Claire Delacroix (14 page)

“I am here,” Gabrielle whispered, and brushed her fingertips over the tiny line of concern between his brows. “Do not think any more of what has happened.”

He said nothing, but gnawed on his fist and nestled anew against her warmth Gabrielle stroked his hair back from his brow. For once, he was tolerant of her maternal caress as she wiped the tears from his cheeks.

And he was safe in her arms again. Gabrielle bent and kissed her son’s temple, marveling that this moment should finally be hers.

“Such a touching scene!”

At the echo of a man’s voice, Thomas quaked in fear. Gabrielle locked her arms protectively around the boy and sat up with a jolt.

Only to find Philip de Trevaine lounging in the doorway to the corridor.

Before Gabrielle could say anything, a smaller shadow leaped atop Philip from behind. Philip cried out, swore and struggled before another shadow loomed behind the pair. The new arrival hit Philip’s attacker over the head with a bludgeon.

The small figure fell limply to the floor.

Philip pushed his inert form aside with a careless foot and stepped back into the corridor. His profiled features were burnished gold as he reached for a torch, the down-turned curve of his mouth etched with a clarity that could not be missed.

Gabrielle’s mouth went dry when Philip turned back to face her, his expression filled with purpose. What would he do to her? Or to Thomas?

Then the golden torchlight fell on the boneless figure on the floor and Gabrielle’s heart leaped in recognition.

“Gaston!” she cried before she could stop herself.

Philip flicked a scathing glance Gabrielle’s way. “Fool,
more like!” He spat and kicked the squire’s limp form into the solar.

Philip de Trevaine was as fastidiously attired as Gabrielle recalled. His crimson tabard was cut of the finest damask from the East and hemmed with silvered embroidery so rich that it must have taken a team of women a year to stitch. A scarlet cloak lined with ermine was clasped to one shoulder, its ornate pin catching the meager light.

His dark hair was neatly trimmed, his beard fashioned to an artful point below his chin. He had a pointed face, a sharp nose and small eyes the color of which Gabrielle had never tried or desired to determine.

And his mouth was turned down at the outer corners in a permanent expression of displeasure.

Philip was tall and slender of build, and might have been considered a handsome man by one who gave no account to his despicable character. Gabrielle had witnessed the cruelty of his ambition firsthand and was not surprised that he himself had not taken sword in hand to defend his newly acquired keep.

No, Philip was a liar and a cheat, who preferred to keep his rich garb unsullied by achieving his ambitions underhandedly.

“You have killed the boy for nothing!” Gabrielle struggled to her feet, Thomas huddled close against her as he watched Philip approach. Gabrielle hugged her son tightly and glared at the man responsible for her woes.

“He is not dead.” Philip’s lip curled as he looked down at the squire. “But he should have known better than to dare to touch me.” Philip glanced back at the great hulk of a man behind him and smirked. “Especially with Algernon in residence.”

Oh, Gabrielle remembered this Algernon’s visage well enough! Philip’s personal guard stood so tall that the top of his bald pate brushed the arch of every doorway he strode through.

Algernon’s black beard grew thick and fell halfway down his chest. A single dark brow marked a line across his brow from temple to temple. A heavyset brute of a man, Algernon was not keen of wit by any account, but was reputed to be able to rip open a man’s chest with his bare hands.

Philip smiled with the feigned charm Gabrielle recalled all too well. “It seems you have an admirer, my lady,” he mused, and turned to give the squire’s shoulder another nudge with his elegantly shod foot.

Gabrielle longed to determine Gaston’s state herself. She did not dare draw closer to this lethal pair, though. Thomas, by the way he clung to her, was definitely of like mind.

The sardonic smile she remembered all too well curved Philip’s lips as he assessed her. “It has grown quiet,” he mused. “Obviously, your champion’s assault on Perricault has met with failure.”

He craned his neck to eye the location of the moon through the window, then clicked his tongue chidingly. “And somewhat earlier than anticipated, I must say. What manner of warrior did you hire, my Gabrielle?”

To have this man insult Yves’ abilities was too much! “One who did not anticipate your lies!” Gabrielle retorted. “You deceived us!”

Philip smiled with cold charm. “But of course! Lies are an integral part of a successful man’s arsenal.” He strolled closer, his manner confidential, and Gabrielle drew back against the wall. “If your champion survives this night, that might be a lesson he could afford to learn.”

No! Yves could not have been killed in this assault!

“He retreated!” Gabrielle cried, not nearly as certain of that as she would have liked to have been.

Philip’s cold smile did not waver. “One could say that, my Gabrielle, but the sad truth is that he abandoned you here, just moments past.” Philip’s brows rose with mock disdain. “Such a champion!”

“He escaped.” Gabrielle breathed a sigh of relief, though that consolation was to be short-lived.

“Well, for the short term, at least.” Philip examined his fingernails with apparent fascination as Gabrielle caught her breath. “You see, arrangements have already been made.”

Gabrielle’s heart jumped, for it was clear Philip meant no good. “What do you mean?”

Philip smiled and glanced at her. “How hungry you are for details, my Gabrielle! Do you have a soft spot in your heart for this fool knight?”

“He is no fool!”

Philip’s gaze sharpened. “No fool? Even though he has been fooled twice in one night?”

Twice? A sick feeling rose within Gabrielle. “What have you done?”

Philip’s smile was cold. “All in good time, my Gabrielle, all in good time.”

Before she could demand an explanation, he continued. “For now, you have other concerns.” He assessed Gabrielle’s figure so boldly that she felt naked beneath his perusal. For the first time she was aware of how much these men’s chausses revealed. “Such unfeminine garb, as alluring as it might be, is hardly fitting for a bride.”

Gabrielle’s mouth went dry. “A bride?”

Philip arched a brow. “But of course. Perricault was not the only property of Michel’s that I long coveted.”

Philip would wed her? After what he had done? Revulsion made Gabrielle’s flesh creep. “I will not wed you!”

Philip’s lips thinned with impatience. “You most certainly will wed me, for that is the best way to assure my suzerainty over Perricault.”

Trust a man to think to his own advantage alone!

Anger roared to life within Gabrielle, but Philip strode closer. He fingered the end of her long braid, the heat in his eyes decidedly predatory. “When shall we wed, my Gabrielle?” he whispered.

“Never!” Gabrielle spat the word.

Philip hid his annoyance so quickly that she nearly missed it. He snatched at Thomas and the boy cowered against his dame. Gabrielle retreated, but found the stone wall of the keep behind her back far too quickly.

“What have you done to my son?” she demanded wildly.

Philip feigned mild surprise. “I? Nothing, Gabrielle, nothing at all.” He leaned closer, and she could see the gleam of malice in his eye. “You see, Thomas has proven to be a most useful lure.” His gaze flicked to the boy. “At least, thus far.”

Gabrielle’s heart leaped to her throat, but she had to have the truth clear between them. “Thus far?” she echoed fearfully.

Philip smiled. “I would tolerate him within my home, simply to satisfy a wife’s whim,” he said with what he apparently considered great indulgence.

Gabrielle did not believe Philip. Had he not paved his way through life with lies?

“I cannot wed a man who holds both me and my son in such low esteem,” she declared.

Philip’s eyes flashed. “My
esteem, madame,
will be earned on your back. What I want from you are a few simple words before a priest, and then a son, the second provided in short order.”

Gabrielle lifted her chin, unable to imagine permitting this man to climb atop her. And what would happen to Thomas once Philip had an heir of his own blood? Even Philip’s vow of indulging her whim would likely end there.

“And if I refuse?”

“You may take a swim.” Philip gestured to the window behind her. “It is a long fall to the River Perricault from here,” he purred. “Do you not think so?”

Despite herself, Gabrielle glanced over her shoulder. All too well she recalled the long, straight drop from this window to the rushing river and the rocks that marked the river’s confluence.

“You may rest assured, my lady Gabrielle, that I will let you watch your precious son take his leap first.”

“No!” Gabrielle cried.

Philip snapped his fingers and Algernon advanced on Gabrielle. Thomas bellowed fit to wake the dead, clearly sensing what was going to happen. The little boy locked his arms and legs around Gabrielle, and she clung to him with all her might, but Algernon parted the pair far too easily.

“No! Do not take Thomas!”

Algernon swung Thomas over his shoulder, the boy wailing mightily, and Gabrielle lunged after her son.

Only to find Philip blocking her path. He was taller than her and when the weight of his hands landed on her shoulders, she could not push past him. Though she certainly did try. Desperation gave her renewed strength. “Let me go! Bring Thomas back to me!”

Philip’s grip tightened on Gabrielle’s shoulders so that his fingers dug into her flesh. “Do not test me, my Gabrielle,” he counseled in a low voice. “Both you and Thomas could quickly outlive your usefulness to me.”

Gabrielle looked into the icy pallor of Philip’s eyes and recognized the threat in his words.

But she could not surrender so easily!

“No!” She lunged at Philip with all her might, but he slapped her face hard and pushed her away. Gabrielle fell against the wall, but was back on her feet in an instant.

It was not quick enough. Philip had already crossed the solar. He savagely slammed the door behind himself before she could cross the room.

She fell against the heavy oak panel just as the bar dropped into place on the opposite side Gabrielle pounded desperately against the wood, even knowing that her efforts were futile.

“In seven days, we shall meet at the altar, Gabrielle, or you and your son will leave this solar by the window alone,” Philip called. “I will give you some time to consider your
choice, but hope that you will not be foolish when the dressmakers come to fit your nuptial gowns.”

“What will you do to Thomas?” Gabrielle asked breathlessly.

Philip chuckled. “The brat will be safe in my tender care,” he said, waiting a moment before he continued.

“For now.”

These words sent panic through Gabrielle and she hammered on the door with renewed vigor. “Bring my son back to me!”

Philip chuckled. “After the wedding, my dear Gabrielle,” he said. “After your pledge is mine. Do not fear for his welfare. As I said, the boy is still
useful
to me.”

With that, Philip strode away, the echo of his footfalls fading.

“No!” Gabrielle cried. Faintly, she could hear Thomas crying and hated that she could not console the boy. Her own tears welled up, her frustration enough to nearly overwhelm her, and her fists fell against the door more and more slowly.

Thomas! How wretched for him to see her only for a moment, then to be torn away from her side again. Her anger spent, Gabrielle sank down and buried her face in her hands.

What a mess this evening had wrought! Thomas was stolen again from her side. Some foul fate awaited Yves, she was certain. The bile rose in Gabrielle’s throat at the very thought of that knight being killed trying to win her cause.

It was unfair. It was wrong.

And it was all Gabrielle’s fault. Too late she saw that she had put too much faith in the honor of battle fairly met. Philip, it was clear, saw no merit in such tactics.

She truly might have to wed him to see those she held dear safe from his malice, even for just a short while.

That was a galling thought.

But what future could there be for her in bending to such a man’s will? Philip would always hold the threat of her own demise over her head—or that of Thomas—when there was
something he wanted. This would not be the first or the last concession he demanded of her, of that Gabrielle was certain.

Her life would be a living hell.

What would she do?

What
could
she do?

Gabrielle looked at Gaston and deliberately blinked back her tears.

For now, she could aid Yves’ squire. She leaned over his limp form and was encouraged by the faint whisper of his breath.

He
was
alive! And he had valiantly come to her aid. Gabrielle bent to gently assess the size of the lump rising on Gaston’s head.

The squire was a credit to the knight he served. Gabrielle found herself thinking of Yves and hoping against hope that he had foiled Philip’s plans and survived this terrible night.

Certainly, Yves de Sant-Roux had surprised her more than once. Perhaps he would surprise Philip as well.

Gabrielle could only pray that it would be so.

T
he fire that consumed the camp crackled on all sides, the flickering orange flames casting Seymour in a diabolical light. The challenge had only just left that man’s lips and his eyes glowed with the blood lust of a contest he evidently guessed would not be easily won.

“If your sworn pledge means nothing to you, then why serve Philip de Trevaine with such loyalty?” Yves demanded.

The mercenary laughed. “Because we are two of a kind,” he confided. “He understands what I desire of this life and rewards me accordingly.”

“With what?”

“Gold!” Seymour’s eyes gleamed at the very thought. “And when he is done with this campaign, I shall have estates and a title to call my own. No one—
no one
—will ever consider Seymour de Crecy unworthy of account again!”

“What campaign?” Yves asked, as the pair began to circle each other.

The mercenary smirked. “Philip will become the next Lord de Tulley. The secrets that miserable old cur has locked within his vaults will supply opportunities for a creative man like Philip for years to come.”

Seymour laughed, apparently unaware that a secret of Yves’ own was locked within those very vaults. Yves found
it loathsome that one would use those secrets purely to fund his own financial gain. That was even more reprehensible than Tulley’s use of his knowledge to manipulate people to his will.

“Philip will prosper, and I—I shall be at his right hand through all of it.”

Yves gripped his blade and stepped forward, knowing that this was one time he would take delight in striking the killing blow.

“And what of Lady Gabrielle? What are Philip’s plans for her?”

“He will wed her, of course, to ensure his suzerainty over Perricault and silence any protest from Tulley before his time is come.”

Something tightened in Yves’ gut at that. “And if the lady is unwilling?”

Seymour laughed harshly. “She will have no choice. Indeed, I would truss her ankles to the bedposts myself to aid my lord in seeing his will consummated.”

Yves’ stomach churned that Gabrielle might be already suffering such a fate. “What of the boy?”

Seymour sneered. “He is useful as a tool only until the lady shows the wit to bear my lord a son.”

The bile rose in Yves’ throat. “And then?”

“Once Philip’s heir is born, the lady and her son might well prove to have no use whatsoever to my lord ” Seymour shrugged. “I see no reason why they would not be…disposed of.”

What a treacherous man this mercenary served! No one could ever count himself secure as long as Philip drew breath. Gabrielle had been right to be leery of that man’s intent!

And now she was securely within his grasp.

If he managed to survive this battle, Yves pledged silently, he would see the lady freed, regardless of what price he must pay. She had known Philip’s ruthlessness before they even
attacked Perncault and had cast her fears aside solely for the sake of her son.

Such courage could not go unrewarded.

But first, he had to dispatch this mercenary to the hell he undoubtedly deserved. Yves eyed his opponent and decided Seymour was a man of passion.

And impassioned men never fought well or for long.

“Philip will never take Tulley,” Yves insisted, his intention purely to goad the other man.

Seymour thrust with his blade as his eyes flashed, but the blow was poorly aimed. “He will take Tulley and easily!”

“And then what of your own usefulness?” Yves dodged another feint easily and let his tone turn taunting. “When all the dirty work is done, Philip may well dispose of
you.
”

“Never!” Seymour bellowed, and dove at Yves. “Philip de Trevaine will never betray me!”

Yves lunged forward at the same moment, their blades meeting with a thunderous crash. Yves felt the impact of the blow right to his shoulder, but he parried and thrust again with even more force. Seymour fought recklessly, his anger driving his attack, yet he was strong enough that he might not quickly be spent.

Yves deliberately reined in his own anger and resolutely waited out the fury of Seymour’s attack.

The flames crackled and drew yet closer, the greedy fire leaping from tree to tree overhead. The two men’s blades clashed again and again, each strike countered by an equal blow. There was a cry from beyond the gates as someone struck a death blow. Seymour made the mistake of glancing up at the shout and Yves saw his chance.

He leaped forward, but Seymour parried with an unexpected speed. The mercenary’s blade caught Yves across the cheek. Pain flared and Yves grimaced as he struck angrily at Seymour’s blade.

The sword flew from that man’s grip and landed on the forest floor some feet away. Seymour dove after it, but the
fire swallowed it first with leaping orange flames. Yves gave chase, jumping backward when Seymour spun to face him anew.

The mercenary had a dagger in each hand.

The fire claimed the last untouched link in the circle about them and began to creep across the forest floor, the dampness of the leaves only slowing its progress minutely.

“Leon! Save the steeds!” Yves cried.

Seymour chose that moment to dive forward, his daggers slashing at Yves’ knees. Yves dodged the blades in the nick of time and pivoted with an ease that denied his exhaustion. Seymour stumbled and Yves swung his sword downward.

The blade caught Seymour’s shoulder and the man bellowed before he twisted from beneath its weight. He leaped up, his daggers leading the way, and steel grazed the chain mail covering Yves’ hip. Yves kicked and they sprang apart.

The pair circled each other slowly. Yves noted the trickle of red flowing from the other man’s shoulder. He narrowed his eyes against the sting of the smoke and fought the urge to cough. The heat of the encroaching fire pressed against his skin.

Suddenly a burning branch fell behind Yves with a resounding crash. The flames crackled and jumped, the fire blazed even brighter and sparks danced into the night sky.

And Seymour closed in for the attack. Steel echoed on steel, and Seymour tried to force Yves back into the raging flames. Yves twisted and dodged. When Seymour pivoted, Yves elbowed him, sending him sprawling on his backside.

Yves quickly stepped over the mercenary. He slashed at Seymour’s wrist, cutting the leather glove so cleanly that the flesh cleaved directly beneath. The mercenary’s hand fell open and the dagger dropped to the bed of damp leaves below.

“God’s blood!” Seymour bellowed.

“Hardly that,” Yves muttered through his teeth.

Seymour’s grip tightened on the other blade, but Yves stepped on his wrist so hard that that blade fell aside as well.

Seymour roared and lunged to his feet, nearly toppling his opponent in the process. Yves pulled out his own dagger with a flick of his wrist just before the mercenary was upon him.

A sigh escaped Seymour as the small blade was buried deep in his belly. He went limp.

Then his hands locked around Yves’ throat with startling speed.

The blood cascaded from Seymour’s wrist as he squeezed with telling strength. Yves struggled against the mercenary’s inhuman grasp and saw the flames cavorting in dizzying colors all about him. The pair staggered across the clearing in a lethal embrace as the fire drew ever closer.

Suddenly Yves could not see and knew he would soon be lost. In a last bid for survival, he shoved his knee skyward as hard as he could manage.

Seymour’s groan of pain revealed that the blow had met its mark.

The mercenary’s grip loosened enough for Yves to strike another blow. Seymour staggered backward and Yves filled his lungs as he dove after the man. He punched Seymour in the face and the man fell bonelessly backward, blood erupting from his nose.

Seymour’s head cracked hard on a stump and his mouth lolled open. Yves watched and waited, his breathing still erratic, his fists clenched, but Seymour’s chest did not rise again.

The traitor was dead.

Yves lifted his head and wiped the blood from his cheek, only to find the flames closed tightly about him. He spun wildly, seeking a means of escape, but was surrounded by a wall of flame.

Too late, Yves realized that neither he nor Seymour would leave this place.

“My lord!” Leon cried, and Yves’ head snapped up.

He faintly discerned the shadow of a line descending through the woods and immediately understood the other knight’s intent.

A rope! Yves sheathed his sword and snatched the rope out of the air when it swung into the small clearing he occupied. It hung at an angle, obviously slung over some high bough beyond the curtain of flame. He scrambled up its length, grateful to be among thinking men.

Yves spotted a trio of shadows on a broad branch of a great oak, before all three of them leaped down to brace themselves against the trunk of the tree. They hauled with all their might, pulling Yves’ weight skyward, and lifted him just barely over the encircling flames.

But moments later, Yves stood on the branch above Leon and two other knights of Perricault. The four looked as one to the advancing blaze.

“How many of us are there?” Yves asked the dreaded question.

Leon shook his head. “We are the last, my lord, along with Franz, Xavier and a pair of squires.” Stalwart Franz grinned before wiping a grimy hand across his brow. “The boys guard the destriers at the road.”

The news was worse than Yves had hoped, by far.

But there was nothing for it. At this point, he had to formulate a plan to save Lady Gabrielle and her son before Philip could do his worst. Time was of the essence, for Philip could wed Gabrielle and rape her in but a matter of moments, if he so chose.

Yves could only hope that that man would be so certain of his victory that he would take time to woo the lady.

But to retrieve her from Philip’s clutches, Yves would need more troops. He needed aid, most logically from another who stood in the line of Philip’s wild ambition. Mercifully, that estate was not Sayerne.

“What is the closest estate beneath Tulley’s hand to the west of Perricault?” Yves asked.

“Annossy, of course,” Leon responded, the other knights nodding acquiescence.

“And the name of its lord?” Yves asked.

“Quinn de Sayerne,” Leon supplied, and Yves’ heart plummeted like a stone.

Quinn de Sayerne? He was going to have to ask his own brother to aid him in this task? The fates could not be so cruel as to force him to face the man reputed to be the very echo of their cruel sire. “Surely not?” he demanded, hearing the strain in his voice.

But Leon nodded confidently. “Surely so. Lord Quinn gained suzerainty over Annossy when he wed Melissande d’Annossy, the only daughter of the house. He rules both estates now.”

Yves took a deep breath and scanned the burning forest, bracing himself for an ordeal he had never expected to endure. For all he knew, Quinn might enjoy seeing his bastard brother twist in the wind.

But Yves knew that his trepidation in facing his malicious brother was nothing compared to what Gabrielle undoubtedly already endured.

The worst Quinn could do would be to decline his request.

The worst Philip could do to Gabrielle was unthinkable.

Yves took a deep breath and looked into the eyes of his faithful remaining cadre “We ride to Annossy,” he said flatly, no hint of his own fears in his tone. “We will seek the aid of the lord there and do so with all haste.”

Gaston awoke to a relentless pounding, like a battering ram landing against heavy gates. A despairing damsel was trapped in a tower, the chateau was besieged by the forces of good and it was up to him to scale the high wall, let them in and save the lady. He winced at the onerous task before him, but valiantly forced open one eye.

A brilliant ray of sunlight made him squeeze his eye shut once more The pounding grew more diligent and Gaston realized
belatedly that the hammering came from within his own head.

He had been dreaming his usual dream.

Gaston sighed, disappointed that there truly was no damsel to save, no heroic deed to accomplish, no loathsome wound gracing his brow as a trophy of his heroism. Only a headache, likely the result of some overindulgence the night before.

“Just lie back,” Lady Gabrielle urged quietly.

The sound of her voice launched a flood of recollections in Gaston’s mind. To his delight, his dream had not been far from the truth. The forces of good—led by his own knight and lord—had besieged a château by night, though the gates had not been barred against them.

And the lady had come with them, but she had ventured into the high tower alone and unprotected. Gaston had known he had to follow her, that his lord would have done the same if he had not been so heavily occupied in battle that he had not noticed the lady’s departure. But Gaston could recall little beyond following the lady to the solar.

He forced both eyes open this time and found that same sunlight flooding the room. The lady crouched before him, watching him with concern. Gaston feared suddenly that he had fallen asleep and failed her while she needed his aid the most.

And that would be most disappointing. Surely he could not have failed so miserably at his first chance for valor?

“How long have I slept?” Gaston asked, surprised to find his voice a rough croak.

The lady almost smiled. “You did not sleep, Gaston,” she corrected mildly. “You were hit on the head from behind. Do you recall attacking Philip?”

Gaston shook his head, then winced anew at the pain that simple movement launched.

“You have quite a nice lump to show for your gallantry.”

Gallantry. That sounded more promising than having fallen
asleep. Gingerly, Gaston explored the back of his head, yelping aloud when his cautious fingers encountered said lump.

“I put cold water on it all the night long.” the lady informed him. “You may be surprised to learn that it has already become smaller.”

“But it is bigger than a goose egg!” Gaston protested.

At that, the lady did smile, though the cheer did not reach her eyes. “Your fingers tell lies,” she said. “It is much smaller than that.” She rose then and moved gracefully across the room, wringing out a cloth in a basin formed within the wall.