Scoundrel of Dunborough (18 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

W
hen Lewis moved to stop her, Celeste raised the candleholder, intending to bring it down on his head.

She wasn’t fast enough. He grabbed and held her arm tightly, squeezing until she was forced to drop the makeshift weapon.

“You stupid slut!” he snarled, his eyes full of rage as he picked up the candleholder and threw it against the wall, cracking a wooden panel. “You let Gerrard have you, so why not me?”

She slapped Lewis hard across the face with her free hand and tried to kick him, too. He struck her on the cheek, cutting her lip and knocking her down.

She tried to scramble away, the pain in her ankle excruciating. The ginger cat appeared out of nowhere and leaped at Lewis, scratching his arm in three long, bloody lines before landing on his feet and dashing from the room.

Celeste was nearly out the door when Lewis caught the back of her habit and dragged her into the room. Wrenching herself free, she knocked over a chair.

He tackled her and brought her down beneath him. Breathless, she tried to buck him off, until he punched her by her ear, nearly knocking her senseless.

Only then did she lie still, panting, the taste of blood in her mouth.

“That’s better,” he muttered as he straddled her, kneeling on her upper arms to hold her in place, the resulting pain making tears start in her eyes.

Then she heard a sound that made her try to stand again. He was taking off his belt.

“Stop!” he ordered as he wrapped the belt around her right wrist and slid the leather strap through the buckle. After pulling it tight, he bound her other hand until both were tied behind her.

Her wrists and shoulders were in agony and she let out a low moan.

“It’s your own fault,” he snarled as he stood up. Grabbing the end of the belt, he hauled her to her feet. “I suppose I’ll have to gag you, too.”

Desperate that he shouldn’t, she vigorously shook her head despite the pain it caused. “Please, Lewis, don’t! I’ll be quiet. I give you my word.”

“You must be forgetting that I know what a deceitful whore you are.”

He tore the veil from her head and then pulled out a dagger that had been hidden in the waist of his breeches.

“Are you going to kill me?” she barely managed to whisper, her throat dry and constricted with panic.

He appeared genuinely surprised. “Of course not. I’ve told you, I love you—in spite of your evil ways.”

Her life might depend on appeasing him, so although her mind worked feverishly to come up with some way to escape, she didn’t move while he cut a long strip of fabric from her veil and tossed the rest away.

Holding the knife and the length of cloth, he smiled and ran a long, leering gaze over her, from the crown of her head to the hem of her tunic. “I wonder,” he murmured, before he reached out and slipped the knife between the wimple and her cheek.

Trying not to move, she closed her eyes and held her breath as he sliced into the cloth, then pulled it away, along with her cap.

“No, no, no, this won’t do,” he muttered as he walked around her. “Your hair shouldn’t be bound up like that.”

She felt his terrible presence close behind her, yet did not move, not even when he began to undo her braid.

“They told me Gerrard cut your hair off once. He should have been drawn and quartered,” Lewis said, pausing to take a handful of the loose curls and hold it to his face, breathing deeply. “Sandalwood, isn’t it? How worldly!”

His attention was on her hair. This might be her best chance.

Turning swiftly, she shoved him with her shoulder, throwing him off balance, and ran.

“You bitch!” he cried, staggering.

Before she reached the door, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked, sending her stumbling to the ground, crying out in agony.

He seized her arm and hauled her upright. Trying to keep her weight off her aching ankle, she could see the rage, the madness, as he forced the strip of fabric between her teeth.

“Don’t try that again, or by God, you’ll be sorry!” he snarled, pulling the gag ruthlessly tight.

Once it was tied, he put his arm under her shoulder and dragged her out of the room and toward the kitchen.

“You’ll come to your senses soon enough,” he muttered. “I’m doing this for you, after all. You want to leave Dunborough, and so we shall. We belong together. I thought it was Audrey I loved, but I know better now. You’ll love me. I love you so much you’ll have to love me.”

She was not an easy burden for him, so they made slow progress through the kitchen while she desperately tried to come up with a plan of escape and silently prayed for aid.

She saw the basket of dried peas near the door and, like a sudden shaft of light in a dark tunnel, recalled a story from her childhood that Audrey used to tell her, about two children lost in the woods.

Celeste waited until they were nearly at the door, then let her knees give way, sinking down and nearly taking Lewis with her.

“Get up!” he ordered.

Using the basket to give her leverage, she lurched to her feet, her hands apparently balled into fists as he pulled her forward.

He didn’t realize each hand was full of peas.

* * *

“Arnhelm!” Verdan called out when he saw his brother in the distance.

They were a few miles from Dunborough along the main road south to DeLac. Overhead, the sky was gray and dingy, with no sun to be seen. The dales here were barren, rocks protruding like sores, and a few birds wheeled high in the air.

Otherwise, the only living things to be seen were the two riders and their horses.

Arnhelm reined in and twisted to look behind him. His eyes widened when he realized who was galloping toward him, his arm flapping like a scared chicken and no helmet on his head.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded when his brother pulled his horse to a skittering halt, nearly coming down on its haunches on a patch of ice.

“You’ve got to come back! Now!” Verdan cried as he got his mount back under control. “Gerrard’s leaving for DeLac and he wants you to go with him.”

Arnhelm’s horse began to prance nervously. “Gerrard’s going to DeLac?”

“That what I said, isn’t it? He’s giving up Dunborough and going to tell Roland.”

Arnhelm couldn’t have looked more amazed if Verdan had announced he was really the king’s illegitimate son. “Giving up Dunborough?”

“Aye, and goin’ to DeLac to tell Roland. And he wants you to go with him.”

Arnhelm frowned. “But I have to tell Sir Roland—”

“Doesn’t matter now, does it?”

Arnhelm was thinking hard. “It might, depending on what happened with Sister Augustine.”

“Well, you can tell Sir Roland when you get there with Gerrard. In private like. In the meantime, you ought to get back and go with him, or he might be thinking you’re up to no good. I wouldn’t want Gerrard cross with me, not for anything.”

Arnhelm let out his breath slowly. “I suppose you’re right. Best go back and see if I can find out more when I ride with him. Could be there’ll be nothing to tell Sir Roland, but if there is, I’ll have a better idea what.”

“Aye,” Verdan vigorously agreed.

The brothers wheeled their horses and galloped toward Dunborough, leaving the dales to the clouds and the birds.

* * *

It didn’t take the two men long to get back.

“You don’t suppose he’s left already?” Verdan asked anxiously as they waited for Hedley to open the gate to the courtyard.

“Hope not.”

At last it swung wide enough for them to enter and they urged their horses through. The brothers exchanged relieved glances at the sight of Snow with a large leather pouch tied to the saddle.

“Where were you?” Hedley demanded of Arnhelm.

“Never mind that now,” he replied as he slid from his horse. “If Gerrard comes askin’, tell him I’m in the stable. That’ll be true enough,” he added as he started to jog toward it with Oaken in tow.

His brows contracted, a puzzled Hedley regarded Verdan. “What’s going on?”

“Nothin’,” he said, before he, too, dismounted and led his horse toward the stable.

They had barely gotten their horses into the stalls and unsaddled when Gerrard strode inside, his mail jingling, his long cloak swirling about his legs.

“Ah, Arnhelm, here you are,” he said. “Hedley told me I’d find you here.”

The brothers came out of the stalls so fast they nearly knocked each other over.

Gerrard frowned. “What are you doing here, Verdan? Why didn’t you tell your brother I was looking for him?”

“I did,” he replied. “Seems his horse is still lame,” he added, his face aflame as he lied.

Fortunately, it was dim in the stable, and Gerrard turned away to address Arnhelm before he got a good look at Verdan’s flushed cheeks. “Take another,” he said, “and be quick about it.”

* * *

Gerrard had left the stable and was waiting for Arnhelm when Norbert burst through the wicket gate like someone being chased by a pack of ravenous wolves.

“Where is my scoundrel of a son?” he demanded as he trotted toward him.

“I have no idea,” Gerrard calmly replied.

He hadn’t seen Lewis since he’d made his announcement in the hall. Not that it mattered. The lad’s whereabouts were no concern of Norbert’s now. “He’s safe from you, though.”

“And learning sin from you, no doubt,” the chandler retorted with astonishing disrespect as he came to a halt. “He’s taken my two best horses and I want them back!”

“So why have you come here?”

“Where else would he have taken them?” the angry man demanded.

“There are no horses in the stable except those that belong to Dunborough.”

“I’ll look for myself!”

His ire rising, Gerrard moved to intercept Norbert. “No, you won’t. Your horses aren’t there. Maybe Lewis took them, or maybe a thief stole them, but
they are not here
.”

“Might have walked off on their own,” Verdan said under his breath. “I would, if I was his.”

Although he shared the sentiment, Gerrard ignored the soldier’s comment. “If your son has taken your horses without your permission, that is theft and punishable by hanging. Is that what you want, to see your son hanged?”

“Hanged?” Norbert repeated, his voice nearly a squeak. He shook his head. “No! No, no, no!”

“Then perhaps you should refrain from making hasty accusations.”

“Gerrard!” Ewald’s deep voice rang across the yard.

They turned to see him struggling through the wicket gate, out of breath and nearly falling. “Gerrard!” he called out again. “Something’s happened! Sister Augustine—she’s gone!”

A shaft of fear and dismay, worse than any blow from a spear, pierced Gerrard’s heart. Ewald staggered to a halt and bent over, breathing hard, his hands on his knees.

“The house—chairs overturned, panel broken. Like Audrey,” Ewald panted.

Not Celeste, too! Dear God, not Celeste!

Gerrard swung himself onto Snow. “Open the gate!” he shouted as he kicked his heels against the stallion’s sides.

Hedley barely got the gate open before Gerrard charged through. He didn’t wait to see if anyone followed, didn’t care if they did. He had to get to the D’Orleau house.

As he galloped through the outer gate and down the main road of the village, men and women shouted warnings and got out of the way, then stood staring after him before they began to talk, gesture, exclaim and wonder.

Gerrard didn’t dismount at the gate to the D’Orleau yard. Instead, he urged Snow over the fence, then reined in. After dismounting, he ran through the gaping door and into the main chamber, where he saw what Ewald had—the overturned chairs, the disarray and the fallen candleholder that had hit the panel, cracking it.

Calling out Celeste’s name, Gerrard took the stairs two at a time and charged into her bedchamber.

It was empty save for the furnishings and a few undergarments and a small cloth bag lying on the unused bed. Mercifully, there was no sign of a struggle here, or in the other bedchamber.

He ran back down to the main room.

It was then he saw the blood. God help him, there was fresh blood on the floor.

He took a step closer and saw more drops leading to the kitchen. He rushed there to find that the trail of blood ended at the threshold of the door into the garden. There was no sign of a struggle in this chamber, either, except for a handful of peas scattered on the floor next to the half-open door.

The biggest orange cat Gerrard had ever seen suddenly dashed into view, apparently chasing a pea. The animal careered into the door, which opened wider. The cat crouched on the threshold, looking at Gerrard, before batting the pea with his paw and sending it outside.

Ignoring the beast, Gerrard went out in turn, searching for more signs of blood or a struggle.

He saw neither, but he did see more peas. And not scattered about as they’d been in the kitchen. These looked to be in a line leading to the stable.

With a gasp, he ran toward the outbuilding.

Empty, save for that cat. And a few more peas.

There was one by the door that opened to the north. He went outside and spotted another closer to the road.

Dear God, could this be a sign?

A trail for him to follow?

“Gerrard!” Arnhelm called out. “Is she there?”

He quickly returned to the house, to find Arnhelm and Verdan, Hedley and several of the other soldiers crowding into the main room, every one of them staring at the blood.

“She’s not in the house or stable,” he informed them.

“Lewis ain’t in the solar or his chamber in the castle, neither,” Arnhelm said. “And he ain’t in the kitchen or anywhere else.”

“Maybe she fell, an accident like,” Verdan said hopefully. “And maybe Lewis is somewhere in the village.”

His brother darted him a sour look. “And maybe not. Remember what happened to Audrey?”

Gerrard didn’t need that reminder. The vivid images were all too clear in his mind. But Celeste was not Audrey, and it seemed that even in her distress, she’d thought of a way to help them find her. “I think she’s been taken, but has left us a trail to follow.”

He led them to the kitchen and pointed at the peas. “They’re in too straight a line to be random. I think she was trying to show us the direction they were going.”