Chapter Twelve
Mari-Elle waited and waited for Gaston to come to her. Midnight came and still he did not, and she waited and fumed.
What more could she do? She had begged, lied, wheedled and cajoled, and still he had been unresponsive. She had tried to play upon his sympathies for his son, but he had merely become angry.
Frustrated, she sat up in bed and pondered her future darkly. There was not much time left to lie with him and then convince him that this child was his, and she was nearly out of ideas. The fainting spell, convenient as it was, did nothing to sway him. Mayhap … mayhap something more drastic would.
A light ignited in her devious mind and she bound from the bed, wincing when her lower abdomen pulled sharply at the sudden motion.
She made her way unsteadily to her wardrobe and began to rummage again, tossing things aside in her quest. After a few minutes of cursing and grunting, she finally had what she was searching for.
A lovely bejeweled dagger filled her palm, the blade about three inches in length.
She smiled as she turned it over, examining it.
What if she were to present herself to Gaston as a woman desperate to take her life if he did not give in to her needs?
She was quite good and ranting and hysterics, and surely he would forget his stubbornness when he saw how very sincere she was.
She clutched the dagger to her chest, feeling more hope than she had since her arrival.
She closed her eyes, a picture forming in her mind, her hysterical threats, pleas, Gaston’s soft voice, as he coaxed the blade from her hand.
Defeated and crushed, she would throw herself in his arms and he would comfort her.
From that point on, she knew she could seduce him.
Once his guard was down, the rest would be easy.
Donning her best dressing surcoat, she went in search of her husband’s bedchamber.
Remington was asleep in the great bed, the soft crackle from the fire the only sound in a soundless world.
She had been planning on returning to her own room, door or no door, when she had inadvertently smelled the cotton coverlet that she had clutched to cloak herself.
Inhaling the pillow and the mattress, she was delighted to learn that they smelled of him, leather and male musk.
Happy and warm, she had collapsed onto his bed and drifted off to sleep.
Mari-Elle, being an intelligent woman, had little trouble locating Gaston’s room. She simply asked the nearest soldier and he directed her gladly, for there was no standing orders to restrict Mari-Elle to her room. All orders had been given to her directly and she had been expected to obey.
She entered the dim wing, following the directions the soldier had given her, and made her way silently down the hall.
All of the doors were closed save one, which looked as if it had been torn off its hinges.
She looked at it a moment, puzzled, and actually stuck her head inside the room.
It was a ladies room, vacant, and through the open adjoining door, she could see another empty bed.
She clung to the stone wall as she made her way toward the great double doors at the end of the hall, knowing upon sight it was her husband’s room.
Her stomach twisted with nerves as she approached, silently beseeching God for help with what she must do in order to preserve her honor and livelihood.
The torches on either side of the doors burned low and sooty as she tried the latch quietly; amazingly it wasn’t locked, and she quietly shoved the right door open, carefully inspecting the room as it was revealed to her, trying to grow accustomed to the dim light.
The fire was low in the hearth and the room was dark, but she could make out the massive bed directly to her left. Huge, swathed in yards and yards of dark fabric that hung from the canopy frame, she could also see a figure bunched up in the center of it.
She dashed the faint smile away from her lips as she approached with the stealth of a cat. She would wake him gently, aye, before launching into her tirade, and she was verily pleased that the element of surprise was on her side.
Slowly she approached, her eyes growing used to the dark and she could see that the figure was almost buried in the coverlets.
She rounded the bed on the far side of the figure, not wanting to be too close to him lest he lash out and strike at her for surprising him.
But even as her pleasure filled her, it suddenly occurred to her that the figure on the bed was far too small to be her husband.
Cold, complete fury flushed her veins even as her brain tried to deny what she was seeing and suddenly she ceased to think as a rational being.
All she knew was that this wench in her husband’s bed had most likely received the seed of life she so desperately wanted.
No wonder Gaston had been uninterested in her if he had a bitch to bed.
This small body sleeping peacefully after sucking her husband’s seed dry was beyond contempt and Mari-Elle was filled with the fury of hell. She would show no mercy.
She suddenly remembered the dagger in her hand. With a small, hysterical cry issued from behind, clenched teeth, she brought the dagger high and jumped onto the bed, descending on her prey like a carnivorous hunter. Her revenge would be mindless and swift.
Remington heard the cry, for it had awakened her.
Suddenly the bed was being jostled and she instinctively threw the covers down from her face to see what in the hell was going on.
The last thing in the world she expected to see was Mari-Elle descending on her like an avenging demon, the dirk in her right hand glittering evilly.
Terror shot through her and she let out a scream of her own, trying to roll away, but the weight of the crazed woman on the coverlets severely hampered her free movement.
From the corner of her eye she could see the blade coming down and instantaneously she felt the searing pain of penetration in her upper right chest, the heat of agony flooding through her like the fires of Hades.
Both women screamed loudly as contact was made and Mari-Elle let go of the dirk, leaving it imbedded near Remington’s collarbone. Gasping with fury and the panic of what she had done she flopped wildly off the bed and made a mad scramble to the door.
The room was full of shrieking, horrible gasping noises and Remington fell off the bed and Mari-Elle tripped to the floor in her haste to leave.
She staggered to her feet, glancing behind her at the woman struggling beside the bed, the only thing filling her mind was to escape.
She could scarce believe what she had done, yet she did not regret it.
With any luck, the whore would bleed to death before Gaston returned and take the secret of who stabbed her to the grave.
Remington’s right arm was useless but she tried to rise, afraid that Mari-Elle was going for a more deadly weapon.
Bleeding all over Gaston’s sheets, she pulled herself to her knees long enough to see that Mari-Elle was bolting for the door.
Struggling to her feet, she clutched at the canopy frame as she attempted to pursue, knowing there was no possible way she could stop her but making the try all the same.
Her loss of blood was making her desperately weak and her head swam with shock, but she had to break free of the room and find help.
Help was already coming in the form of Rory.
Having heard the screams, she shot out of bed and was barreling down the hall when she saw Mari-Elle stagger out of Gaston’s bedchamber.
Shocked at the apparent state of the woman, she rapidly closed the distance to see if she could be of assistance when Mari-Elle suddenly grabbed hold of a spear that was in a crafted iron display stand and thrust it at her.
“Get back!” she hissed.
Rory was truly surprised, wanting to assure the woman that she only wanted to help, when Remington suddenly stumbled through the doorway. Covered in blood, there was no mistaking the hilt that protruded from her shoulder and the flame of understanding shot through Rory like a bolt.
“You bitch!” she snarled, torn between wanting to rush to Remington’s side and wanting to charge Mari-Elle. “I shall kill you for this!”
Mari-Elle thrust the spear at Rory again and the redhead took advantage of the weak attempt. Grabbing the spear, she yanked as hard as she could and disarmed the woman.
Mari-Elle yelled and ran with Rory in hot pursuit.
Remington, struggling to push herself off the cold floor, watched her sister run after the woman and tried to stop her, but she could no longer speak.
All of her energy was sapped, draining away even as she tried to stand.
She did not know why she was trying to stand, for she had no idea where to go.
It wasn’t as if she could go in search of Gaston with a knife sticking out of her.
She heard more cries, recognizing Jasmine and Skye. The last thing she remembered before sweet darkness claimed her was collapsing into her sisters’ arms.
Rory chased Mari-Elle to the bottom floor of the castle, gaining ground rapidly.
Mari-Elle had long legs and was quick, but Rory was determined as hell to catch her and kill her.
Black murder was the only thing on her mind as she ran down Mari-Elle like a hunter on a kill.
She would take great delight in driving the spear through the woman’s gullet like a harpooned fish.
Nicolas was making his rounds when he caught sight of Mari-Elle racing toward him like a madwoman. Deeply confused, he put out his hands to stop her, but she cried out and veered away from him.
“My lady!” he called out in concern, trying to stop her.