The Pleasures of Sin (23 page)

Conflicting emotions whirled through Brenna as she began to understand James’s goal and all it meant to her. She had been thinking of only a tiny market, of the victory of having her artwork shown on church property. He was thinking of the world.

“I am a merchant and have been trading goods for many years, Brenna. You can trust my judgment in this matter.”

No one had ever showed true support for her artwork. His belief in her felt like a punch in the stomach.

“My brother is coming,” she blurted out, then wanted to kick herself. How could she sell her family out so easily? Guilt ran through her.

“Your brother?”

“Yea. He is bringing men to attack and siege the keep a fortnight hence.”

James seemed to visibly withdraw from her.

Placing a hand on his chest, she leaned toward him, willing him to understand.

“You planned this,” he accused.

“I did not! I only just learned—”

“Master Montgomery! Master Montgomery!” A street urchin wearing ragged clothing came running up to them. “The keep is on fire! Hasten!”

Dread coursed through Brenna in long, deep waves as James grasped her hand in a tight grip and began running back toward Windrose to check the extent of the fire.

He dashed through the village streets, around puddles and through stores. His boots rang on the cobblestones.

The worrisome thought that her father had returned flittered in and out of her mind as she gasped for breath, trying to stay up with her husband. She wanted to scream, to deny the possibility.

They scrambled onto the main road. Only a half-mile to the keep now.

A tall plume of black smoke rose into the evening sky, mingling with the clouds. It came from the north tower—her chamber. The scent of ash hung in the air.

“Blast that we did not take the horses!” James cursed, running faster.

Her heart pounded in time with their footsteps. She stumbled, unable to keep up with her husband’s stride. Without stopping, he yanked her into his arms and, still sprinting, carried her toward Windrose.

She bounced against him, clinging to his neck. Her added weight did not seem to bother him. He sped up, racing now for the keep.

The acrid smell of smoke burned her lungs, and she saw flames shooting from her window. Servants had begun to line up in a formation to haul buckets of water from the well to the tower.

Dear heavens.

Her paintings.

Her work.

Her supplies.

All of her life’s passions had been in that tower.

The icy tendrils of panic flooded her limbs. They ran under the portcullis and she fought James’s hold on her. He released her, setting her onto her feet.

Heedless of her safety, she ran for the tower’s steps.

Montgomery snagged her wrist, wheeling her around. “Nay, wife. ’Tis dangerous.”

“My paintings!”

“Can be re-done. This world has paints aplenty but only one you.”

She screamed at him, crumpling nearly in two, but he held her back. She wanted to rescue her work, to salvage what she could from the consuming, hungry fire.

“Nay! Nay! Nay!” She fought blindly against him.

Montgomery hugged her, his strong arms both binding and comforting.

Bile rose in her throat as she watched the tower burn. Orange and blue lights shot into the night sky. The new roof caught aflame, as did the woodpile. Heat radiated into the air.

Brenna’s panicked cries turned to sobs of despair as the orange and red tongues of fire licked up more and more of the keep, more and more of her tower. She buried her face in James’s tunic and squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could cut off the sight.

But she could smell the ash, hear the crackle, and feel the heat. The fire was consuming her paintings, burning her life’s work. And it felt as if it burned off little pieces of her soul.

Her dreams lifted into the air like so much smoke. Tears stung her eyes, flowing freely down her cheeks.

“Brenna,” Montgomery rasped, pulling her out of her stupor. He held her slightly away from him by the upper arms. “Listen, wife. I have to direct the men to save what we can of the keep.”

She nodded jerkily, wanting to protest, to cling to him and beg him to stay with her. But she knew he had duties, responsibilities.

’Twas selfish to think of only her own work when the entirety of the keep was at stake.

“Go to the bucket line and help them with water. The activity will keep your mind occupied more than standing here watching the burn.”

She clenched her jaw to keep herself from screaming, but she knew he was right. Through tears, she gazed at him, fixating on his face. Sparks from the fire were reflected in his eyes and she felt herself tremble.

“You will be all right. But we must work, not stand around goggling.”

The firm authority in his voice reached her frantic brain and for once in her life she was glad, grateful even, for his controlled, masterful demeanor. Swallowing, she latched onto his command like a drowning soul would reach for a lifeline. She forced her legs to move toward the bucket line and take a place among the workers.

Taking a bucket, she passed it to the person in front of her, concentrating on the task and the solid weight in her hands rather than the nebulous agony of her loss.

The night fled on, the fire burning higher and higher into the sky. Brenna worked, and kept on working even when her arms and shoulders screamed in agony. Bucket after bucket passed through the line in a rhythmic flow like a giant undulating snake.

Townsmen joined them. Father Peter raised his hands to pray for rain. Adele lifted her staff and began her own chant. Gwyneth stood on the edges wringing her hands.

Embers from the tower’s roof fell onto other sections of the keep. Smaller fires started. Servants ran to throw dirt and water on them to keep the flames from spreading. The fire’s glow flickered over the worn grass.

Brenna passed more buckets. Sweat rolled down her temples.

And then, sometime after dawn’s light began to climb the horizon, God heard their pleas. A soft sprinkle trickled down from the sky, adding heaven’s effort to those of the exhausted workers.

Rain! Blessed, blessed rain.

Fatigued servants danced, their spirits lifted as water sizzled against fire.

The morning dragged on, but the battle for the keep turned. Father Peter began nodding his head and giving thanks. Adele lowered her staff; Gwyneth was nowhere to be seen.

The sky opened. Harder rain fell in a sheeting deluge until, at last, the flame was extinguished.

Workers began to leave, heeding their bodies’ exhausted cry for rest.

The stench of desolation surrounded them: burned wood and damp earth. Soot covered the area where the tower had been. The roof was gone and only the blackened stone wall remained.

Panting, Brenna collapsed to the ground, sitting with her knees drawn to her chest and her head on them. Rain fell on her face and hair, pouring down in unheeded waves. Her back ached. Her limbs felt heavy and numb. Her sodden skirt clung to her thighs.

After the frantic hurly-burly of the fire with the clatter and shouts of workers, the silence was disconcerting. Bewildering, even.

Gone.

All her artwork was gone. Her paintings destroyed. Sickness settled in her belly and she hugged her knees. Everything of worth that she owned was in that tower. Her brushes. Her drawings. Her paint pigments. Even the gold she’d saved for her trip to Italy. It would take years to recover the loss. And some things were irreplaceable: the large board she’d painted of the birth of Jesus, the one of Noah and the flood, the one of the Archangel Gabriel fighting Lucifer.

The only paintings she had left were the two James had taken to the cathedral.

Nausea overtook her and she squeezed her arms as if she could somehow hug the heartache out of her body. Hot tears mixed with the cold rain.

“A woman! Master Montgomery, come!” Ogier the woodcutter called to James from the burned-out entrance of the tower.

Brenna watched her husband pace across the keep’s ground. His tunic, usually so precise, clung in wet ripples to his muscular body. But even his beautiful form could not keep her from the despair she felt. A fierce wave of gratitude spun through her that he had taken those two paintings to the cathedral. At least she had those pieces to prove that she was an artist.

A tall man wrapped fully in a cloak sank beside her on the ground. His cloak spread out into the mud. He turned his face allowing her a glimpse inside his hood. Thick dark hair, rich brown eyes and a sharp jawline showed in the shadows.

Nathan! Her brother.

Her eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat. She had not seen him in two years and a leap of joy skipped into her heart.

“Shh,” he admonished, “Montgomery cannot catch me here.” He smiled slightly then ducked his head, enveloping his face in shadow.

Heart pounding, she stared straight ahead at the charred tower.

Nathan took her hand and started to rise. “Come, now. We must go.”

Understanding dawned on her, and she wanted to scream with outrage. “You set the tower on fire,” she accused. More tears flowed down her cheeks.

“It had to be done.”

Red fury clouded her vision and she nearly hurled herself at him. “Adele said you were coming in a fortnight. I could have gotten my things.”

Taking her arm, he lifted her to her feet. “There was no time. There is no time now. Come.”

Her legs shook; the exhaustion and depth of her emotions made her feel confused and weak.

“Put this on.” He produced a spare cloak from beneath his own and thrust it around her shoulders. “Hasten!”

“Lady Brenna is dead in the tower!” a servant called out across the bailey.

Coldness ran through Brenna’s limbs and she shrank back from her brother. A burned tower. A dead woman. Madness was upon them. She dug her heels into the rain-soaked earth, resisting Nathan’s pull on her arm. “You murdered someone!”

“Nay, sister. A corpse freshly dug, fully charred beyond recognition. Hasten! Afore Montgomery discovers the truth.”

She stumbled along as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and half-carried, half-dragged her over the muddy lawn.

No one paid them any attention. Many from the town had gathered to help with the fire and they blended easily with the crowd of dirty, worn workers. Some went into the tower to see the charred corpse while others wandered wearily back to their homes. Servants lounged in doorways, too exhausted from the night’s work to pay heed to two travelers walking from the keep.

Her heart seemed to bleed with each step away from Windrose. It was on the tip of her tongue to cry out, to protest. Nathan must have gathered as much, for he placed his palm against her mouth and stifled her cry.

“There is naught here for you but heartache, Brenna.”

Heartache? Like the heartache of losing her paintings.

“If he catches us, we will both be thrown into the dungeon.” Nathan kept walking, pushing her up through the gate and onto the road. “Father wanted to attack, but this way I can save all three of you while minimizing the damage to the keep. ’Twas only one tower that burned.”

One tower.

Her tower.

Exhausted, Brenna went, stumbling along beside him. But her heart protested—she wanted to stay here with her husband, with the man who forced stodgy old churchmen to hang her paintings not with her brother who burned them like so much garbage.

“My paintin—”

“Foolish girl!” he said, pushing her along. “Castles and lives are at stake. There is no time to mourn canvas!”

He was right, of course. But that did not stop the ache in her chest or ease the hollowness in her stomach. “Adele? Gwyneth?”

“Are awaiting us at the ship. We sail for Italy tonight.”

In a hot, stinging wash of realization, Brenna knew she would ne’er see her husband again. Ne’er feel his lips on hers. Or his hard member against her soft core.

She stopped, sliding her slippers along the cobbled road as Nathan urged her forward. “I can’t go. You go without me.”

Her brother’s arm tightened around her and he dragged her forward. “Adele said you might protest, that Montgomery is a devil who has cast a spell on you.”

“He’s no sorcer—” She shuddered. Mayhap he was a sorcerer. She certainly had been enthralled by him. Even now, she wanted the comfort of his arms and their strength around her. She wanted to sink into his embrace, knowing he was in charge and well-capable of handling her churning emotions. As he had when she was bound for his pleasure, open and vulnerable and starving for his touch.

“I will not go,” she said firmly.

Nathan growled, forcing her forward, shoving her now. “Heed me, sister, Gwyneth has given
The King’s Mistresses
o’er to the king’s men and they know you are the painter. While you think you may be doing your wicked artwork in private, your secret is no longer concealed.”

“Nay,” she gasped.

“Whatever relationship you had before, Montgomery will not want you now, and you will spend the rest of your days in a nunnery repenting the evilness of your deeds.”

Her body jerked as if he’d slapped her. Nathan held her upright, dragging her with him. The cobblestones ate into the soles of her slippers and her sodden skirt bound her legs, making it hard to walk.

“How could you?” she rasped.

“’Tis for your good. Now hasten ere they catch up before we make it to the port.”

She wanted to scream. She wanted to wail. But all the screams in the world would do her no good if Montgomery knew of
The King’s Mistresses.

All was lost.

She felt she was in a bog where every step sank her further into the muck. If she stayed, admitted she was still alive, she would be burned at the stake. But to go? How could she face a desolate life without Montgomery’s arms to hold her deep in the night?

They passed hedgerows and other travelers. The sun lifted into the sky, but there was no warmth to be had. A waiting carriage took them further through the town, past the cathedral, toward the docks.

The ship loomed ahead of them. Waiting. Waiting. Ready to sail.

At this safe distance, she chanced throwing back her hood and looking toward Windrose Castle, which rose above the huts and buildings of the town. From here she could not see the burned tower.

As if it had not happened at all.

Her heart ached.

She sniffed the air, wanting to smell the ash and the scent of her pain. Wind rose from the sea, its briny aroma drowning out the smoke.

Would Montgomery mourn her? Would he ache inside as she did that their time was over? Or would he hate her? She had no pretty words from him. No declarations of love, or even of care.

He had told her that he had no heart left for love.

But he had liked her artwork, liked her passion. Liked the intimate times they had shared. He had believed in her paintings enough to force Bishop Humphrey to hang them in the cathedral.

She sniffed. Even that would be gone once he realized she was the painter of
The King’s Mistresses
and that he had been helping a traitor. Her heart sank with the realization.

Montgomery was a man of honor. A man of duty. A man who did what was necessary for his king.