White Lion's Lady (18 page)

So long as they continued their facade for the few hours they would remain at Hexford, so long as they hid behind their cloak of anonymity, he was certain they would make it.

Griff entered the castle nearly at a dead run, his booted footfalls sounding hollow and urgent in the torchlit corridor, his mind fixed on a single thought: Isabel. His purposeful strides chewed up the stone floor beneath him, sending cresset flames to waggling in his wake as he rounded a bend and stalked inside the great hall.

He scanned the crowded chamber for her face, for a glimpse of her burnished copper mane among the masses, and let out an oath. There was no sign of her; no one had seen her for at least an hour, he was told by a clutch of women, not since the both of them had quit the hall after the midday meal. Griffin had to struggle to keep his concern from showing in his expression.

Mayhap Isabel was more upset than he realized by what had transpired between them in the tower. He could not blame her, he thought, feeling a renewed prick of guilt for his brutish behavior.

He was just about to turn away when one of the women tapped his arm and pointed toward the arched entryway to the hall. “There she is, love.”

Escorted by the priest called Aldon, Isabel stood paused outside the great hall. It appeared she had been crying recently, her tears dried but her cheeks still flushed, eyes yet rimmed in red. The old clergyman said something to her—something reassuring by the looks of it, for Isabel nodded and gave him a weak smile.

“You’ll see, ’twill all work out as it should, my child,” the priest was saying as Griff strode up and interrupted the exchange with his very presence.

“My lady,” he said with forced mildness. “Your absence was beginning to worry me.”

He did not miss the strangely condemning glint in the old man’s eyes, but he dismissed it as pious arrogance and took Isabel’s hand in his, pressing a chaste kiss to her palm. It was a calculated move that would have afforded him the opportunity to pull her into the protective circle of his arm had she not withdrawn, looking away as if she could not bear to meet his eyes.

“I have been looking for you,” he said evenly, though it unnerved him by the way she seemed to shrink back from him. He didn’t like the fact that she would not lift her gaze, that she seemed so shuttered, so full of tension.

Wary of him.

He shifted slightly and cleared his throat. “We must talk, my lady.”

“Yes, Griffin,” she answered in a quiet, distant-sounding voice. “We must.”

And then, at last, she looked up.

Griffin had never seen such sorrow, such terrible regret. It tore at him, the sadness he saw shimmering in her gaze; it rent something asunder inside of him. Had he done this to her? He gritted his teeth, wanting to kick himself for causing her even a moment’s distress.

But before he could beg her forgiveness, before he could reach out, pull her into his arms, and vow never to hurt her again, Isabel blurted out something that seemed to suck the very air from his lungs.

“I’ve asked Father Aldon to help me get to Montborne.”

Dazed—uncertain he had heard aright—Griff threw a wild glance at the old priest. “You what?”

“The good father has offered to give me the church’s
protection until I am safely arrived at Montborne, and I have agreed. I will be leaving with him in the morn.”

Griffin ground out a rather vivid oath and seized Isabel by the arm. “I don’t think you understand what you are doing.”

“No, sir knight,” the priest interjected. “ ’Tis you who does not understand. This lady has begged sanctuary with the church. To interfere in this is to go against God.”

“Damn the church. And damn you,” Griff growled, whirling on the old man and sending him back a pace with the ferocity of his glare.

Isabel gasped, but she did not fight him when he took her firmly in hand and stalked away from the priest, searching for somewhere private to speak with her. He found it in a windowed antechamber adjacent to the great hall. Hauling Isabel around before him, Griff turned and kicked the door shut with a solid bang.

“Griffin,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Are you mad?” he demanded. “Do you want to get us both killed?”

“No!” she gasped. “This is the best way to avoid that eventuality. The surest means to save us both.”

“By involving someone you’ve just met? Do you actually trust him—a man you know nothing about—more than you trust me?”

“He’s a man of God,” she reminded him, as if that should make a difference.

Griff exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. “What have you told him?”

“I didn’t have to tell him much.” She rushed on, nervously picking at a loose thread on her gown. “He came upon me in the chapel, saw that I was crying. I guess he could tell I was hiding something. He said he suspected I was in danger, that he knew we were not married—”

“Jesus,” Griff swore. “What else does he know?”

“I didn’t tell him about Dom or anything else, if that’s what you mean. I told him only that I needed to get to Montborne, that my life depended on it.”

“And what about me?”

Isabel shrugged, giving a slow shake of her head. “I told him that I had hired you to take me there, but now I feel that it is time we go our separate ways.”

“Do you?” he asked.

She did not answer.

“Dom’s guards are in the area,” he told her, more calmly than he might have thought he could. At her look of alarm, he went on to explain what he had heard in the stables, about the soldiers’ search of the nearby inn and the likelihood that they would soon be nosing around at Hexford. “The rains are starting to clear,” he said. “If we leave tonight, we should be able to put a good distance between ourselves and the search party.”

“Griffin,” Isabel said gently. “Don’t you see? This is just all the more reason why we should part now, the sooner the better. The knights from Droghallow are not going to give up until they have us.”

“I won’t let them near you,” he averred. “I’m taking you to Montborne, my lady. Dom is not going to win in this.”

Her smile was a trifle sad as she tilted her head down, then regarded him from under her lashes. “Are you sure that’s not all you’re concerned about—making certain Dom doesn’t win?” she asked carefully. “How much does your want to see me to Montborne have to do with your stated intent to demand payment for my return?”

Griff scowled, oddly insulted by the accusation. Money had been at the root of his plan, of course, but at the moment he had not given a thought to what he might stand to gain in delivering Isabel to Montborne. Indeed, his concerns of late had become more centered on what
he stood to lose. Namely her. That she could think him so base, so greedy and self-serving, after everything that had passed between them, burned him more than he cared to admit.

“You think I’m using you,” he said, holding that haughty gaze.

“Aren’t you?”

“You mean the way you intend to use your betrothed, my lady?” The question shot out of his mouth before he could bite it back. Now he could only stare at her, watching as she went from surprised to outraged.

“Using him?” she repeated. “The king has decreed that I wed Sebastian. Lest you think otherwise, you should know that I have no choice in this. It is my duty.”

“A happy convenience,” Griff tossed back. “I wonder if you would be so determined to marry were your groom a less accomplished man, less able to provide you with the comforts of wealth and title that you profess so self-righteously not to need.”

“That isn’t fair,” she argued. “My family’s lands need to be protected. I promised myself years ago that I would look after my sister if I could. This marriage will give me that chance.”

“And what about you, Isabel?” He advanced on her, slowly crossing the space that separated them. “What will make you happy?”

She shrugged, though her face showed her distress. “My heart will be glad enough.”

“Married to a man you don’t love,” he challenged, ruthless in his provocation of her.

“Why do you force me to defend myself, Griffin? I have to do this.”

“You don’t love him.”

“I made a vow,” she insisted.

Griff took another step toward her, near enough to touch her now. “You don’t love him.”

“I pledged my honor!” she choked, her hands fisting in her skirts. “My honor is all I have left.”

Griff’s sharp bark of laughter sounded strained, cruel, even to his own ears. “Honor,” he snarled. “Is that what you’ll cling to when you find yourself lying beneath your husband and thinking of me?”

He wasn’t surprised when she slapped him.

He well deserved it, after all. The sting of her palm against his cheek actually served to bring him to his senses. It made him realize the foolishness of where he had been heading, the futility of what he might have said to her in that moment, if given half a chance.

He stared at her, at those shimmering topaz eyes and the trembling mouth he so wanted to kiss, knowing that depending on what he said next, he might never see her again. Perhaps that truly was what she wanted. “Very well,” he said with curt finality. “Go with your priest then. And keep your precious honor. I sure as hell have no bloody use for it.”

“Griffin,” she said, but he was already three strides across the room. “Oh, Griffin. Wait.”

But he did not wait. Throwing open the door, he stormed out of the solar and past the startled priest who had evidently positioned himself just outside in a blatant attempt to eavesdrop on their private conversation. He had likely gotten an earful, Griff thought sullenly, cutting a dark glare at him as he stalked off down the corridor.

Thank God he was done with this fool’s mission. Thank God he was relieved of his obligation to the woman, relieved of her maddening presence. Let someone else worry about keeping her safe and warm and fed; he would do well enough to guard his own neck. Let someone else deliver her into her husband’s waiting arms; he could think of far better things to do. Yes, he thought, his footsteps hard and angry in the passageway, thank God this was the last he would have to concern himself with Isabel de Lamere.

And thank God for the slimmest thread of sanity that kept him from voicing the invitation that was still too close to the tip of his tongue for his current peace of mind. An invitation that would have begged Isabel to forget about Sebastian of Montborne, to simply turn her back on all of this mess and run away with him instead.

Father Aldon poked his head into the solar where Isabel stood trying to compose herself after Griffin’s angry departure. “What a terrible, beastly man,” he remarked with unchristian-like disdain. “He didn’t hurt you, did he, my child?”

“No,” she answered, but in truth she had never hurt so badly in all her life. She could hardly believe that he was gone, that in the morning she would be leaving, likely never to see Griffin again. She should have been relieved. Instead she felt as if a piece of her heart had broken off and fallen away, leaving a void that would never again be filled.

She let the old priest show her out of the solar and up the castle stairs, only half listening as he explained that he had arranged a room for her away from the hall, where a bath and a change of clothes awaited her, a private chamber where she could get a good night’s rest before they headed out in the morning. He wanted her to look her best, he told her, for he had arranged for special escort to meet them personally and see Isabel delivered to where she belonged.

He showed her to her chamber, then bade her good eve with a kind smile and a warm blessing. Isabel collapsed at once into the soft coverlet of the bed, burying her face in the bolster, too exhausted to think.

Too distressed to notice that on the other side of her closed door, Father Aldon had quietly turned a key and locked her in.

Griffin reached for the flagon sitting in front of him on the trestle table and poured what was left of the spiced wine into his cup. He had been sitting alone in a far-flung corner of Hexford’s great hall for hours now, pursuing total inebriation with a vengeance and a good deal of success.

At first, after his conversation—and ultimate parting—with Isabel, Griff had thought he would simply leave Hexford, carry out his plan to elude the imminent arrival of Dom’s guards by heading out immediately. After all, she had no use for him now. She’d had no trouble letting him know she no longer needed his help.

But he had not even made it out of the castle before he realized he could not go. Not yet.

If he had any sort of pride, he would not waste another thought on Isabel de Lamere, let alone sit brooding in a darkened corner, waiting … for what? The chance to see her one more time? Another opportunity for him to make a fool of himself before her? Before everyone in the castle?

Was this what love did to an otherwise sane person?

If so, Griffin decided that he wanted none of it. If love was to blame for the ache he felt inside, for the foolish urge he felt to knock down every door in the keep until he found the one that Isabel now hid behind, then Griffin would gladly do without it. If love was what compelled him to let her go to another man when all he wanted to do was beg
her to stay with him, then Griffin would gladly leave the bloody emotion to the bards.

As it was, not even Hexford’s accomplished troubadour could make love sound appealing. For the third time this eve, while strolling the hall and plucking his lute, the minstrel lapsed into a pitiful song about the ill-fated romance between a noblewoman and a simple knight, an affair destined for tragedy due to the lady’s betrothal to another, wealthier, man. Griff had thought the ballad ridiculous and morose when he had first heard it a couple of nights ago, but now each verse seemed torn from his own experience. He took a long swallow of wine as the bard approached his table, strumming slowly as he reached the end of the song, his dulcet voice lingering on the final dramatic note.

The folk in the hall burst into effusive cheers and applause.

“Again!” came a collective shout from some of the women. “Sing it again!”