Rose of rapture (58 page)

To Isabella, each passing second seemed like hours as he poured out a chalice of dark, rich red wine—brandywine. The most potent of all wines made, it was created by boiling down biu-gundy and lacing it with brandy. After taking a few sips to assure himself the wine had not soured, he opened the pouch and shook its contents into the goblet. The thick powder lay there on the surface of the liquid for a minute before sinking to the bottom of the chalice, where the crystals dissolved as the Italian stirred the draught with a silver spoon.

At last, with the caricature of a smile twisting his distorted face, Lord Montecatini turned and handed the goblet to Isabella. Greedily, she upended the chalice, quenching her thirst with the potion.

Soon, she began to return to the dreamlike existence she lived for nowadays. Slowly, slowly, the feeling of languor crept through her veins, cahning her tortured nerves and making her titter slightly at that foolish woman who, just a little while earlier, had paced the chamber floor so restlessly, ridiculously expending all that energy. Now, lying upon her bed, Isabella gazed up dizzily at the cathedral ceiling of the tower in which she was imprisoned. Though it was stained dark and crisscrossed with wooden beams, in her mind, there was no roof at all, just a pattern of brilliant, swirling colors fading up into the sky, pierced by the golden sunlight streaming down from the firmament. She could see herself floating upon the whirl of the flashing, ever-changing kaleidoscope, and she knew she was without substance or form, a goddess who looked down upon her foolish mortal subjects below and laughed. She giggled once more, her head lolling from side to side, her body limp, inert. Drowsily, she yawned, wondering why her eyelids felt so heavy, indeed, why she had any eyelids at all. She was a goddess, wasn't she? She didn't need any eyelids—useless things. Listlessly, she lifted one arm, which felt

like lead, and waved it around aimlessly before, at last, she managed to tug at the feathery black fringe of one eye. But the attempt to remove her eyelid was futile, and Isabella soon abandoned it. It seemed like such a waste of energy. It was much more entertaining to study the cherubic angels who had appeared among the colors above and who were serenading her with their harps and horns. Spastically, she applauded, then laughed idiotically; and Lord Montecatini, who was watching her, grimaced.

Disgusting bitch! he thought. I can hardly wait until that half-Welsh bastard gets a look at his Rose of Rapture now!

Aye, he had chosen well, the Count decided. 'Twas the perfect revenge. Truly, none of the other forms of vengeance he had considered and discarded would have served nearly as well. He had thought of turning Isabella over to his men for sport, but what man who loved a woman would cast her out because she had been forced to become a whore? Not the Earl. Proud and jealous, he might be; but he loved his wife, and the fact that other men had known her, against her will, would not diminish that love. The Italian had thought of scarring Isabella's lovely countenance until 'twas unrecognizable—like his own; but that idea he had too abandoned. A man loved a woman—truly loved her—for what she was inside. Marring Isabella's beauty would not have changed that. Lord Montecatini had even contemplated slaying the girl, but this notion also he had dismissed. He meant to kill her, aye, but only when he had the Earl at his mercy to witaess Isabella's death and be powerless to prevent it.

Aye, turning her into an addict had been the best means of revenge. What man would love a woman who craved the sweet nectar of a poppy more than she did him, would even slay him to get it and never shed a tear at his demise?

Smiling terribly, the Count looked once more at Isabella. No man could love that disgusting creature.

Satisfied that it was so, the Italian reached for a quill and ink. It was time to let Lord Hawkhurst know the whereabouts of his wife.

Grimly, Warrick stared at the dark, massive fortress that rose up forbiddingly before him. Its true name was Boldon-by-the-Sea Castle, but everyone called it Black Rock. Perched upon a sheer cliff overlooking the ocean, its towering black walls were fifty feet high and ten feet thick. It had no moat, for there was no need for one. There was only one way to gain access to the keep; that was a steeply graded road that wound its path precariously

up through the jagged rocks to the fortress. It was one of the most impregnable castles in all of England; and Warrick's heart sank like a stone in his breast as he surveyed it. He would never be able to wrest Isabella by force from the keep.

Oh, God. If only Warrick had the King's men behmd him! But he did not. Lord Montecatini had been far too clever to allow that. Before leaving London, the Count had put about the story that he was returning to Rome on a private family matter; and he had made certain that several of the courtiers had actually witoessed him boarding the ship that had sailed slowly down the Thames toward the open sea.

Warrick, of course, knew the Italian had not returned home but instead had put to shore somewhere north of Bridlington, in England, ridden to Grasmere to kidnap Isabella, then reboarded his ship and sailed still farther north to Boldon-by-the-Sea, which was deep in the mountainous border lands of England.

Upon realizing that Isabella had been taken captive by Lord Montecatini, Warrick's first thought had been to denounce the Count at once openly. After further reflection, however, the Earl had recognized he would only be made to look foolish. He'd had no tangible proof the Italian had abducted Isabella, and all of London had believed Lord Montecatini on the high seas toward Rome, a very unlikely place from which to have conducted a kidnapping.

So Warrick had remained silent and had set about quietly to search for his wife, so none would learn of her disappearance and bring the matter to the King's attention. Harry did not like Isabella, and although he might have believed Warrick's tale of her abduction, it had been more than likely the King would have assumed instead that she had disobeyed his command to return to her husband. But although Warrick had sought diligently for Isabella's whereabouts, he had discovered nothing. Only the message he had received from the Count had given him the information he had so desired—and the tangible proof he had needed of the Italian's duplicity. But Warrick had been unable to show Harry the letter from Lord Montecatini, for in it, the Count had warned he would slay Isabella immediately if he learned the Earl had informed the King of the girl's kidnapping and the identity of her captor.

"What do we do now, Waerwic?" Emrys asked, daunted by the sight of the ominous fortress and bringing the Earl back sharply to the present.

"We wait," Warrick said tersely to his brother. "We wait for the Italian's summons. There is nothing more we can do."

Then he buried his head in one hand so his men would not see the despair upon his face. The Earl had never felt so helpless in his life.

"Waerwic, ye cannot go in there!" Emrys pleaded desperately with his brother. "You'll never come out alive—ye laiow ye won't—and neither will Isabella."

"I know, I know. But what else can I do? God's wounds! What else can I do?"

"Wait the bastard out. Sooner or later, he must make a move."

"And if 'tis to kill 'Sabelle— Sweet Jesul" Warrick groaned, stricken. "I'd never forgive myself."

"He has no reason to slay her yet," Emrys pointed out logically, "not until he can get his hands on ye. 'Tis ye he really wants, if what he told ye is true. Christ's son! The man is mad! Ye don't kill someone for opposmg ye politically."

"Oh, come, Emrys. 'Tis done all the time."

"A dagger in the back in a shadowed corridor? Aye. But like this? Nay. The man is mad, I tell ye. Ye must wait him out. Let him make the next move. 'Tis what Madog would have done; believe me."

"God's blood! Would that our brother were here now to guide me. He would know how to get into that God damned keep!"

"Forget it, Waerwic. 'Tis impregnable. That is why they call it Black Rock."

Once more, Isabella's nerves were raw and screaming silently for the potion that would tame the savage talons that clawed their way through her veins. She did not even care that Lord Mon-tccatini had let her out of her chamber for the first time in three months. She knew only that the warm spring sunlight hurt her eyes and that the Count had yet to give her the draught, though she pleaded with him hysterically to do so.

Instead, he merely dragged her, stumbling, along behind him brutally, dealing her a vicious slap when she fell and groveled at his feet, clinging to his legs to keep him from kicking her as she begged him for the potion.

"Si alzi! Get up!" the Italian growled, yanking her roughly to her feet and boxing her ears. "Your husband dares to defy me, and I must teach him a lesson."

"Warrick?" Isabella asked, dazed, her head ringing from the painful blows. "What is he doing here?"

But she inquired only as a matter of conversation. She did not care if Lord Montecatini answered, did not care what Warrick was doing at Boldon-by-the-Sea. She cared only about the small pouch filled with powder, which the Count carried in his doublet.

"Oh, why won't ye give me my draught?" she cried, trying desperately, dementedly, to wrench it from its place of concealment. "I need it! Oh, why won't ye give it to me?"

"Presendy, I shall, signora," the Italian responded smoothly. "Ye have but to do one tiny thing for me first."

"Oh, anything. Anything!" Isabella promised rashly, not caring what it was he wished her to do.

She would even kill for the sweet poppy's nectar; she craved it so.

"Good," Lord Montecatini said as, at last, they reached the outer wall of the fortress. "Do ye but climb up on the battlements and walk a little ways so your husband can see ye."

Isabella was not afraid of heights; she had lived around them , all her life. And in her hysterical stupor, she gave no thought to the fact that no sane man would have done what the Count now asked of her, that she could easily and probably would lose her balance and fall to be battered upon the rocks fifty feet below.

Instead, she pulled herself up onto one of the embrasures, then clambered up higher still onto the merlon on one side. She swayed precariously for a moment, so the Italian reached out to steady her from behind, but she felt no fear. Not even when Warrick's men, far below, finally spied her and began to shout frantically and point at her did she sense her danger. Thinking it was some sort of game, and remembering the potion that would be her reward for winning, she jumped to the next merlon, teetered there for an instant, then skipped onto the next. And all the while, Warrick watched from below, his heart in his throat.

"My God," he breathed. "Is she mad?"

"Nay." Emrys shook his head. "'Tis my guess the whoreson has drugged her."

"Dear God," Warrick said, and started forward. "I'm going in."

Only the combined strength of his men held him back, for he was like a madman in his fear and rage.

"Don't be a fool, Waerwic!" Emrys exclaimed. "Ye cannot help her, and if ye deliver yourself up to the bastard, you'll be

playing right into his hands. Don't ye see? 'Tis what he wants ye to do. 'Tis why Isabella is up there now, risking her life!"

And so Warrick stood and watched helplessly and died a thousand deaths with each little leap his wife made upon the battlements. And when it seemed as though he could stand no more, she fell.

"Si alzi! Get up!" Lord Montecatini snarled as he got to his feet and brushed himself off after being toppled by Isabella's fall. "Disgusting bitch!" he sneered when she continued to lie there upon the walkway, stunned and dazed. "I ought to slay ye as I did your brother!"

It took her a moment, but somehow, some way, through the haze of her drugged state, Isabella grasped his words and was shocked and sickened by their impact.

"Nay! What—what are ye saying?" she questioned, her voice sharp and shrill as she staggered to her feet. "Tell me, ye whoreson bastard!" she cried, grabbing hold of the Count and shaking him wildly. "Tell me! What do ye mean.'' Ye ought to slay me as ye did my brother?"

Irately, the Italian knocked her away, then laughed, a short, ugly sound.

"I mean just what I said, ye stupid slut. 'Twas I who killed your brother. Ye blamed your half-Welsh bastard of a husband for the deed; but 'twas I who killed Giles."

"But—but how? And—and why?"

"I poisoned the sleeping draught ye asked me to prepare for him. 'Twas a kindness, really, to put the lad out of his misery; and I knew you'd blame the Earl for the deed, turn against him, and make his life hell. He'd humiliated me, ye know, that day of the tourney, caused me to be recalled to Rome in disgrace; and I'd sworn to have my revenge upon him—the whoreson."

But Isabella was no longer Ustening, for only one thing that Lord Montecatini had said had registered on her brain.

/ poisoned the sleeping draught ye asked me to prepare for him.

Dear God. 'Twas by her hand that Giles had died. 'Twas she who had given him the fatal potion. Dear God.

She went crazy then, running at the Count like a madwoman, clawing at his hideously twisted face, tearing at his doublet, kicking his shins. Viciously, made unnaturally strong by her craving for the sweet poppy's nectar he had yet to give her, she pummeled his torso. Enraged by her assault, the Italian struck

out at her savagely, but still, she fought on like a wild thing, forcing him back, until he was pressed up against one of the embrasures.

Then suddenly, the battle was over; and Lord Montecatini was falling.. .falling—

Gasping for breath, Isabella stared down at his broken body, which lay mangled upon the jagged rocks far below. The Count was dead. She had killed him, pushed him over the battlements of Boldon-by-the-Sea; and she was glad she had done it.

Unsteadily, her head spinning, she swayed a little on her feet and realized dimly, in some dark comer of her mind, that she needed help. Like a wounded animal, she wanted the one person who loved her most in all the world, the one person who had always been there for her. She flung back her head and cried out hoarsely, a strange, pitiful little wail.