White Lion's Lady (31 page)

And all the while, she could feel Griffin’s eyes on her.

He had been seated with the company of guards some dozen yards away from Sebastian and her, his tether slackened to afford him space to eat and drink, the opposite end tied around the base of a sturdy ash to ensure he stayed put. Isabel could not tell what he was thinking; his emotionless gaze told her nothing. Did he hate her? He had intended to leave her with Sebastian and set off on his own, but now, because of her, he was arrested and soon to stand trial for his role in her kidnapping. What punishment would he see at Montborne? She was too terrified to so much as think on the prospect.

“Does it pain you terribly, my lady?”

Sebastian’s low voice next to her startled Isabel out of her grim musings. She forced her gaze away from Griffin and back to her betrothed, trying to make sense of what he was asking.

“Your arm,” he said. “It troubles me to think you are suffering. If the injury pains you overmuch, we could slow our progress so you can rest more frequently. I don’t want to tax you any more than you have been already.”

Isabel managed a small smile. “Thank you for your concern, my lord.”

He poured her a cup of wine from a hard leather decanter and handed it to her. When Isabel tried to take it, his grip resisted slightly, prompting her to look up at him. His gray-green gaze was piercing, unsettling. “We are to be wed soon,” he reminded her. “You may call me Sebastian if it pleases you … Isabel.”

It seemed so odd to hear her name roll off another man’s tongue. Odder still to think that what the earl said was true: they were to be wed soon. She looked into the face of her affianced, a noble, handsome face that would make any
maiden swoon. Against her will, she found herself comparing him to Griffin, contrasting the two men who were likely the same in age, yet as different in appearance and demeanor as night and day.

Where Griffin was golden and smolderingly intense, Sebastian of Montborne was dark and dynamic, a man whose very presence commanded respect and not a little fear. The earl seemed to crackle with vitality, his keen gaze not quite able to hide its roguish gleam, the wry twist of his mouth hinting at a reckless nature that probably took a great effort to curb. From what Isabel knew of him before and what she had now seen of him these past couple of days, Sebastian of Montborne seemed a good man. Kind yet firm, gentle yet strong. He would make any woman a fine husband …

Any woman but her.

She took a sip of her wine, then brought the cup down and stared into the bloodred claret, feeling the weight of a thousand stones settle onto her chest. “My lord,” she began hesitantly, “I … I think we should talk about our … about this marriage arrangement.”

She glanced up, half hoping she had not said the words aloud—half hoping she was not sitting there with Sebastian of Montborne, about to tell him that she could not marry him. But she had said the words, and he was there beside her, looking at her with an expectant, almost sympathetic gaze. “I would be lying if I told you I didn’t have a few reservations about this marriage myself, my lady. Though I mean no disrespect to you, if I had my choice I would be with my king preparing to join the fight in the Holy Land, not preparing to take a bride. But neither one of us has the luxury of choosing in this matter. Our king wishes to join our lands through marriage, Isabel, and as his subjects we must oblige.”

His admission surprised Isabel. She supposed she had been so wrapped up in her own misery that she had not paused to consider Sebastian. That he wanted for other
things as well did not make the weight of her regrets lessen, but it did make her feel a certain shared sadness with the youthful earl. He deserved better than she could ever hope to give him as his wife. “I’m sorry, Sebastian,” she whispered. “I’m sorry about all of this. I wish it could be different … for both of us.”

He gave her a gentle nod of acknowledgment. “I am not going to ask what transpired between you and him,” he said, his voice lowering to a very private timbre. “Perhaps in time you will decide to tell me on your own. Perhaps in time it will no longer matter. I can’t demand your love as my wife, Isabel, but I can demand your fidelity. You should know, here and now, that I will demand that much of you.”

When she could only stare at him, fully understanding how right he was to expect her agreement yet somehow unable to voice her pledge, Sebastian set down his cup of wine and rose from his place beside her. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts, my lady. Providing you’ve no objections, I’ll tell the men to mount up within the hour. I would prefer to make Montborne before sundown.”

Griffin had never seen Montborne, but he had heard of its splendor on occasion through Dom, who had always described it in jealous, spiteful terms, as if in telling Griffin of its majesty Dom was somehow delivering personal insult to him as well. Now, as he rode under the barbican gates and into the large courtyard that lay at the foot of the enormous castle, Griff could understand his foster brother’s envy.

Montborne was magnificent.

Easily three times the size of Droghallow’s square stone keep, this polygonal tower rose several stories into the evening sky, its parapets and battlements blocking out the slim color of the fading sun and casting long shadows over the bailey. Soldiers and castle folk paused in their activities to look with affection upon their returning lord and
his new bride—and stare in scorn at the brigand responsible for her damage and delayed arrival.

Griffin could only watch as Isabel was assisted from her palfrey and shown inside the castle by a clutch of chattering maids. She glanced back at him as they led her up the keep’s outer stairs, but her regard was brief and filled with the same sadness and regret he had seen in her eyes during the whole of their journey to Montborne. And there was something else in her eyes in that moment, too, Griff realized.

Resignation.

She was going to marry Sebastian of Montborne. The reality of it—the crushing finality of it—hit him like a lance thrust through his heart. He tried to tell himself it was the plan all along, that he had always known this day was coming. That it was for the best where both of them were concerned. But now he knew the truth: he had been hoping—madly, futilely hoping—that somehow they would have found a way to be together.

It wasn’t going to happen.

He had pushed her into Sebastian’s arms that awful morning at the monastery, and now it appeared she had decided to stay there. He wanted to scream his anguish over losing her, but he schooled his face to one of cool composure as the earl jumped off his horse and strode over to face him.

“I would have a word with you in private before I send for the sheriff, sir.” A look from the dark-haired nobleman sent one of his guards over to help Griff down from his mount. His hands were untied, a gesture of confidence from the earl that Griff had to respect. He acknowledged his appreciation with a slight nod. “We can talk in my solar,” Sebastian told him, then turned to lead the way across the bailey and into the keep.

The earl brought Griffin to his private chamber off the great hall and closed the door. He left Griff in the center of
the rush-covered floor and walked to the room’s large window, standing before the pane of costly glass and staring out at the fiery approach of sunset. “It seems we have some trouble between us, sir knight. You have committed an act of treason in stealing my bride, an act that demands recompense, yet if I do what is right by my king and myself, I shall lose any hope of alliance with the woman I am pledged to marry. It seems to me that whether you live or die, I am doomed to abide your ghost dwelling in my home.”

“You have to do what you must,” Griff answered from behind him, sounding much more casual than he felt. “As for Isabel—your betrothed—” he corrected hastily “—I’m certain the lady will bear you no ill will for your decision.”

The earl of Montborne exhaled a wry chuckle. “You underestimate, sir. She loves you.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Griff replied tersely. “After all I have put her through these past couple of weeks, she despises me. I’m certain of it.”

“So. You love her as well,” the earl remarked. “Is that why you sent the message from the Derbyshire monastery?”

Griffin shook his head. “She was wounded and very ill. I only wanted to see her safely delivered to where she belonged.”

“An odd statement for her abductor to make, don’t you think? Would it surprise you to know that your overlord took it upon himself to inform me of my bride’s capture some days ago, advising me that you had acted alone in this kidnapping plot?” Sebastian pivoted to regard him over his shoulder. “No, I can see that it doesn’t. It didn’t surprise me either, frankly. Dominic of Droghallow has never allied himself with Montborne, so I didn’t see why he would feel the need to do so now, particularly when half the realm is aware of his recent involvement with Prince John.”

“I did act alone,” Griffin admitted. “I took the lady from Droghallow with plans to ransom her back to you for a reward.”

Sebastian turned. “And now? How much of a reward would it take for you to leave and never come back?”

Griff considered for a moment, thinking back on all his plans, his future, all the hopes that hinged on the promise of a fat ransom. He thought about all those things, then answered the damning truth because after everything he had been through these past few days, the truth—his honor—was all he had left. “I would always come back. So long as she is here, no amount of money—nothing in this world—would keep me away from her.”

The earl’s smile was grim. “As her husband, I wouldn’t have that, you understand.”

“I do,” Griff replied, for he expected no less.

Sebastian frowned at him, then slowly shook his head. “The sheriff will be here in the morning. When he asks after your involvement in my betrothed’s abduction, I will leave it to you to answer in your own defense. In consideration of your returning Isabel to my care, I give you my word as a gentleman that I shall say nothing against you to the king’s officer. However, speaking as the man who will take her to wife, neither can I allow myself to say anything on your behalf.”

Griff inclined his head in acceptance of the fact. “And I give you my word,” he replied, “I will tell the sheriff much the same as I told you here—that I stole your betrothed with the intention of hostaging her for a ransom.”

Sebastian’s oath was expelled on a harsh breath. “You will be inviting a charge of treason.”

“Is that not what I stand guilty of?”

“It brings a sentence of death,” the earl warned.

Griff said nothing, for he knew full well the punishment for treason against the crown. He didn’t particularly want to die, but he expected he would rather suffer a hangman’s
noose on the morrow than live the rest of his days without Isabel.

“Very well,” Sebastian said after Griffin’s extended silence. He opened the door and called for the guards. Two armed knights appeared in the corridor a moment later, ready for their lord’s orders. “Take the prisoner belowstairs to await the sheriff.”

“Your bath is drawn, my lady. Shall I help you disrobe?”

The maid’s question, like most of the previous ones she had asked, went unanswered. The girl shot an anxious look to one of the other attendants assigned to assist their lord’s new bride, and was given a helpless shrug. A third servant, older than the others, pushed up her sleeves and approached the lady sitting in sullen silence on the chamber’s big bed.

“Come now, my lady. You must be sorely tired; let us get you out of that dress and into some warm water—”

Isabel jumped when the maid’s hands settled on her. “No,” she snapped, then realized how curt her tone had sounded and made a hasty apology. “Please,” she told the group of them, “I would simply like to be left alone for a while.”

“Of course,” the elder servant replied, bobbing an acquiescent curtsy. “As you wish, my lady.”

For the past hour since her arrival at Montborne, Isabel had been sitting on the bed, clutching Griffin’s medallion pendant in her fist and staring into the fire that roared in the room’s deep hearth, all but ignoring the half-dozen servants who had been flitting in and out trying to make her comfortable. Waiting there idle was driving her mad; not knowing where Griffin was or how he fared was a frustration she could bear no longer.

“Do you know where my lord Sebastian has taken the man who arrived with us today?” she asked the last of the maids as the girl gathered up a couple of empty water buckets.

Nearly to the door, the servant turned. “Why, my lord has sent him to the castle prison, of course.”

“The prison,” Isabel gasped. “Where is it?”

“ ’Tis below the keep, but you needn’t worry, my lady. The cells are well guarded, and anyway, my lord is sending for the sheriff to arrive on the morrow—”

Isabel vaulted off the bed before the maid could finish. Without a care for how it looked to the serving girl, she fled the room in a panic and raced down the spiral stairwell that led to the first floor of the castle. Sebastian was standing with a couple of his knights near the entrance to the solar when she skidded to a halt at the base of the steps. The trio of men looked to her disheveled, hasty arrival in surprise.

“My lord,” she called to him, out of breath from flight and fear. She worried her skirts in her hands, nervously clutching at the pale blue silk as she attempted a calmer approach toward her betrothed. “Sebastian, please. I must know. What do you mean to do with him?”

With his eyes trained on her, the earl jerked his chin at the guards in dismissal. Isabel stood before him, watching the two men depart and weathering their scrutinous looks as they sidled by to leave Sebastian and her to their privacy.

“I have heard that he is gaoled belowstairs,” she said when they were standing alone in the windowed antechamber. “You have sent for the sheriff?”

“I have. My messenger was dispatched a moment ago.”

His uncompromising reply seemed to suck all the air out of Isabel’s lungs. She closed her eyes, blinking back the flood of cold, numbing dread that swelled inside her. Of its own accord, her hand came up to grasp Griffin’s medallion,
the white lion talisman that had so often given her strength. Never had she needed that strength more. “On what charges does he stand accused?”