White Lion's Lady Page 26

  * * *

  Isabel paced her chamber, heartsick with frustration and the terrible helplessness of her situation. She could not bear the thought of Griffin facing charges in the morning, no more than she could bear the thought of living a single day without him. In the hour or more that she had spent alone in her room at Montborne, she had devised at least a dozen plans to fix the disaster her life had become, ridiculous plans of escape and flight with Griffin, plans that would make them fugitives once more if not succeeding in getting them both killed.

  Plans that would defy her king's orders and forsake a little girl who was waiting in a lonely convent, counting on Isabel to bring her home.

  “Oh, Maura,” she sighed into the emptiness of her chamber. “I have made a bigger mess of things than Papa did.”

  She stared unseeing into the stone fireplace that dominated most of one wall, watching the flames twist and undulate, so lost in her thoughts that she scarcely heard the soft rap on her door. When the panel creaked open, Isabel turned her head, ready to dismiss the maid who had offered earlier that hour to bring her some food and wine from the kitchens. But it wasn't a castle servant; it was her betrothed's mother.

  Lady Montborne stood in the wedge of torchlight that poured in from the corridor. She smiled at Isabel, but there was a sadness in her eyes. Even in the dim light, it was plain to see how her regal face was flushed with recently spent emotion; her slender fingers trembled on the latch of the door. “May I come in?” she asked.

  “My lady, yes, of course.” Isabel offered her the respectful curtsy she had been too distraught to think of when they first met in Sebastian's solar. “Please accept my apologies for the way I behaved before . . . I pray I have not caused you distress.”

  “No, my dear.” Lady Montborne moved gracefully across the room. She placed a warm hand on Isabel's cheek. “You have been through quite an ordeal as I understand it. And these are trying times for us all.”

  Isabel bowed her head. “Yes, my lady.”

  “Please,” she said, “will you call me Joanna?” At Isabel's nod, the lady smiled. She let out a small sigh then, folding her slim arms one over the other as her gaze traveled the room. “This chamber was mine when I first came to Montborne as a betrothed new bride. I didn't know a soul when I arrived, not even Lord Eustace, the man I was to marry. I was just fourteen at the time, a mere babe in so many ways, and terrified to be so far away from my parents and siblings.” She walked to the big curtained bed and reached out to lift one of the tassels that held the heavy silk panels open during the day. “I cried myself to sleep every night I spent in here before my wedding . . . and for several nights afterward as well.”

  It was easy to imagine a young girl's fear over the idea of marriage to a stranger, but Isabel was a woman grown, and the cause of the tears she had shed in this room had less to do with what she faced than what she was being forced to leave behind. She glanced away from Lady Joanna, turning her gaze once more to the fire, watching the ash fall away from the glowing embers of the wood and gather beneath the grate.

  “Eustace was more than twice my age; I thought him so old and serious when first we met. He had been wed before, you see, but his wife had died in childbirth . . . along with her babes.”

  Isabel turned her head toward Lady Joanna, frowning in curiosity. “There was more than one child?”

  “Twins,” confirmed the lady, a sad twist to her lips. “A rarity of nature, to be sure. Some might call it a miracle from God, but most--including Eustace--understood it to be evidence of a far less celebratory occurrence.”

  “Adultery,” Isabel answered in a whisper. Once, a few years ago, a woman had arrived at the convent, banished there by her husband for the offense of bearing him two babes in their marriage bed. The young mother had vehemently denied the accusations, pleading with her husband to take her back, but he refused. Even some of the nuns seemed to look upon her with a small measure of scorn. Never had it been known to happen, Isabel had often heard it said, that a woman would give birth to two babes at one time--unless two men were the cause of it.

  “As you can imagine, castle gossip ran rampant and vicious after the death of Eustace's first wife,” Lady Joanna continued. “Indeed, the rumors were still flying upon my arrival at Montborne. The earl was described to me as a jealous man, hard-willed and suspicious of everyone. I learned of his mistrust firsthand when he denied me permission to leave the castle without his escort after we were wed. I was kept a veritable prisoner in this room, removed from other people save my husband and my maids.”

  A log shifted in the fireplace, cracking apart and shooting up a shower of sparks. Isabel rubbed off a chill, considering how lonely Lady Joanna must have been in her marriage. How sad she must have been in this room all alone.

  “Despite his possessiveness, Eustace was not unkind to me. I came to know him, to understand him, and, during that first year of our marriage I grew to care for him deeply.” Lady Joanna exhaled as she seated herself on the thick down mattress. “I was ecstatic when I learned I was pregnant. I could not wait to share my joy, so I blurted out the news to him over supper that same day.”

  Isabel heard the hesitation in her voice. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the aged noblewoman swallow, her delicate white throat working as if to dislodge the words that would not come. “Your husband was not pleased to hear that you were with child?” Isabel asked gently.

  “Oh, yes,” Lady Joanna replied with a soft, sorrow-filled laugh. “He was thrilled. He showered me with gifts and affection throughout the term of my pregnancy, becoming the sort of husband every maiden dreams of--chivalrous, romantic, so devoted. I had never known such peace and happiness as I did during those precious few months.”

  Isabel found herself drifting over to the bed as Lady Joanna spoke. She sat beside her without a word, almost afraid to hear more of what she would say, but somehow needing to know what happened to the young woman who once stood in Isabel's place.

  “My time came earlier than expected, and my labor was difficult. Eustace worried for me terribly, but there was nothing he could do. The midwives refused him entry to the laying-in room and so he waited on the other side of the door. I could hear the harsh tick of his spurs as he paced the hallway, could hear his fists pounding on the door whenever I cried out in pain. He stayed out there all the while, until very late that night, when it was finally all over.

  “I was dozing and nearly faint with exhaustion when Eustace demanded entry to the room. I heard the midwives' worried voices as they tried to dissuade him from coming in, heard them rushing about the room, whispering indiscernibly beside the bed. I heard the click of the latch on the door, heard the thud of Eustace's booted feet as he strode in.” Lady Joanna took a long breath, then let it out on a shaky sigh. “He came up to the bed, smiling at me, so proud. He kissed my brow, then turned to look upon the cradle on the floor. All the color--all the life--seemed to drain from his face in that moment. His dark brows crushed together; his warm smile hardened into a fierce, bitter line.

  “I didn't understand the change in him at first. I tried to sit up, fearful that something was wrong with our babe. I asked him to tell me what was the matter, and when Eustace looked at me again, his eyes were burning with hurt. 'I trusted you,' he hissed at me. Then he stormed out and scarcely spoke to me ever again. You see,” Lady Montborne said, tears beginning to well in her eyes, “Eustace thought I betrayed him. He thought I had lain with another man, for when he looked into the cradle, he saw two swaddled babes--twin boys: one light-haired and golden, one dark like him.”

  “Oh, Joanna,” Isabel murmured, reaching out to grasp the older woman's hand in sympathy.

  “Eustace was the only man I had ever been with, but nothing I said would convince him. I had expected him to annul our marriage, to cast me out as an adulteress. But he didn't. He was aging and he needed an heir . . . so he made me cast out one of the babes instead.”

  Isabel's heart lodged in her throat ove
r the cruelty in that order. She could not imagine the terrible grief Lady Joanna must have endured, not only in losing one of her children, but in losing her husband's trust as well.

  “Eustace would permit me to keep only one of our sons. Sebastian was second born, but he most resembled my husband. By Eustace's decision, he was to be heir.”

  “And the other?” Isabel asked, scarcely able to find her voice. “What happened to the other child?”

  “I could not trust Eustace in his anger to determine where the first child should go, and so I made arrangements to send him away to live in secret with my cousin--”

  “Alys of Droghallow.” Isabel started to tremble as she realized what she was hearing. A knot of emotion churned inside of her, a tangle of relief and anguish, confusion and sudden clarity. She shook her head from side to side, meeting Lady Joanna's remorseful gaze. “So Griffin is . . . “

  “My son,” the lady finished. “That pendant you wear belongs to him. 'Tis one half of my family's crest; Sebastian wears the other side. I placed it in Griffin's swaddling so that Alys would know who he was.”

  Isabel closed her hand around the white lion medallion that hung suspended over her heart. “He did not know,” she said woodenly. “Alys never told him.”

  Lady Joanna made a sad sound, pressing her lips together. “She wouldn't have. I made her vow to keep the truth from him, for I knew that if he found out he would come here, and I could not predict how my husband might have reacted to seeing him. I couldn't bear the thought of my child's meeting with harm and so I tried to content myself with watching him grow up from afar, relying on Alys's letters to tell me what he was doing, how he fared. She passed away some years ago, but until then we corresponded at least monthly, always about Griffin. I could not have asked for two finer sons than mine own.”

  Isabel's head was spinning. The ramifications of what this meant--her relationship with Griffin, her betrothal to Sebastian . . . the sudden, immutable reality that they were brothers. For Isabel to wed Sebastian before would have been to betray her own heart, but now, according to Holy Law, it would be nothing short of incest. The king himself would be hard-pressed to argue for the match if the church learned of the situation.

  “I never dreamed I would see Griffin as a grown man,” Lady Joanna murmured, her voice soft and not a little bit sad. “I suppose I didn't dare hope for the chance after what I had done to him. But then, when I saw his medallion around your neck, well, I could not believe my eyes.”

  “You've got to tell him,” Isabel said, twisting her hands to clasp the elder lady's fingers in a firm hold. “You must let Griffin know who he is. Sebastian must be told who he has gaoled--”

  “Oh, my dear,” replied their mother as a fat tear rolled down her cheek. “They know. God help me, but I have told them everything . . . and now I can only pray that I have not lost both my sons.”

  Chapter 30

  Griffin stared at Montborne's dark lord--his brother--and could hardly find words to speak. He had been freed at once from his cell and fetters upon their mother's astonishing disclosure, but in the short time since she had left the two men standing alone in the gaol, neither had managed much more than a guarded glance at the other.

  Griff knew what Sebastian was likely thinking; no doubt the both of them shared similar thoughts. How different would their lives have been had they not gone twenty-five years without knowing about the other? What might have happened had they not been denied the knowledge of each other's existence, denied the kinship, the brotherly bond? Who might both of them be now, had they not spent half a lifetime living a lie?

  Griffin counted another thought among the jumble that filled his mind: How bitingly ironic it was to think that had he not been sent to live in anonymity at Droghallow all those years ago, he would be Earl of Montborne . . .

  And Isabel would be his bride.

  “It's funny, you know,” said Sebastian at last. “All my life I was groomed to be earl. As the sole heir to my father's titles and properties, the responsibility of Montborne--the honor of holding such a prosperous fief--rested squarely on me. Frankly, the mantle never seemed a good fit.” He slid a look at Griffin and gave a wry laugh. “Now I reckon I know why. By rights, it should have been yours.”

  Griff shook his head. “You are earl in all ways that matter. I begrudge you nothing.”

  “No?” Sebastian's ebony brow arched. “Not even the hand of your lady love?”

  Griff felt the muscles in his jaw tighten at the reference to Isabel. He stared at the flickering flame of a rushlight that burned near the stairwell door, thinking about all he and Isabel had been through together, all they had shared.

  He loved her like he would love no other again; that fact he could never deny. Nor could he deny the coil of rage that seared like a brand in his gut when he thought about Dominic of Droghallow, the man who would have bartered Isabel away to the whims of a wicked prince just as easily as he would have used Griffin against his own family in seeking thwart the joining of the houses of Montborne and Lamere.

  Now, when he considered how eager Dom had been to enlist him in the task of kidnapping Sebastian's bride, Griffin suspected Droghallow's lord was fully aware of what he was doing--and to whom.

  “We are in an awkward situation that grows all the more so by the moment,” Sebastian remarked. “It seems trite to offer you land or silver in exchange for what would have been your birthright, but I pray you take no insult when I say that both are yours if you want them. You are, of course, welcome to stay on at Montborne . . . “

  “I won't be staying,” Griff answered tersely. Indeed, he could consider no such thing so long as Dominic of Droghallow sat unmet in his great hall, unscathed by the treachery he had sought to stir up. To walk in and challenge Droghallow's lord was likely tantamount to suicide, but in that moment, Griffin knew no other course. He had to return to Droghallow and confront Dom--for the sake of Isabel's honor as well as his own. “There is a matter that demands my immediate attention elsewhere,” he said when Sebastian regarded him with a questioning look. “I should like to be away as soon as possible, but I will need a horse and a few days' supplies.”

  “Consider it done,” the earl agreed. “You'll have my finest mount and whatever Cook can provide from the kitchens.”

  His mind set to this new resolve, Griffin nodded his thanks to Sebastian. “Will you do one more thing for me?”

  “Name it.”

  Paused near the door to the stairwell, Griff swallowed hard and met his brother's gaze. “Give me your assurances that you will take care of Isabel. Marry her. Permit her to send for her young sister, Maura. Make her happy.”

  “You speak as if you're never to return,” Sebastian said, his gray-green eyes steady, narrowed with understanding..

  “I am trusting you with all I hold dear in this world,” Griff replied. “I need to know that whatever happens to me, Isabel will be safe and well cared for. Will you promise me this?”

  The Earl of Montborne stared at him for a long moment, saying nothing, then he strode forth and held out his hand. “As your brother, I give you my solemn oath.”

  * * *

  “My lady, is anything amiss?”

  Speechless from Lady Joanna's shocking revelations, Isabel could only shake her head as she dashed past the castle maid who stood in the corridor with a tray of steaming food. Isabel had left her chamber without waiting for leave, her hasty flight upsetting the torches that flamed from their cressets on the stone walls of the tower stairwell. Her heart hammering in her breast, flew by curious servants who stared as they stepped aside to let her pass. She found the large iron-banded door that led to the prison cells below the keep and threw it open, slipping on the narrow stairs in her haste to reach the bottom.

  A guard stood post on the landing; he merely frowned at Isabel as she ducked past him and into the fetid, musty air of the dark gaol. A single rushlight hissed in its sconce near the door, the slim, wobbling illumination enough to s
how her that the place was all but deserted. The cells were empty; nothing but vacant quiet greeted her. She stepped farther within, pivoting her head to peer into the darkened corners.

  “He's gone,” issued a deep voice from behind her. She whirled about, breathless, and found Sebastian sitting on a faldstool in the gloom at her back.

  “Where?” she asked.

  “He didn't say, my lady.”

  “Will he . . . “ She took a quick breath and worked to keep her voice from breaking. “Will he be back?”

  The earl stared at her, sympathy evident in his carefully held expression. “I don't know.”

  Isabel had to struggle to tamp down the stab of pain that tore through her. Griffin was gone. He had left without a word to her. The very thought was like a wound torn afresh, though why his departure should surprise her, she knew not. He had sought to divest himself of her that day at the monastery; now, given this new chance, it appeared he had succeeded.

  “I offered for him to stay . . . given the circumstances, it seemed the least I could do,” Sebastian said. “I trust you understand what I am talking about, my lady.”

  Isabel nodded weakly. “Your mother explained everything to me . . . what had happened, what she had done.”

  The earl rose from his stool and stalked to the open grate of the prison cell. He gripped the iron bars in his hands, staring up at the granite ceiling and the three solid walls of stone that comprised the rest of the gaol. “For nearly all my life, I have been schooled to enjoy noble, gentlemanly pursuits, guided away from boyish recklessness and a young man's need for adventure because of my obligation to Montborne. I have long felt that I was living another man's life, but I had no idea just how right I'd been.” He released the grate with some force and let it bang against the wall. “I may as well have been physically shackled to this keep from the day I was born.”