Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
As summer continued, the air seemed to thicken with oppression. My husband summoned me to accompany him in the garden and we strolled side by side along the manicured path, toward the bailey wall where his men were practicing swordplay, the clash of steel echoing off the walls of the Fort.
I glanced toward the top of the wall, suppressing the ripple of fear and apprehension.
Would I find the head of another suspected traitor suspended in the air as a warning to others?
But, other than the dark stain—the only evidence of poor Percy’s demise—the wall was empty.
The crows had long since done their work.
I drew in a breath and allowed myself to relax a little.
Then my husband took my hand, curling his cadaverous fingers around my wrist and the fear reignited.
I suppressed a whimper, cursing my earlier complacency.
I could not afford to drop my guard. Clamping my lips together, I fought to conquer my instinctive shiver of revulsion at Mortlock’s touch.
Despite the heat of the summer, his flesh was cold and carried the faint stench of rotting meat—as if I were being gripped by a corpse.
“We have guests arriving tonight, wife,” he wheezed. “But, I wish for you to dine in your chamber, out of sight. We have much to discuss that is not for the ears of a woman. My guests would not welcome the…distraction.”
“Aye, husband.”
I was aware that something was afoot. The chatelaine had been busying herself with preparations, overseeing the guest chambers.
When my husband and I parted company after our return to the building, I saw the kitchen maids running to and fro, preparing enough food for a feast. As I made my way to the treatment room I almost bumped into two of them carrying a freshly slaughtered boar, followed by another with a tray laden with marchpane sweetmeats.
I knew not to ask the identity of my husband’s guests. Curiosity in a woman was frowned upon and punished. But I could not help the sense of relief that my presence was not required. The less time I spent in the company of my husband or his allies, the better.
Sawford was as busy as the rest of the servants—too busy to be lurking in the shadows, and I was grateful for that, also, as I found that I was able to observe him instead.
Underneath that stony demeanor, his expression showed wariness—perhaps even trepidation.
But I doubted if anyone other than I could tell the difference.
The day before the guests’ arrival, I spotted him approaching the solar.
The way he carried himself, the uncertainty in his stance, the occasional glance over his shoulder, told me that he was not carrying out Mortlock’s orders.
He was on some errand of his own and did not wish to be discovered.
But, as I followed him, he stopped, his body stiffening.
His back still facing me, he called out.
“I suggest you contain your lust for me, madam. At least, until tonight.”
My cheeks warming with shame, I fled and avoided him for the rest of the day, secluding myself in the treatment room. How was it that Sawford seemed to be perpetually aware of me—always knowing where I was and what I was thinking and feeling?
As the day drew to a close, I retreated to my chamber where I spotted a familiar piece of paper on the floor. With trembling hands, I unfolded it to read the written words:
Courage, Lisetta. Stay safe.
Tarvin.
My heart soared with hope. He was alive! He still watched over me. I was sure he would do nothing to put himself—or me—in any danger. His warning must refer to my husband and his guests. In all likelihood, they were plotting against the king, hence why my husband did not wish me to be present.
That evening, I dined alone in my chamber. The almost continual sound of hoof beats and shouting signaled the arrival of guest after guest, but my husband did not send for me. Was Tarvin among the party? Perhaps he might tell me in his next note what my husband was plotting.
Who was he?
Perhaps he was Baldwin—the knight poor Percy had served.
He was about two score in years, with graying hair.
We had hardly spoken to each other, but he seemed more honorable than the rest of the men in my husband’s employ in that he didn’t leer at me in the manner of men such as Wyatt.
It might explain Percy’s behavior if, perhaps, Percy had been acting on his master’s orders.
Poor young man!
Had Percy known the risks he took, and that they would lead to his death?
The next day, I rose and ventured outside my chamber.
But the household was quiet. The guests were, most likely, with my husband in his study.
What were they plotting? Though I was curious, the memory of Papa’s beating was still vivid.
My husband was likely to do something far worse if he caught me spying. I might even share Percy’s fate.
As the day drew to a close, I became so lost in my thoughts that I did not notice the man approaching me in the passageway outside my chamber until he spoke.
“Cousin.”
The man before me was tall, lithe, and softly spoken.
His handsome features were surrounded by soft, dark blond hair which fell just short of his shoulders.
He smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes.
He was dressed in a brilliant, rich-red tunic, embroidered with gold thread.
He extended a hand to me; rings glittered on his fingers as he stretched them out.
My husband’s cousin, Wulfric, Baron de Tourrard.
I took his proffered hand, and he gripped mine so tightly that I winced at the sharp stab of pain.
“You have no idea what a great pleasure it is to see you again, my dear.”
Wulfric leered at me, his gaze slithering over my body, as a snake might size up its prey before striking.
There was little resemblance between the angular planes on his handsome face and my husband’s wizened features, except perhaps around the mouth.
Much as my husband disgusted me, I was glad that de Tourrard was already married when Papa began looking for a husband for me.
The prospect of being owned by a man with a reputation for cruelty, surpassing even Lord Mortlock’s, was not to be borne.
He lifted my hand to his lips and I shuddered as he drew my fingers into his mouth. He ran his tongue over them and grazed his teeth over my forefinger before nipping it, almost in a gesture of ownership as if he branded me as his. As soon as he released my hand, I withdrew.
“’Tis a great pity, Lisetta, that you belong to my cousin,” he said, his voice a deep purr.
“Ought you to say such things, Monsieur de Tourrard?” I said. “You have a wife of your own.”
He chuckled. “I would gladly have taken you as my mistress, but your father was too ambitious. My late wife had no objection to the notion. As it is…” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “You are wasted on my fool of a cousin.”
“Your wife is dead?” I said.
“Aye,” he took my hand again and pulled me close. “Your eagerness for me is showing.”
“You are too familiar, sir.”
I tried to pull my hand away but his hold was firm. I could not disguise the hatred in my voice, but he merely laughed and lifted his hand to brush my face, rubbing his thumb over my lips.
“I want you, Lisetta, and I shall have you. I hear my cousin is impotent. But I’ll wager that you’d squeal like a rutting sow if you had a real man under your skirts.”
I closed my eyes, fighting the urge to expel my breakfast at his touch. He stroked my face as gently as Sawford did but, instead of the heat that came at Sawford’s touch, a coldness swept over me, turning my blood to ice.
“All in good time, cousin,” he whispered. “All. In. Good. Time.”
I opened my eyes to see his face close to mine, his eyes dark with lust. He moved his hand to my neck before curling his fingers around it and tightening his grip. He pushed his thumb against my throat and a knot of pain swelled as he increased the pressure on my windpipe.
“I could show you such exquisite and intricate delights in my bed, Lisetta,” he said. “Lord Mortlock will not live forever, and. I’m an exceptionally patient man. Malford Hall is in need of a mistress. Mayhap I will take you with me when I leave here.”
He released me and bowed. I fled, clasping my throat which throbbed with pain. As I turned a corner, I came face to face with another of my husband’s guests, and I cried out in recognition.
My father.
Arms outstretched, I ran toward him. He was a harsh man—but he was my father. I craved a familiar face and still clung to the memories of my childhood. At Shoreton, before I more fully understood the ways of the world, I had been happy. It was my home, and I missed it.
“Papa!” I cried, “I had not known you were visiting. Why did you not send me word?”
I threw my arms around him and buried my head in his chest, breathing in the smell of him, a familiar smell which brought back memories of my home.
He gripped my shoulders, pushed me back and shook me roughly.
“Foolish child!” he snarled. “What are you doing running about the building like a common villager? I thought I had raised you to behave like a lady.”
“Papa I’m sorry, I was just—”
“I care not for your excuses, Lisetta. I must speak to your husband about your behavior. He needs to put a bit and bridle on you, if you take to wandering around the place unfettered.”
He lowered his voice, gripping my arms so tightly I groaned with pain.
“I expect you to be a dutiful wife as I expected you to be a dutiful daughter. Has your lover’s head on that pike taught you nothing?
If you behave as your mother did, you will share her fate.
’Twould be no more than you deserved. Clearly the whelp has inherited the bad blood from the bitch.
” He wrinkled his nose. “You disappoint me. You’re nothing better than a whore. ”
“Papa…”