White Lion's Lady (32 page)

“I think you know,” Sebastian answered.

Treason.

The accusation crowded her mind as it strangled her heart, but she could not voice the hated word that would rob her once more of all she held dear. She stared into Sebastian’s cool features, this man she was promised to marry, the man who would send her beloved to die on the gallows come the morn. “Sebastian, you must listen,” she appealed to him, reaching out to catch his hand, her eyes flooding with tears. “Surely you owe me no consideration in this, but I beg you, do not surrender him to the sheriff. Call your messenger back, please. Release Griffin.”

A muscle twitched in the earl’s jaw as he stared down at her. “Griffin of Droghallow is a criminal, my lady. He abducted you from your escort here to gain a profit. Whether that profit was to come from the coffers of his traitorous overlord or mine own is inconsequential. By all rights, you should be thanking me for locking the blackguard up, not begging me to set him free.”

Isabel saw the unspoken accusation in her betrothed’s eyes and she had to force herself not to glance away. “It wasn’t the way you’re making it sound. ’Tis true Griffin was ordered into the kidnapping, but he changed his mind. He rescued me from Droghallow and sought to bring me here instead. He provided for me, and kept me safe from Dom’s men. He protected me—”

The earl grunted. “If the condition of your arm is any indication, demoiselle, I’d say he nearly got you killed.”

Isabel blew out a small, defeated sigh, knowing that to explain her actions in taking the bolt for Griffin—to explain any aspect of their time together—would do nothing to sway Sebastian to her cause. Indeed, it might only
strengthen his resolve against Griffin, and that was a risk she refused to take. “I know what you must think of me, my lord, but grant me this one thing, I beseech you. Call back your message to the sheriff, release Griffin, and I will ask nothing else of you so long as I live.”

“What you ask now is a great deal, Isabel. More than I can grant you.” The earl pulled his hand out of her grasp. “This man has wronged me. He has wronged his king—
our king
. As Richard’s vassal, I am obliged to demand reparation.”

He turned to walk toward the window as if meaning to end their conversation then and there, but Isabel took a half step after him, reaching out to place her hand atop the sleeve of his tunic. He paused, pivoting to face her again. “If you seek reparation,” she said, “then demand it of me. You said you would demand my fidelity as your wife, my lord. If you do this to ensure it, I give you my word that I would honor you as my husband without your sending Griffin to the gallows.”

“I don’t do this as punishment for you or for him, my lady. I do it because my loyalty is to my king. I would ask you to try to understand.”

“Please,” Isabel whispered brokenly, unable to staunch the tears that welled and spilled down her cheeks. “Please, Sebastian … I will do anything you ask, just call back your message to the sheriff.”

“The matter is out of my hands,” he told her, his raven brows drawn together in a frown. “I’m sorry, Isabel.”

“No,” she choked, feeling as if she were breaking apart into a thousand tiny pieces. “My lord … Sebastian, no …”

But the earl’s face remained unchanging, impassive. Unrelenting. Nothing she could say would dissuade him from his course, that much was clear. Sick with the idea, Isabel put her face in her hands and pivoted on her heel to
take her leave before she broke down in front of him. She managed two steps, then drew up short as a slim figure came to stand before the open chamber door.

“What have I done in offense that I must hear it from my maids that my son’s bride is arrived at last?” There was a teasing, affectionate note in the woman’s soft scold, a mother’s warmth in her smile … until her eyes lit upon Isabel’s tear-stained face. “Oh, my dear,” she said, coming forward to place her arm around Isabel. “Whatever is wrong?”

Isabel could not answer. She turned her face into Lady Montborne’s shoulder and wept, needful of the sympathy even if it came from a relative stranger. She needed a mother’s soothing embrace even if it came from the dame of her betrothed. Isabel poured out her grief, weeping like a helpless, hurting child.

“Sebastian,” Lady Montborne said, “whatever is this about?”

The woman’s voice was edged with confusion; she was unaware, evidently, of Isabel’s shame. Perhaps she was even unaware of the circumstances in which Isabel had finally come to Montborne. When the earl did not answer forthwith, his mother pulled Isabel out of her arms and blotted her wet cheeks with the long sleeve of her rich samite bliaut. “What is it, child? Coming here to your new home should be a happy occasion, not a cause for so many tears.”

She stared at Isabel, her aged face lined with genuine concern, her pale, gentle gaze searching. Lady Montborne gave a little sigh, shaking her head when Isabel’s tears would not cease. The lady smoothed a stray lock of hair from Isabel’s brow. “Dear, dear,” she whispered, “you weep as if your whole world is ending.”

“I-I’m sorry,” Isabel stammered. She willed herself to composure, reaching down within her to summon a measure of dignity before her betrothed and his lady mother.
How ashamed Griffin would be to see her now, so weak and inconsolable. Her whole world was ending, but her sorrow over it would serve no one now, least of all him. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “Please excuse me.”

She withdrew from Lady Montborne’s arms to take her leave, but the noblewoman’s hand suddenly tightened on Isabel’s wrist. She looked down from Isabel’s face slightly, her delicate silvered brows knit into a frown as she reached out to lift Griffin’s medallion pendant into her palm. “Mon Dieu,” she gasped. “Where did you …?”

“It’s mine,” Isabel said quickly. She took the white lion amulet out of the elder woman’s slack grasp. “It was a gift.”

Lady Montborne stared at Isabel as if she had seen a ghost, her light green eyes haunted, the fine lines of her face seeming to deepen as she stared at the medallion Isabel clutched possessively in her fist. “Who … did someone give it to you?” she asked, her face gone ashen. When she tried to take a step toward Isabel, her knees buckled beneath her.

“What is it, Mother?” Sebastian rushed forward to catch her from the fall, holding her up at the elbow. “Good God, you’re shaking.” He turned his scowling, confused gaze on Isabel. “Let me see that medallion.”

But Isabel only clutched it tighter, fearful that if she let him see the amulet now, if she admitted where she had gotten it, she would lose this precious treasure from Griffin. Of their own accord, her feet began to back toward the door. He stared at her for a long moment, but he made no move to force her to his will, and when the earl turned his attention to his distressed mother once more, helping her into a cushioned chair, Isabel took the opportunity and bolted from the room.

In all his five and twenty years, Sebastian of Montborne had never seen his lady mother so distraught. Time had
done its share to weaken the once robust woman, but nothing, not even the death of her husband two years past had ever so affected her as had this queer encounter with his betrothed.

He should have warned his mother that Isabel was likely to be upset when she arrived. He should have advised her about the kidnapping, but with the recent decline in her health, he had thought it best to spare her the troubling news. Now, in light of her present state of distress, he had to wonder at the wisdom of that decision.

“How do you suppose she came to have it?” she asked, an abrupt question that made him pause where he stood, pouring her a cup of wine from a decanter on his desk.

“What’s that, my lady?” He offered her the drink, but she refused it, idly batting his hand away.

“The medallion. I wonder how she … I wonder where she might have gotten it.”

Sebastian gave a shrug. He had not noticed the pendant until seeing his mother’s strange reaction to it. “In truth, I suspect it was a token given to her by her abductor.” At his mother’s look of shock and confusion, he hastened to explain. “Perhaps I should have told you, but I did not want to upset you. Lady Isabel was captured by brigands a couple of weeks ago while en route to Montborne.”

His mother’s brows crashed together. “What?”

“The chief offender—the man to whom that medallion no doubt belongs—is sitting in our gaol awaiting the sheriff as we speak.”

“He is—” She swallowed hard and blinked in disbelief. “Mon Dieu, he’s here? At Montborne?”

Sebastian nodded. “The blackguard was with her when we found her near Derbyshire. Actually, it was his own message that led me to her. Nevertheless, I’ve sent for the sheriff; he’ll stand trial for his crimes on the morrow.”

“Oh, no,” she whispered, her hand flying to her mouth, fingers trembling. “Oh, God, no.”

“It’s all right now,” he told her, trying to assuage some of the fear he saw swimming in her eyes. “Everything will be fine, I promise.”

“What is his name?” she choked, her voice raw and thready. She reached out, clutching at his sleeve. “His name, Sebastian! What is this man called?”

“Droghallow,” he answered. “He is Griffin of Droghallow.”

With a cry of unmistakable anguish, she lunged to her feet. She stared at Sebastian, shaking her head, her face awash with torment. “Oh, my God!” she gasped. “Heaven help me, what have I done?”

Without waiting for him to follow, she swept past Sebastian, heading down the corridor toward the castle’s prison cells.

Seated on a meager wooden bench in his cell, Griffin lifted his head when he heard the echoing clap of leather-soled slippers fast descending the stairwell that snaked down to the castle’s gaol. There was a rush of voices on the other side of the heavy wooden door—one female, the other belonging to his guard—and then a key was turned in the lock and the thick, iron-banded panel yawned open. Griff stood, shielding his eyes as torchlight spilled into his cell from outside.

For a moment, he had thought it might be Isabel come to see him one last time. Instead, from behind the soldier who had been dispatched to the prison for night duty, came another lady, someone Griffin had never seen before. She was aged at least twice his own years, but still noble of face and form, her steel-gray hair plaited and covered with a wine-colored veil, her slender frame draped in a fine bliaut of burgundy samite.

And she was crying.

“Mon Dieu,” she whispered as she stepped up to the row of cells, the hem of her skirts rustling in the straw that littered the floor. Settling her gaze on Griffin, she froze. “Unlock his cell.”

The knight gaped at her in disbelief. “But my lady, I cannot. This man is a prisoner of the earl—”

“Unlock it. Please.”

Sebastian entered the prison area in that next moment,
the bones of his face accentuated by the flickering torchlight and his tightly held expression. “Do as she asks,” he commanded the warden, then shot a warning glance at Griffin. “I trust he won’t be fool enough to bring harm to my lady mother.”

With the earl’s permission, the guard went to the iron grate with his key. He opened the cell door and moved aside as Lady Montborne took a hesitant step forward. She pressed her lips together as she stared at Griffin, her pale gaze searching his, studying him. She swallowed as if she wasn’t sure she could summon her voice to speak.

“What is your name?” she asked softly, approaching him despite a growl of caution from her son.

“I am Griffin of Droghallow, madam.”

“You are.” It was more sigh than answer, a breathless whisper of a word that seemed to lift a heavy weight from her features. “Griffin,” she repeated, then brought her shaking fingertips up to her lips. She took another step toward him, then another, coming to stand before him in the cell. Something danced in her tear-filled eyes, an emotion not quite recognition but something near it, something deep and unreadable. “You are Griffin of Droghallow.”

At his slight nod, the lady bowed her head and let out a broken sob. She reached down, took his hand in hers.

Then sank to her knees before him in the dry blanket of straw.

Griff could only stare, helpless and astonished, as Lady Montborne held his palm against her cheek and wept.

“Forgive me,” she said, turning her face up to look at him. “Please … forgive me.”

Behind her, the earl swore an oath. His disbelieving gaze locked with Griffin’s. “What the devil is the meaning of this? I would have an explanation of the madness I see before me.”

Griffin could offer no such thing, but Lady Montborne did.

“I cannot let you call for this man’s death, my son,” she answered, a tear dripping off her chin to splash on Griffin’s hand. “You see, Sebastian … he is your brother.”

Isabel paced her chamber, heartsick with frustration and the terrible helplessness of her situation. She could not bear the thought of Griffin facing charges in the morning, no more than she could bear the thought of living a single day without him. In the hour or more that she had spent alone in her room at Montborne, she had devised at least a dozen plans to fix the disaster her life had become, ridiculous plans of escape and flight with Griffin, plans that would make them fugitives once more if not succeeding in getting them both killed.

Plans that would defy her king’s orders and forsake a little girl who was waiting in a lonely convent, counting on Isabel to bring her home.

“Oh, Maura,” she sighed into the emptiness of her chamber. “I have made a bigger mess of things than Papa did.”

She stared unseeing into the stone fireplace that dominated most of one wall, watching the flames twist and undulate, so lost in her thoughts that she scarcely heard the soft rap on her door. When the panel creaked open, Isabel turned her head, ready to dismiss the maid who had offered earlier that hour to bring her some food and wine from the kitchens. But it wasn’t a castle servant; it was her betrothed’s mother.

Lady Montborne stood in the wedge of torchlight that poured in from the corridor. She smiled at Isabel, but there was a sadness in her eyes. Even in the dim light, it was plain to see how her regal face was flushed with recently spent emotion; her slender fingers trembled on the latch of the door. “May I come in?” she asked.