A Whisper of Rosemary (41 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

“
How much farther are they?” asked Maris, looking about the forest for some sign of the hunting party. She’d ridden quite far out of London with Michael and Victor and expected to find the hunting party at any time.

Neither man replied to her question, nor did they seem to acknowledge it.

“
I do not see them anywhere,” she said more forcefully. “Surely the hunt did not take the party this far from the castle.” An uncomfortable twinge started in the base of her spine and she reined Hickory up. “Are you certain we are going in the right direction?”

Michael stopped his horse and turned back to her. “Come, Maris, do not question me.” He grabbed the reins from her hands and began to propel Hickory behind his own mount.

The twinge blossomed into a full foreboding and Maris felt fear curdle in her middle. “I must return to the castle for my wedding,” she said, squinting up at the sun that was beginning to climb down the sky. Panic started to blossom in her belly. Something was very wrong.

Victor laughed and the sound sent a chill up her spine. “Your bridegroom is in no condition to attend the ceremony. There is no need for you to return.”

Those words held a finality that did not sit well with Maris. It had occurred to her earlier that she’d disobeyed Dirick’s orders to go nowhere without him or Raymond…but her fear for his safety had been the overriding factor in her decision. And, in sooth, she’d forgotten her promise in the terror that he’d been injured.

Michael urged his horse into a canter, and Maris was forced to lean forward and grab Hickory’s mane. Just as she had done when Bon abducted her, she forced herself to examine the situation. She swallowed the fear in her throat. She could not escape on foot, and Michael was in control of her horse. Victor rode so close to her that his mount’s tail brushed against Hickory’s shoulder.

“’
Tis not far from here,” he told his father, moving up so that their horses were neck and neck.

Maris was now just behind them, but out of their easy sight as she was towed along on Hickory. She used the opportunity to slip a hand under her skirt and pull forth her dagger. She sent up a prayer of thanks that her mother had warned her never to be without the knife and set to cutting away at the reins. If she were quick, and lucky, she could cut herself free and be off. Mayhap, she and Hickory could outrun her kidnappers. If not—

She stopped her thoughts right there. That possibility was not worth thinking on.

Once again, Maris considered the facts and the situation. Dirick should have learned of her absence by now, and of course he would search for her. That thought eased her a bit.

But as she continued to saw through the thick leather, another thought turned her cold. Michael and Victor talked so certainly of Dirick’s injury…mayhap there was a truth to it and he would not be able to come after her. Mayhap he was dead!

Angry, frustrated tears welled in her eyes and she pushed the thought away. She’d think only of one thing now: escaping from Michael and Victor.

When the reins were nearly cut through, Maris gathered herself and readied her courage, gripping Hickory with her thighs and tightening her fistful of mane. With a final slice, she cut the last bit of leather and kicked her horse to veer suddenly away.

The shout of surprise erupted too close behind her and she leaned forward, urging Hickory as they raced for their freedom. The trampling of hooves in their trail was loud and gaining proximity and she felt tears sting her eyes. “Go, Hickory, go!” she cried into the mare’s ear, kicking her again.

’
Twas of no use. One of them galloped up next to her and with a swift jerk, pulled her from her saddle across his own. She landed on her stomach with the air knocked out of her and saw the ground race by at a dizzying speed. She’d failed.

“
Bitch!” Michael’s voice was tight with fury as he slowed his horse to a walk. “Foolish woman!”

Victor barreled up to them. “I’ll take her, Father. ’Tis my right to enjoy what little time we’ve left together.”

Maris struggled as she was shoved over to the younger man’s mount and placed in front of him on the saddle. Michael gave her a hard slap to the face, stunning her, as Victor’s arms tightened around her waist.

“
What are you going to do?” she demanded, trying to ignore the pounding in her temple from the blow.

Victor laughed harshly. “You seem so concerned about your wedding, my dear, that I should hate to disappoint you and have you forego your wedding night.” One of his hands slipped to close over her breast as he pushed his arousal into her bottom. “I would expect that to occupy us for some time, and then…well, my love, I do not see any purpose in returning damaged goods to your bridegroom…if indeed he still lives.” His fingers pinched cruelly at her breast, closing over her nipple so that she could not suppress a soft gasp of pain. “And I have no use for damaged goods myself. After all, ’twould do no good for me to beget a child upon my sister, now would it?”

“
What?” she gasped from pain as much as shock.

“
What, Father, you did not tell her that we are blood?” Victor asked, his hand moving to cup the full weight of her breast, fondling it roughly.

Michael looked at Maris. “Your mother, whore that she is, begat my child before she married Merle of Langumont and birthed you.”

“
You are my father?” The pain from Victor’s seeking fingers faded in light of this revelation. “Nay.”

“
Oh, I assure you, ’tis true.”

“
But…I was to marry…your son…my brother.”

Michael shrugged. “I did not know you were my daughter at that time. I didn’t learn of it until your stupid mother told me as we set out for Breakston to save you. In truth, it didn’t matter to me or to Victor…but your papa—Merle—must have learned this, for he told me he’d changed his mind over the betrothal.” A cold smile of such evil spread his features that Maris felt nauseated. “I could not accept that decision.”

The nausea turned to cold anger. “You killed my father,” she whispered.

“
Oh, nay, he did not,” said Victor, leaning forward to thrust a tongue wet with slime into her ear. He murmured, “Nay, ’twas I who loosed the arrow into his back.”

Maris jerked away from his cold mouth and was just as harshly jolted back onto a solid chest. “Nay, lady, you’ll not escape me this time. Long have I waited for the opportunity to break your arrogance and impudence, and I’ll have no more delays.” He sank his fingers into the mass of braids at the back of her scalp, pulling her head backward at an impossible angle, and kissed her forcefully.

Just then, the sound of galloping reached their ears. All three turned to see a single man on horseback careening through the trees.

Maris’s heart leapt until the man drew closer and she recognized him. Bon de Savrille. How could he be involved in this mess?

“
Halt!” Bon cried as Michael and Victor started to wheel their horses about, ready to make their escape. “Unhand her!” Bon did not slow, and his momentum brought him to their sides. Maris saw that he brandished a sword that glittered in the afternoon light and she took the opportunity to pull loose of Victor’s hands.

With a quick elbow into his abdomen, Maris launched herself off the saddle, stumbled, then started running through the woods as fast as she could. There were shouts of anger behind her, and she heard a scream of pain from one of the horses, but she kept running.

There was no sound of horse’s hooves following her, but she knew in her numb mind that when they finished their battle—whoever was left—would chase her down.

~*~

Swallowing back nausea, Dirick leaned forward over Nick’s neck. His head still pounded and his entire body throbbed with pain…but his intent was single: to find Maris.

He refused to allow himself to think of what could be happening, what she might be going through, as he led the party of men through the forest. Fortunately, several people had spotted Michael and Victor with Maris and Dirick had had to waste little time in discovering their trail. The odd part, he reflected, happy to focus on some other puzzle so that he wouldn’t go crazy with worry, was the third man who had followed in their wake.

The sun was lowering and soon the forest would be dark. ’Twould be next to impossible to follow the trail in the dark, and this realization was the impetus that drove him on.

He could not lose her
.

Dirick swallowed back the unmanly urge to cry in frustration. She was his, she was to be his…tonight, he was to wed with the only woman he’d ever wanted with such deep, certain need. He drove his heels into Nick’s middle, pushing the destrier even harder than he did in battle. This was the most important battle he’d ever fought, he realized numbly. He could not lose it.

He almost missed seeing the shadow that rushed out from a deep thicket, until it was nearly beneath Nick’s hooves.

“
Help me!” it cried.

“
Maris?
” Dirick pulled back on the reins, wheeling Nick aside on his hind legs, landing just next to her. He was out of his saddle in an instant, aware of the rest of his men gathering around them in the forest.

“
Dirick?” she cried. “Is that you?”

He pulled her into his arms in one fluid motion. She was shaking, and her face was suspiciously wet. She was running her hands all over his face and shoulders as if to ensure that it was really he.

“
My God, I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured, burying his face in her neck, smelling the rosemary and lemon and touching the tangles of her hair. “Maris, Maris,” he said her name over and over. “Beloved, have they hurt you? How did you escape?”

She sniffled in the first show of womanly weakness he’d ever witnessed. “I am not hurt,” she told him, looking up with wide golden green eyes. “But ’twas Bon de Savrille who saved me.”

“
What?” Dirick guided her back to his horse as the others gathered around, listening and yet remaining at a distance.

“
Aye, he came after us and in the confusion, I managed to get away. It wasn’t far from here.” She looked over her shoulder, gesturing in that direction, “and no one came after me. I do not know what happened.”

With a curt nod, Dirick sent several of the men scattering to see what they could find. “Are you truly not hurt?” he asked, drawing them away from the rest of the party and angling Nick so that he stood between them and the gawking men. “My beloved, I cannot tell you what fears I had for you!”

She reached up and smoothed a cool hand over his face, touching a scrape from his fall. “They told me you’d been hurt, that you’d fallen from a horse. I was afraid you were dead.”

He nodded. “Aye. And I suspect it was Michael or Victor who slit the girth of my saddle, nearly causing me to be trampled among Nick’s hooves. I am fine, now that you are safe.”

She pulled him down, covering his lips with her own. He felt the dampness of her tear moisten his cheek. When she pulled back after a sweet, tender kiss, Maris was looking up at him with those green-gold eyes.

“
What is it?” he asked, some new tension tightening his chest.

“
I—I nearly didn’t have the chance to tell you…but you must know. I am well pleased to be your wife. I‘ve come to love you, Dirick, and I am sure you will make a find husband, and a good Lord of Langumont.”

When he would have spoken, she pressed a finger to his lips, shaking her head. “Nay, do not speak. ’Tis enough for me that you came after me…I do not expect that you should feel the same. And, in sooth, Dirick—I do not care.”

He would have spoken, but a shout drew his attention. Gathering her into his arms, he gave her a well placed kiss on her lips and lifted her into his saddle. Vaulting gracefully up, he settled behind her and they started off toward the shout.

A group of men gathered in a small clearing, and when they drew near, Raymond of Vermille caught Dirick’s eye, shaking his head slightly. Maris should not see, was the message in his gaze. But it was too late.

She slid from the saddle and pushed her way through the gawking crowd of men, ignoring Dirick’s shout. The scene that greeted her was one that would surely leave nightmares, but nevertheless, she moved forward. She had to see it.

Victor d’Arcy lay on his stomach, head turned to one side, and his back soaked with blood. Bon de Savrille was arranged so that he lay in a similar position, with his hands reaching eerily for Victor’s. His beard was wet with the blood that oozed from the spot where his nose had been, and his neck was bent at an awkward angle so that, although he lay on one cheek, his face was tilted back and his eyes looked at nothingness.