bread when the storm swept back into his life. Petite, dark-haired, sharp-featured, Isobel
was
attractive— as a deadly viper might be. She preferred London to Clarin, or even the great castle at York, perhaps because the Scots had been known to venture so far, or perhaps because she simply enjoyed the amusements to be had in London far more than the monotony of the north country.

Corbin loved London himself, but he despised his wife, and he dreaded waking each morning among the king's court to wonder with just which courtier she had spent the previous night. He had long ago learned to find his own quest for love— or the pretense of affection—elsewhere.

She walked into the great hall unannounced, drawing her gloves from her hands as she did so. "Miles!" I have come miles, and there is no one to greet me!" she said, striding across the room to him. Corbin leaned back, but didn't rise. He folded his arms over his chest.

"Had we but known, my dear, we could have thrown flowers before your feet! Alas, you sent no word of your arrival." Flowers? Had he known, he would surely have found some business to be about elsewhere. God knew, Edward nominally held Scotland now, but the whole of the country lay in Scottish hands, few of the southern castles were even under his control, and the unruly barons were always attacking somewhere, begging the king's pardon, running back with their tails between their legs, and failing to support one another in their fear that they should support the wrong man to take the crown—if Edward should ever tire of his subjugation.

Ah, yes! There were always Scots to fight somewhere! She tossed her gloves on the table and stared at him with sharp dark eyes. "I should like some wine after my long journey. I am parched." He rose, bowing to her with mockery, and approached the sideboard to supply her with a silvered glass of the requested beverage. He mused over the wine service as he poured. Venetian glass, beautiful. She had brought it to Clarin, part of her dowry.

He handed her the wine. She nodded her head in acknowledgment, her fingers brushing his in a way that was oddly suggestive for Isobel. They had married at a time when Clarin had still been great, when his uncle Leo still lived, and when the lands were not just vast, but rich. He and Alfred had expected to reap the rewards of titles stripped from defeated rebels and lands generously bestowed upon them by the uncle who had raised them, a just and giving man. She had brought wealth; he had brought valor. They should have been a beautiful couple.

"One day that monster will justly burn!" she said. "He will suffer the greatest penalty that the law will allow, and when that day comes—"

"You will be there, watching, enjoying every bloodthirsty moment!"

She arched a brow, then pouted slightly. "You would call me bloodthirsty, when your beloved little cousin led more men into battle than you did yourself?"

"Ah, for
Santa Lenora!"

She didn't take offense. "Where is Alfred?" she inquired, looking about. "Poor, dear, long-suffering Alfred. Riding expanses of land that will never be his!"

"Eleanor is crossing the Irish Sea ... my lord, you fool! Have you no idea of the dangers? The king has offered large sums to any seaman who brings in rebel Scots seeking aid in other countries, and dozens of pirates and misfits, murderers and thieves have joined in the quest!" Isobel took a seat at the table, loosening the tie of her traveling cloak. ' 'Poor dear, she may not come back. And then, of course, should she reach France, she will wed Alain, is that correct? And there, I've no doubt, go her chances of creating the required male heir for the property."

Corbin walked over to her, planting his hands on the table before her. "You'd best pray that she does reach Alain; his fortune is necessary if we are ever to regain the riches of Castle Clarin, and turn the land back into a productive region. And though Alain may be old and doddering, many an old man has fathered a child."

"I don't believe he is capable; his first wife had children by a previous marriage. She was still very young when they wed. No, I have studied this situation carefully." She drew a finger idly over the flesh of his hand before her. "Doesn't it ever irritate you that Eleanor is a countess, and that you are Sir Corbin Clarin, and no more? Have you no ambition?"

"Aye, once, Isobel, I thought to conquer the world and make my own way within it. Then life happened. Ah, yes, and you are a part of that life!"

"Yes, I am."

"My dear, I've yet to understand your point." We can inherit." "Isobel, Eleanor is the lady of this manor, and if she were not, I have an older brother, one who actually works hard, and is deserving." "Ah, yes, but he has no wife, no prospects before him, and ...""Isobel, I am still confused. Nothing has changed." "Ah, but things have changed!" She rose, placing a hand on his chest. She had her talents. She chewed mint constantly, and her breath was as sweet as the morning dew. Her perfume was delicate and arousing. Her exploits were humiliating to a husband, but they had taught her keen talents in bed as well. She was charming, sharp, shrewd, and had earned a place at the king's court. He hesitated, wishing to put her away from him, but intrigued as well.

"What has changed? Have you decided upon some foul play for my richer relations?" he inquired harshly. "No!" she protested with deep innocence, and her fingers played down the length of his chest, and lower still, and he grit his teeth, staring at her. "No, dear, how could you suggest such a thing? I've merely thought that the time has come when someone produce an heir for the property, and with Eleanor at sea, where there are Scots, thieves, pirates, and opportunists all about, that leaves ... us."

"Alfred could marry." "Alfred has shown no inclination to do so yet. Alfred is called to battle far too frequently." "I, too, remain at the king's command." "That is true. More and more so every day."

"I see. So you've decided to come see me, and hope that we can conveniently and quickly conceive an heir—die quicker the better, because marital relations with one's husband can be so boring, and because that same husband might be so rude as to die upon the battlefield in the king's command?" She smiled, spinning from him, pulling pins from her hair, dropping them on her path to the staircase. She paused, turning back. "Are
relations
with your wife such a ghastly thing to contemplate, Corbin? Dear husband, just what is it that I'm asking of you? Nothing more than your marital duty—and a chance for your son to inherit all."

He started toward the staircase, pausing, looking up at her. "And what, my dear, if we are not so magnificently fertile? We have been married some time, and God knows, my lady, as does all of England, that you've not been exactly devoted and faithful." "But intelligent and able, my love. We've not borne fruit, because I've chosen thus far that we should not. Really, Corbin, I'd not have you—or the king or the nobility—question the paternity of my child! The time has come!" "But if it hasn't, Isobel, what then?"

"Then, husband, I will have entertained and enraptured you, and none shall feel pain." She frowned, reaching down, gently touching his face and suddenly looking very small and very beautiful. "We have led separate lives. What I ask is not so much, is it?" Her voice had grown husky, and indeed, she asked nothing but, for a change, to be his wife. His lover. He so seldom trusted her. But they were here, in his family home. And the length of him burned with a fire of long submerged desire unique to this woman. "Most men would be attacking me where we stand, on the stairs!" she reminded him with a whisper that seemed to stroke the length of him, inside and out. Amazing what a voice could do, a look, a touch.

"Aye, that they would," he agreed. He threw up his hands. "As you wish! Dear God, my aim is to please." And he swept her into his arms and carried her quickly up to his room. The stairs wouldn't do at all. His brother would return, and he didn't intend to be interrupted for hours and hours to come. Such opportunities did not come frequently in his life. They were still at sea. In the two nights since their encounter after the storm, Eleanor had seen little of the man with whom she shared the cabin. He came, she knew, because there were traces of him. Once, the length of tartan, left on the hook. Once, a horn of ale left on the desk. Then a book, left lying open. And once ... just an
impression
of him. A feeling that he had stood near her, looking down at her while she slept.

She was ready to crawl up the cabin walls. The only person she really saw was the Norse woman, Margot, with her snow- blond hair, powder-light eyes, and soft-spoken comings and goings. She would have stayed again, Eleanor thought. She would have talked; she would have helped to keep her sane, except that the tall, snow-blond, muscle-bound Norse man would appear too often, and call her name sharply. And she would follow him out, as if he were the sun and moon, all in one.

There were books in the cabin. They had helped. Wonderful books, beautifully scripted, many of them copied in Irish monasteries, signed by the monks. There were Greek and Roman histories, legends, Irish fairy tales, even passionate dissertations about Viking raids on the British Isles and beyond. Some were in French, some in Latin, and a few, she surmised, were in Norse. She knew nothing of the language, which was frustrating, because often, the few phrases of conversation she could overhear were spoken in that tongue. She had not been surprised to discover how many of the Scots were familiar with Latin and French; the church taught the former, and most young men, with any hope of moving up in the world, were familiar with the language most frequently spoken at the courts in both Paris and London. Being so near even lowland Scotland, she had learned Gaelic as a child—her father's determination. But Norse ... Viking raids had ended long ago. Only heathen northerners, highlanders, might have occasion for the use of such a language. She had thought so often of her enemies as being barbaric, so much less civilized than Englishmen. She had never imagined them to have a greater education than she, the daughter of a scholar as well as a warrior, with the blood of nobility in her veins.

But even the books could entertain her only so long. She had ceased to be afraid moment to moment; if they had meant to slice her to pieces, she was fairly certain they would have done so by now. And if they were on a mission to the French king, it was unlikely that they would do well to arrive with the blood of a French nobleman's finance on their hands. She was not suffering; she had never minded sailing, though she did despise being locked up and confined. She was well fed: Margot brought her fresh dishes, wine, water, and ale. She was even brought water with which to bathe, and once the fever had broken, she had felt better, stronger, almost immediately. Her trunk of belongings was in the cabin with her, and nothing had been taken. She bathed and changed with unease, never sure when the door to her prison might open, but the other occupant of the cabin seemed only to come at night. Margot brought her meals at regular intervals. She was never disturbed.

She thought that it was the fourth night she had been aboard when she woke suddenly in the near darkness with the feeling that someone had just left the cabin. She opened her eyes carefully, afraid that person might still be with her, but the cabin was empty. Something, however, was wrong, different. She puzzled over the situation for several moments, then realized that she had not heard the bolt slide shut.

She sat up, sliding her feet carefully to the floor. Clad in a long linen nightdress, she scurried across the floor and tested the door, barely cracking it. The door lay open. Still, she stood within the cabin, dismayed to realize that the open door seemed to do her little good. She remained on a ship at sea. She was no longer certain if they were in the Irish Sea, or if they had reached the English Channel; they seemed to be taking a circuitous route. If she escaped the cabin, what then? Another dive into the sea? No. Reason had returned. She didn't want to die. She leaned against the cabin wall, a deep desolation settling over her. The door was open, yet she remained trapped. Maybe he knew that, and so bolting the door was no longer necessary.