The Marriage Bed (The Medieval Knights Series) (26 page)

"Come, Isabel." He smiled, the torch lighting his hair to amber red, his pale eyes like pearls in the flickering light. "Come and let me show you what you truly want."

Before she could respond, he grabbed for her and she dropped a bag or two of spice upon the widely spaced stones of the undercroft. His arms encircled her as if in play; but it was not play. There was nothing charming about being touched against her will.

"Leave me!" she commanded, her anger high and bright, impossible to miss even in the flickering shadows. "You know not your place, and you clearly know not mine."

He pressed her against him, his hands hard upon her back, his breath in her face. The smell of him was repellent. Another bag tumbled over her arms and to the ground.

"I know more than my place," he said, his voice soft and urgent, his hands roving. "I know how you must ache for a true man to teach you the meaning of passion. All here know that your one night with Brother Richard was memorable for all the wrong reasons."

"Release me," she hissed, struggling against him, dropping all the bags willingly so that she could push against him.

"A man more monk than man would not know how to bring a woman to her pleasure. I am no monk, Isabel. I can make you scream for release."

"I am screaming now," she whispered.

But she was not. She could not. Fear had her trapped, and she could not see a way to freedom. He had her, his arms and hands everywhere, his mouth upon her, wet and open, touching her where she did not want to be touched. Doing things she did not want done. And none to help her.

None knew where she was.

None would hear if she screamed.

Yet she could not scream, she could only fight in silence, losing with every moment that passed, with every unlawful touch upon her body.

And the thought that held her captive above all his hands could accomplish: Did he think her willing? Had she somehow invited this attack?

His mouth covered hers, his tongue hard against her teeth and his hands hard upon her breasts.

Nay, 'twas too much. No man could think a woman would invite this.

The keys were still in her hand and she swung them against his face, thinking of nothing but driving him from her. The red mark of contact rose quickly on his fair skin and he lost his smile. He did not release her.

Grabbing the keys and throwing them across the room, he snagged both her hands and held them above her head. He had lost his smile, she could see. He did not think she wanted this; 'twas he who wanted it. And he would stop at nothing to get what he had set his hand to.

This was no game.

With a snarl, she kicked him hard and felt the joyful thud of bone against her foot.

In the next instant, her breath was gone as he knocked her down to fall on her back, the stones driving the air from her lungs.

He was all she could see, his form blocking even the struggling light of the torch. She could not breathe. She could not move.

He moved.

His head was jerked back by some unseen force, his throat exposed and white in the dim light. She saw the dagger slice its way across, leaving first a dark red line and then a gap as wide as the sky, opening, spilling blood, pumping blood, out, out, a flood of red to cover her.

And then she saw Richard.

Dark he was in the darkened room, dark and glorious, his face stern and set and unrepentant, his dagger red and wet. He reached for her, but she could not reach back, though she wanted to. All she could see was blood, blood covering the stones, covering the bags of spices, running across the floor in trails which grew ever wider, like a stream in flood.

"Isabel!" he said, his voice an echo from afar. "Are you harmed?"

The blood slowed, the pumping stilled from the wedge in Adam's neck. And yet the blood looked to fill the room.

"Isabel," Richard said, taking her in his arms, cradling her, pressing her head against the warm and solid mass of his chest. "Speak! Did he hurt you?"

Hurt? She was not hurt. She was covered in blood, the spices ruined, her
keys
lost.

All was broken.

"Nay," she said, her voice a tremble that came from the center of her to shake her soul.

She could not hear the weight of unshed tears in her words. Richard could.

He carried her in his arms, her weight light as down, her trembling the heaviest thing about her. He rushed her to their chamber, a place familiar to her, a place of safety. She was safe now. She must know she was safe.

William and Rowland met him there, their swords unsheathed, their faces determined.

"Watch her," Richard commanded. "I have more yet to do."

"With a will," William answered.

Richard was already turning away. He had laid Isabel upon their bed and covered her with a thick marten fur. She trembled still, curled in a ball so tight she could scarce draw breath. But he must leave her for now, for danger still awaited in Dornei.

Rowland followed him, a silent wraith of vengeance. They shared a look of dark intent and then rushed down to the undercroft. It was full of the silence of death. Without hesitation, Richard hacked the head from Adam's white and lifeless body. Lifting the head by the shimmering auburn hair, he mounted the stair swiftly.

A crowd was gathering, clustered in the bailey, pressed into the tower stair, shuffling into the hall. They massed to see the gruesome sight and were more haunted by the memory of Richard's grim visage.

Here was no monk.

Richard paid them no heed. He strode with his prize into the hall. Henley was playing chess with one of Malton's knights, and both watched Richard approach, their faces expressionless. No thoughts of Bertrada intruded, no pain at facing his sin, no fear at receiving well-deserved judgment at Henley's hands—all washed away on a tide of blood by his need to protect Isabel. All Richard could see when he faced Henley was Isabel and her mute struggle not to be defiled.

Richard tossed the head to roll and land at Henley's feet.

Henley jumped out of the way.

"You brought this dog into my domain, against my express will," Richard said, his voice heavy and strong. "He laid hands upon my wife. Death was his payment. So it will be for any man who harms Isabel. Take what is left of him and leave. Now."

Rowland stood at his back, in all ways backing him. Yet it was not necessary. Henley had no desire to fight, and if he had, Richard was more than a match for him. This all knew who stood within the hall. Richard was an adversary who had faced his demons daily; such a warrior had little fear left in him, and, in truth, his strength had grown mighty in his battles against the unseen forces of darkness.

Henley looked at the head with its bloody and ragged stump and then at Richard's face. Without a word, he left the hall, his knights following him.

"I will escort him to the gate," Rowland said. "Your lady needs you."

Richard nodded his thanks, breathing deeply, forcing himself to calm. He would have killed Henley gladly, given the need. Gladly and without a prayer for forgiveness. How far he had come from the Benedictine brotherhood. The knowledge brought him no pain, no loss. He was no monk.

But that was past; Isabel needed him now. Rowland had the right of it.

Once again, he mounted the stair, seeking out his wife. When had he ever approached his prayers with such eagerness and urgency? William stood with his back to the open door of their chamber, beyond, Richard could see Isabel staring out the wind hole, her fingers white on the stone ledge.

"She did not want to be alone," William said softly in explanation of the open door.

Richard did no more than nod, dismissing William of Greneforde; his thoughts were all for his wife.

"Isabel," he said, her name as sweet on his tongue as the Eucharist.

She turned to him at once, and the tears which she had held in such rigid check burst forth. Silently they fell, as she was always silent in her distress. This he knew of her; he knew so much of her.

She was covered in blood, as was he. It smeared her hair and stained her gown and covered her hands and face. It mattered not.

She rushed into his outstretched arms, burying her face against his chest, her sobs echoing within his heart.

Isabel.

He lifted her against him, rejoicing in the feel of her against his length, reveling in the comfort of just feeling her breathe, the ecstasy of the solid pounding of her heart against his chest. She was alive. Alive, whole, and unharmed.

The rushing joy he felt covered him as naturally as a cloud covers the sun; it was familiar, this joy in her. Familiar and natural. He had cast her from him, this woman who knew every corner of his heart. He had been a fool. He had listened to the taunts of Nicholas and the others, shamed that a girl betrothed to his house was his only friend, shamed and convinced that by his affection, his need for her, he committed an act unpure. And so he had shunned her, leaving her bewildered and hungry for his presence and leaving himself alone. In all of Malton—nay, in all of his life—there had been only Isabel.

And that thought, that unexpected knowledge, made the breath catch in his chest.

Chapter 25

It was with no great surprise that Richard watched the bath being delivered to the lord's chamber. William still stood at their door and directed the tub inside.

"I told you that you were not needed," Richard said to him as the tub was carried in.

"You told me nothing. You nodded your head at me, in greeting, I surmised," William answered, "I arranged for a bath, to soothe and cleanse."

"Your answer to all occasions, it seems," Richard said a trifle stiffly.

"In this, it will serve you well," William said seriously, drawing Richard close. "Your lady needs to wash this event from her body and from her mind. Let her be clean again. 'Twill heal her, washing away her guilt."

Richard studied William, looking deep into his silver-gray eyes; he shielded much pain behind light words and banter. And perhaps there was wisdom in that.

"She is guilty of nothing," Richard said.

William smiled. "Well said, Lord Richard of Dornei, and true. But a woman's mind runs not straight, but winds like a hare on the run from a hawk. Such confusion must be eased out of her, gently and tenderly."

"With bathwater?" Richard said on a smile.

William shrugged elegantly. "To be clean is never a hindrance."

"Nay, it is not," Richard agreed. "And for Isabel I have only tenderness. Your words on this were not needed, but appreciated."

William smiled and clasped him on the arm, hard, before turning away. "And the bath?"

"Appreciated."

"And needed, for my nose never betrays." He sniffed comically, walking off.

Joan passed Richard, brushing by him in her hurry to comfort Isabel, who sat upon the center of their bed, shaking, silent. The tub was steaming, the special packet of Flanders soap given to them by Lord William added to the water, and Joan, talking nonsense to fill the air with her own style of comfort, undressed Isabel.

Rowland came up the stair, his cloak flowing out behind him with the regal silence of flight. Richard closed the door upon the sight of his Isabel and turned to face Rowland.

"Henley is gone. His men with him," Rowland said. "Gone without a whimper or a backward glance."

"You expected more?"

"For a man who struggled so to gain entrance, he did not struggle so upon leaving."

"You understand not the man," Richard said. "Henley charges forcefully upon the field when certain of victory. With the possibility of failure, he is just as quick to leave it."

Richard could see the question, the logic, as it played out in the shadows of Rowland's black eyes, but he possessed too much chivalry to voice his thoughts. But the logic was clear: Why had Henley been so certain of victory in entering Dornei? Because he had been certain of Richard.

Henley had always and ever been certain of Richard.

Through the heavy door, Richard heard a smothered sob, and he turned at once to join his wife, leaving all thought of Rowland and Henley behind him.

Isabel was staring at the blood-soaked bliaut Joan had just removed from her, her eyes wide with fear and dismay.

"'Tis naught, Isabel," Joan said, holding the cloth in her hands for Isabel to see.

In two steps, Richard snatched the gown from Joan's hands and threw it out of the wind hole.

"'Tis gone, Isabel," he said.

Isabel looked at him, her eyes wide.

She was stripped of her clothing, her skin cloud-pale, her wrists bruised where Adam had mauled her, her face still streaked with blood; yet she was whole.

"Come, Isabel, come and wash. Do you not wish to be clean?" he asked.

She stared out of the wind hole and said on a whisper, “I wish to fly away."

"Without me?" he asked, and then cursed himself for such vulnerability displayed for Joan to see. But Joan had left them. The door was closed firmly. They were alone.

He wanted her. Even now, when she was bruised and bloodied and lost in terror, he wanted her. More than wanted, needed. And she wanted to leave him.