Chapter 10 #2
“Get thee from my sight!” he snarled, droplets of spittle flying from nis mouth. “I will speak to your husband—tell him to beat the wantonness out of you. How many other lovers’ heads will soon be lined up to display evidence of your lustfulness to all?”
I pulled away from his grip and, fled, my body shaking with sobs.
I could bear it no longer. I had to go: to the village; to the woods; to anywhere but this mausoleum.
I would take my chances. If I could get to the stables, I could take my mare and seek sanctuary at the convent.
Even if the abbess turned me away, a lifetime of penury and starvation would be better than this.
At that moment, I cared not for Tarvin—or even Harwyn—my instinct for flight was too strong.
I reached the door leading outside and fumbled at the handle. Panic swelled within me as I struggled to turn it. Eventually, the door swung open and I ran through, barely aware of my surroundings until I collided with what felt like a solid wall.
But it wasn’t a wall. I was in the arms of a man.
Sawford.
He drew his arms around me, holding me tighter as I struggled.
“Let me go!” I cried. “Oh God, please let me go. I cannot bear it!”
I clawed at him, trying to free myself, aware of nothing but the urge to run. I heard a tearing sound, then a sharp pain on the side of my face pulled me back from the brink of panic.
Sawford had struck me.
I stepped back, rubbing my cheek.
“Please let me go,” I whispered, “please—Vane.”
His eyes widened at my use of his name. My mask had crumbled to dust. I took his hand and pleaded with my eyes, not caring what he—or anyone—thought of me.
“Please,” I begged. “No one need know how I escaped. Tell them anything. Say I died, or ran off with a lover, I care not. But you have to let me go. Please!”
My voice cracked as I began to cry again. Now my barricade had come down, months of unspent emotions flooded through, threatening to engulf me.
“So, madam, outside of my bed there beats a heart beneath your cold shell.”
His voice sounded triumphant, but his touch was gentle as he placed his palm on my face and brushed the tears away with his thumb.
“You would not get far, madam,” he said. “My lord Mortlock prizes his mare too highly.”
I pulled away. “You are too familiar.”
“Nay, lover, I am not and well you know it.”
“Lover,” I said bitterly, “Papa wants my lover’s head on a pike.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Baron Shoreton is here?”
I forced a laugh. “So, your master does not tell you everything. He does not permit you to accompany his guests. Mayhap the brood mare has greater worth to my lord than a…a cockroach.”
“You are well aware of my worth, madam.”
He pulled me to him and covered my mouth with his own.
Pleasure flared as he deepened the kiss.
Overcome by shame at how easily I yielded to him, I drew back my arm and scratched him across the face, taking care to score a mark with my fingernails.
He pushed me away, and I glared back in defiance, challenging him to strike again but he merely laughed.
“I see my lover has a set of claws.”
He stepped toward me. I flinched and he paused, his eyes narrowing. Then he sighed.
“Return to your room,” he said. “Even if you survived an escape attempt, a pampered creature such as yourself would not survive long in the world outside.”
As if to prove his point, he nodded toward my gown where it had torn in the struggle.
Beyond him, in the light of the setting sun, a group of my husband’s men stood by the bailey wall watching us.
They may have pledged fealty to me as lady Mortlock but as a woman on her own, without the protection of my husband’s name, they would think nothing of tearing me to shreds like a pack of dogs. I had no choice but to return inside.
Never had I felt so trapped. The shame at losing my self-control in front of the very man I wished to protect myself from was too much to bear. Nausea rose in my stomach once more and I only just reached my room before I bent over, retching, and I crumpled to the floor.
Once again I feared that I was being poisoned. Was someone slipping something into my food? Perhaps it was Celia. She hated me enough to wish to be rid of me so that she could have Sawford for herself.
I had to escape. Even if I died in the attempt, at least it might be a quick death. But I could not leave without Harwyn.
“My lady!”
I heard my maid’s exclamation, then she placed a light hand on my head.
“Sweet lady, you are unwell again.”
I lifted my head, which ached and throbbed, then let her help me up. Her touch gentle, she undressed me and eased me into my cot. I reached out my hand and she took it.
“Harwyn, we have to leave,” I whispered. “I’ll ask Tarvin to help.”
She shook her head. “Nay, lady, ’tis too dangerous. We know not who he is yet.”
“I care not, Harwyn,” I said. “I am tired, so tired. I cannot stay here any longer and would rather leave—or die trying. I-I understand if you have no wish to risk flight, but I cannot stay here any more.”
She squeezed my hand then kissed it.
“My place is, and has always been, by your side, my lady,” she said. “If you wish to flee, then I shall do everything in my power to help you.”
My husband’s guests remained at Mortlock for almost a month, but I managed to stay away from them, confining myself to my room.
I used Harwyn as a lookout when I slipped out to the wild garden for air.
If they were plotting against the king, I wanted to leave as soon as possible but Harwyn warned me of the danger of corresponding with Tarvin while the guests were here, especially Papa and de Tourrard.
The evening after the guests left, my husband sent word that he expected me to attend him in the main hall for dinner.
Harwyn was brushing my hair when another wave of nausea caught me, and I lurched forward as the world slipped sideways.
She sat me on my cot, facing the window, my back to the door while I leaned forward, focusing on a mark on the stone floor, taking deep breaths until the nausea passed.
“Lady, I have to ask…” Harwyn hesitated. “-aAre you breeding?”
“Harwyn?” I lifted my head weakly. “No. Dear Lord. No.”
“I’ve not had to supply you with extra cloths for some time. This sickness of yours—forgive me—’tis obvious. Your Maman suffered much the same with you.”
Lord save me, I was with child.
I sat up.
“My husband must not be told, Harwyn. He’ll never let me out of his sight if he knows.”
She placed a gentle hand on my shoulder and I took it. Escape was now an imperative. While I could perhaps endure life at Mortlock Fort, I would never forgive myself if I allowed a child to be brought up here.
Lord Mortlock was a vile enough husband but what of Baron de Tourrard? He had made his intentions clear when he accosted me. A life with him would be even worse. I would not let any child of mine be used by either of them.
At length Harwyn patted my hand and picked up the brush again, running it delicately through my hair before braiding it.
“Harwyn, is there anything you can give me for my sickness?” I said.
“Aye, my lady. I believe there is some ginger root in the kitchen. I can brew you an infusion tonight.”
“Thank you, Harwyn,” I replied. “But be careful. My husband must not find out. Nobody must know that I am carrying Vane Sawford’s child.”
A noise made us both turn round. Neither of us had heard the door open, nor the approaching footsteps of the man who now leaned against the doorframe, his eyes fixed on me. Harwyn took my hand and I swallowed the rising tide of horror as Vane Sawford inclined his head toward me in a slight bow.
Then he turned his back on us and left as silently as he came.