The Deed

  Blake nodded at that. "Aye. I recall a sharp turn to the path when we reached the river. 'Twas several hours back."

  Richard turned to Amaury now. "There may be a spot near there that can be forged during some parts of the year. If so, only someone who traveled this way often would know of it."

  Amaury's face creased with worry. "But what if 'tis no such spot? What if he simply did not go this way, but headed somewhere else?"

  The king frowned impatiently at him. He had ridden into battle with this man several times, and had never known him to be so indecisive and uncertain. What the hell was the matter with the man? "His keep is only about an hour from here, Amaury." There was a decided snap to his voice as the king pointed that out. "Why do we not finish what we have started, make our way there, and find out?"

  "Aye, of course you are right."

  "Hmm." Richard peered at him narrowly for a moment, then shook his head. The man was in no state to think clearly. Should they arrive at Bertrand's demesne to discover Lady Emmalene there, he would no doubt charge right up and get himself killed. If given the chance. He would not give him the chance then, Richard decided. "You will follow me from here," he announced abruptly, and urged his horse forward again.

  She was seated on the bed again when Bertrand returned. A servant followed him in, carrying a tankard of mead. Emma smiled gratefully at the woman as she accepted the refreshment, doing her best not to wince at the scars and marks she also carried. Lady Ascot's treatment of her retainers showed well.

  "Drink," Bertrand urged her as the woman left. "You must be parched."

  Forcing a smile, she raised the tankard, only to pause with it at her mouth as she recalled the poison in her husband's ale. She did not fear being killed by poison, but there was always the possibility that one of those ways Lady Ascot had thought Gytha might know of to get rid of a child was through a potion of some sort. There were potions for everything else. Why not for miscarriages?

  When she saw Bertrand frown over her hesitation, Emma continued to raise the tankard, taking a surreptitious sniff of its contents before pretending to sip from the container. She did not smell anything out of the ordinary in the liquid, but decided it was better to be cautious.

  Faking a swallow, she lowered the tankard and smiled at him. "You look fair pleased with yourself, my lord."

  Bertrand broke into a grin, his body visibly relaxing at her winsome smile. "I should be. I am this far from gaining everything I dreamed of." He held his thumb and forefinger a hair's breadth apart before her.

  Emma felt herself flush from the tip of her forehead to her toes. She knew it was from anger, but could only hope Bertrand thought it a blush as she ducked her head in feigned shyness and murmured, "I must look awful."

  "Aye."

  Charm was not one of his failings, she decided, raising a hand to try to straighten her hair somewhat. She could feel that it had fallen loose and now lay in curly ringlets about her face. Her gown too had suffered, she saw with irritation, taking in its dusty wrinkled state. The gold material looked more of a mustard color now. No doubt her face was a sight as well, she thought impatiently. If she wished to succeed at her plan, she must look attractive to him.

  Bertrand watched Emma straighten her appearance, and knew it was for his benefit. Women always primped when around him. Most often it annoyed him, but it had quite the opposite effect just now. His heart took flight. Lady Emmalene wanted him. He had thought she must, for most women did, but to have his hopes proved true was just wondrous. He wanted . . . he wanted . . . her.

  Emma was taken by surprise when Bertrand suddenly launched himself at her. She was so unprepared, all she managed was a small squeak of protest as he tumbled her backward onto the bed, knocking the tankard from her hand.

  They surveyed the castle from the cover of the trees in the dim twilight.

  "They hold her here."

  "Aye," Blake agreed with the king. "Just look, they have the drawbridge up. The keep is locked up tight as a drum."

  Amaury started to urge his horse forward at that, but Richard and Blake both caught his reins and held him back. "Nay, Amaury. Wait," Blake urged him.

  "Wait?! They hold my wife."

  "What would you? Ride up and knock at the gate?" Blake asked grimly.

  "Blake is right. We must wait for our men. Their size will aid us. Come." Richard turned his horse, then paused to glance back at Amaury where he hesitated. "We shall rest and plot our course as we wait."

  Slumping in his saddle, Amaury nodded at that. It made sense. One never went riding heedlessly into a fray. One planned and plotted, and in the end won. He knew that. It was why he had never lost a battle . . . and yet he had nearly rushed headlong into this one. It almost made him sick. He could have gotten himself, or worse yet Emma, killed. He had been rushing about so since seeing her crakow drop from the tapestry. He had known it was something of his wife's before he had even seen it properly. Amaury had never had such premonitions before, but then no one he had loved had been in danger before.

  Then he swallowed as he heard his own thoughts. Love. Damn! There was that word again. Such a little word for such a strong and tormenting emotion. Did he really love his wife? He certainly felt lust for her. His blood had seemed to be bubbling for weeks now, always threatening to boil over with his want of her. Mayhap he even liked her. She was fair smart. He liked that. She was charming too. Many was the time she had made him laugh in the last month, sometimes without even meaning too. It was hard to recall what his life had been like before marrying her. It seemed to him to be just a mass of gray days.

  Just as his future would be should she die, he thought suddenly and felt pain stab through him. Nay, he could not lose her. Love or not, he liked having her around. In truth, he might even need her. He would give his life to save her, but would rather not have to. He looked forward to many long years with the temperamental wench. She could not die.

  Amaury peered toward the keep again. Where was she? And what was happening to her? If Bertrand or his old witch mother harmed Emma, he would kill them both. Slowly.

  "De Aneford!"

  Sighing, Amaury turned his horse to follow the king. He must settle down some. Calm himself enough to come up with a plan. His wife would not die. Nor would he. Bertrand could not have her.

  "Nay, my lord! Prithee, control thyself!" Emma muttered, pushing at Bertrand's chest as his lips slobbered a passionate circle by her ear. "We cannot!"

  "We cannot?" He pulled back to frown at her. "You do not wish to?"

  Emma blinked at that. She would rather-- well, it was of no matter. Just then she could not afford to be honest. She needed his favor were she to escape. "Aye, of course, but I-- pray, my Lord, forbear. We must forbear."

  "Why?"

  "Why?" Biting her lip, she thought frantically. "I--'tis my woman's time."

  "Your . . ." He swallowed at that, distaste flashing across his features briefly, then he suddenly frowned. "But you are with child."

  "Oh, well, I . . ." Emma stared at him blankly for a moment, then saw a way to save the child that might be growing within her, and smiled at him coyly. "Now my lord, do not tell me that you believed that?"

  "What?"

  "Well . . . Clever as you are, you must have realized that that was all a ploy?"

  "A ploy?"

  "Aye. My husband thought 'twould get you to leave him be."

  His eyebrows rose slightly at that. "He did?"

  "Oh, aye. But surely you realized that? That last attack near killed him. He was lucky to survive. He fears that the next might succeed." She silently sent up a quick prayer that her husband would forgive her such slander.

  "He does?"

  "Aye. So he insisted I say I was with child. I did not wish to, of course."

  "You didn't?"

  "Oh, nay, my lord. What? And give up the opportunity to have you for husband? A fine . . . er . . . handsome . . . intelligent man such as yourself?"

  He preened briefly,
then narrowed his eyes. "Then why did you lie?"

  "Why?"

  "Aye. He was not in the garden. You could have told me the truth there."

  "Um, well . . . Aye, 'tis so, but had he found out he would have beat me."

  "Beat you?" His eyes widened.

  "Aye. He threatened to beat me." Emma marveled even as she said that. It did seem she was quite adept at this new skill of weaving tales. She was actually even beginning to enjoy it somewhat.

  "He did not?"

  "Oh, aye," she told him airily. "And he is such a large man, I feared one beating would kill me."

  "Oh, aye, 'twould," he agreed when she tried to look pathetic. Then he grimaced as he admitted, "My mother is over-fond of using her cane, but of course her beatings merely hurt. They could not kill you."

  Emma did not know what to say to that, so she merely nodded with a sympathetic expression.

  "Oh, my love!" Bertrand suddenly cried, catching her to his chest. "We have more in common than I had ever hoped. We shall be so happy together. I swear, I shall do my utmost to make it so." He emphasized that remark with a kiss that made Emma shudder inwardly.

  "My lord, please," she gasped as soon as he released her lips to trail his mouth wetly down her throat. "My woman's time."

  "Oh, aye." Releasing her at once, he put a goodly space between them. "I am sorry. I forget myself. 'Tis just that I am so happy."

  "Aye, of course," Emma murmured with relief.

  "I can hardly wait to consummate our feelings. I will be a tender lover, my dear. You shall never suffer under great clumsy paws such as Amaury's again."

  "I cannot say how that news affects me," Emma murmured archly, then forced a smile. "Might I have another refreshment, my lord? The last seems to have spilled." She picked up the fallen tankard for proof as she spoke.

  "Oh, aye. Of course." Turning, he moved to the door and tugged it open to yell down the hall after a servant.

  "I thought mayhap we could go below stairs to have one," she murmured as he closed the door.

  "Oh, no. Mother said you must stay locked up until . . ." His voice died at Emma's frown. "I am sorry, my love, but Mother will have her way. 'Twill not be for long. As soon as Amaury is dead, we shall be married and you shall be free."

  Emma tried to withhold the groan that rose to her lips at that. She had hoped to be allowed some free movement. At least enough that she might find a way to escape. It looked as if she had failed somewhat.

  Sighing, she moved to the window, peering down at the forest beyond the clearing. It was not that far between the moat and the trees. If the room they had chosen for her prison were only a little lower . . . On the first floor for instance, she could have jumped down and . . . But it was not lower, she thought with a sigh.

  Seeing her despondency, Bertrand frowned himself. "I am sorry," he offered after a moment. "Is there anything I might gain you that would make your confinement more bearable? A needle and thread to embroider with? Or a book?"

  When Emma remained silent, he sighed unhappily, longing on his face as he peered at her outline in the dusty golden gown. Then he perked up suddenly. "Mayhap you would like a change of clothes? I had a gown made for you."

  When she turned on him sharply, he shifted uncomfortably. " 'Twas in case something like this ever occurred."

  Emma turned away with a sigh at his explanation, and sensed him shifting uncertainly behind her.

  " 'Tis yellow," he tried. "You would look lovely in it."

  She would look jaundiced in it, Emma thought with a grimace. Yellow was not a favored color on her, though gold was quite nice. It made little difference, however. Were she naked, she would not have worn anything he had had made for her. The arrogance of the action alone would have forced her to refuse it. She would rip any dress he brought her to shreds and make a meal of the strips before donning the thing. She would sooner make a rope of it and hang herself fr--

  "Rope?" she breathed, her gaze dropping to the ground below the window.

  "What?"

  Turning abruptly, she smiled at him sweetly. "Aye. A change of clothes would be nice." But not nice enough to get her to the ground. What else could she ask for that they might supply? "Rags."

  Bertrand blinked. "Excuse me?"

  "I will need linens, my lord. A great many of them."

  "Linens?"

  "Aye. For my woman's time." When he frowned slightly, her smile widened. "I fear 'tis a terrible trial. It lasts a great length of time and flows as freely as the Thames River. I will need a great many linens. A great many."

  "A great many." His gaze dropped below her waist briefly and he actually began to look a bit sickly. Emma was almost embarrassed by the enjoyment she suddenly experienced at his discomfort.

  "Aye, I fear 'tis heavy enough I near drowned Amaury one night. Why, my maid says she has never known a woman to bleed so much. She is amazed that I do not bleed to death each time I . . . Is there anything amiss, my lord? You are looking fairly green just now."

  "Nay. Nay." Swallowing, he backed toward the door. "Nay. I shall have some linens sent to you at once." Stumbling out the door, he slammed it heavily behind him, and Emma smiled widely as she turned back and leaned out the window to survey the wall of the castle and the surrounding area. It was not completely unguarded. There was a man posted on the corner, and another where the wall of the keep met the wall surrounding the bailey, but she hoped that a combination of darkness and boredom might work in her favor if she waited until night.

  Moments after he left her, the door was opened again. The servant was returning with a beverage to replace the one spilled. She also brought a lit candle. It was only then Emma realized how late in the day it was getting. She would need the candle to work by soon, she thought as another servant entered carrying a yellow gown and the clean linens. As he had promised, Bertrand had sent a great many of the cloth strips. More than she had dared hoped for, she saw as the woman set the gown and linens on the bed.

  Relaxing as the servants left and the door was barred once more, Emma picked the yellow gown up and examined it. It was a frilly, fluffy thing. Far too young for her and ugly as sin, but it would make good rope if ripped into strips. She turned to sort through the linens then, amusement quirking her lips as she counted them. It seemed Bertrand had taken her at her word. She really would have to flow like a river to need as many as he had sent her.

  Shrugging wryly, she sat back upon the bed and set to work ripping the gown into long strips that she tied end to end. It took her much longer than she had expected, and her hands began to ache with the effort, but once she was finished, she turned immediately to the linens, unfolding, twisting, and knotting them to the end of her makeshift rope.

  The sun was beginning to set when she heard the door being unbarred. Her heart skipping a beat, Emma scrambled to quickly stuff the evidence of her escape efforts under a blanket, then folded her hands in her lap as the door opened.

  She was not terribly surprised to see Lady Ascot enter, but she was not terribly happy either. Bracing herself inwardly, she tried for a pleasant expression as the woman surveyed her.

  "My son says you are not pregnant."

  Emma tried not to wince at the hard words. "Aye."

  "You lied."

  "I already explained to Bertrand that Lord Amaury ordered me to--"

  "He told me."

  Emma fell silent and waited.

  "He also told me that you love him. Bertrand."

  She swallowed. This was the tricky part. "I fear I have not known him long enough to lay claim to that emotion, but 'tis true that I favor him over--"

  "You lie again."

  Emma went still at that. "I--"

  "Gytha told me."

  Emma raised her eyebrows, her body tense. "Told you what?"

  "He fawns over you like a starry-eyed fool."

  "Amaury? Nay. He--"

  "He subjected himself to de Lascey's arrogance purely to please you."

  She blinked
at that.

  "He did not wish to shame you at court. Gytha heard him and Blake talking about it."

  Emma's eyes widened at that. He had told her that he had decided to do it because his one tunic had been ruined in the attack by the bandits.

  "She also said you enjoyed mating with him."

  Emma flushed beet red at that. "I--"

  "Set up a caterwauling every night and some mornings."

  Her mouth dropped open. Good God, had they made so much noise? Had the whole castle heard them then? She would have to discuss this with Amaury. She would never be able to enjoy his touch again if she thought the whole castle was listening.

  "Yet you told my son you loved him. Why?" Before she could even think of something to say to that, Lady Ascot continued. "No doubt you were hoping for a chance to use him to escape. He is conceited and foolish enough that it might work," she said thoughtfully, then stabbed Emma with a stare. "Were it not for me. But there is me, girl, so take heed. 'Twill not happen. You will remain right here until de Aneford is dead. Then you will marry my son."

  "Not so long as there is breath in my body," Emma snapped furiously, giving up the pretense. It seemed useless anyway.

  "Then you shall be killed."

  She clamped her mouth shut at that.

  "Either way, my son shall have Eberhart Castle. 'Tis only right. It belongs to him. It should have passed to him on Fulk's death." She smiled suddenly. "Now that we understand one another, I shall leave you be. I doubt you have much appetite just now, so I shall tell the servants not to bother with the tray they were arranging." Turning, she swept out of the room.

  Emma glared at the door grimly for several minutes, then tugged the linens back out from under the blanket and continued determinedly at her work. Hours passed as she labored. She was about to attach the last of the strips of cloth when there was a light tap, followed by the scraping of the bar being removed once more.

  Cursing under her breath, she quickly stashed her makeshift rope beneath the covers again as the door opened. It was Bertrand this time. Emma peered at him warily, unsure whether his mother had told him of discovering her ruse. When he smiled slightly before turning to close the door, she knew she had not.

  Turning back to her, he opened his mouth, then paused as he took note of her dusty gown. "You are not wearing the gown I sent. Did you not like it?"

  Emma froze at that, cursing her own stupidity and pride, then forced a smile and lied, "I am such a fright I feared I might sully the gown just now. I thought to wear it on the morrow after I bathe."