my poor niece for her broken heart and embarrassment at being so publicly humiliated.”
Her uncle’s laughter tore at the last threads of self-control Gwendolyn possessed. Her desire for revenge caused her muscles to ache for action. Her fingers curled, begging for the chance to scratch out Titus’s eyes. Hidden beneath her kirtle, a dagger tempted her to finally end the years of torment, and impulse caused her to slide her hand toward it.
Cyrus saw her movement. His gray-white brows crinkled as he shook his head to warn her off. She returned her hand to her pocket.
Ferris gave his father a thin smile. “Pray, who is the unfortunate man destined for Gwendolyn’s hand?”
Titus slapped his thigh. “I know you’ll find much pleasure in the knowledge that my niece’s betrothed is Falke de Chretian.”
Ferris’s smile tightened to a snarl and his voice dripped with hatred. “So the rogue’s luck has finally run out.” He shoved aside his gaudily dressed mistress and marched to Gwendolyn’s side. His eyes scrutinized her. “Still, Chretian is known for his uncanny luck.”
“Not this time, which is why this tastes so sweet. Chretian will pay well not to wed Gwendolyn.” Titus’s gaze again lifted to the image of Isolde. A brilliant shaft of light shone on the white-blond hair, and the statue’s eyes seem to sparkle with life.
Titus’s voice lowered and Gwendolyn strained to hear him. “She has no power beyond Cravenmoor land.” A cloud passed, casting a shadow over the statue. The spell broken, Titus waved to Cyrus. “Take her away and pack up what belongings she has. We leave tomorrow.”
The old knight bowed low, so only Gwendolyn saw the white line of anger across his lips. “Aye, milord. I’ll prepare her stallion tonight and—”
“She’s not riding that stallion. He stays here.” The glimmer of another torture glinted in Titus’s green eyes.
The steady thump of Gwendolyn’s heart stopped. Not take Greatheart? Without her to care for her father’s charger, he’d die of neglect. Somehow she had to convince Titus to allow her to take him. Show no concern, her inner voice cautioned Titus is only trying to torment you more. Think! Outsmart him!
“I…ride…white…mule, like real lady?” She labored over each word and spoke in a childlike voice. Through the strands of hair, Gwendolyn watched her uncle’s reaction.
“By Hades, I wouldn’t waste a horse on the likes of you,” Titus shouted back.
“But she’s got to have an animal, milord. The trip would take too long if she’s to walk the whole way. And ’tis a long and taxing journey—hard on man and beast.” Cyrus gave her a quick wink. He had caught the direction of her plan and fallen in step.
“Aye, that it is.” Titus yawned, the drink and heavy meal beginning to slow him down. “Take the old stallion. No one but she can ride him anyway. If the animal dies en route, ’twill be no loss to me.”
Gwendolyn’s heart resumed a steady beat. She wanted to rejoice, hug Cyrus and rush out to Great-heart.
“Now get her the hell out of here. I’m tired.” Titus dismissed them and grabbed the wrist of the woman nearest to him. Her eyes glazed with drink, she followed him up the stairs to the main bedchamber.
“Let’s go,” Cyrus whispered in Gwendolyn’s ear.
Ideas and speculation raced in her head as she followed Cyrus down the stairs to the first-floor pantry. How was Falke de Chretian connected with Titus and Ferris?
“Gwendolyn?” Darianne hobbled from the tiny cell she called her chamber.
“Here.” Gwendolyn hurried to assist the elderly woman to a stool. “Are your joints aching again today? Did you drink the tea I made for you?”
“Hush, child. Someone may hear you,” Darianne cautioned, looking about the room.
“Do not worry. The serfs are off sleeping or drinking. Why work when the filth is tolerated? Why serve palatable meals when the food is strewn across the floor? We’ll be alone until ’tis time to break our evening fast on the scraps from my uncle’s table.”
Cyrus brought over a cup of hot water and Gwendolyn dug about in her pockets until she found the right leaves. She steeped several dark, aromatic stems in the cup and pressed it to the pained woman’s lips.
“It seems I’m to be married,” Gwendolyn stated in a dry voice. “Lord Merin has a new heir and wishes to honor the contract he made with my father.” Again a surge of hope washed over her. For so long, not even a beam of light had made its way into the darkness of her life at Cravenmoor. Disappointment threatened to snap the thin shaft of longing in her heart. She was afraid to believe, afraid to dream.
“Thanks be to God.” Darianne took a long sip of the hot liquid and rocked back and forth. “At last you’re to be saved.”
“Titus is sure the man will pay handsomely to be released from the contract. ’Tis the only reason he’s letting me go.”
“But if we tell this knight the truth…” Darianne’s gnarled and twisted fingers brushed the tangled curtain of hair from Gwendolyn’s face. “If we show the man the truth, he’d not refuse a union.”
“And what if he’s akin to Titus? If I tell this man that I do have my wits about me, that my dowry is rich, that I am not what I seem—and he tells my uncle—I am doomed.”
“She’s got a point, Wife.” Cyrus rested on a keg of ale. The strong yeast smell permeated the wood and the pantry area. “We must gauge what kind of man Chretian is. ’Tis plain Ferris and Titus have dealt with him before, and by their reaction, I would reckon the outcome was not in their favor. No offense, Gwen, but the thought that Chretian had to marry you brought them pleasure.”
“Aye. But what does that tells us? Any man who would deal with my uncle cannot be reputable.”
“But any man that bests them can’t be all bad.” Cyrus crossed his arms and asked, “So what’s it to be?”
“We go. We listen.” Gwendolyn pulled a handful of dried marigold flowers from a pocket to prepare a decoction for Cyrus’s joints. Placing the withered petals into a pot of boiling water, Gwendolyn formulated a plan as she worked.
“If Falke de Chretian is honorable, I’ll tell him everything. If not, I’ll keep up the disguise and wait for another chance.” She tried to keep the fear from her voice. How many more chances would there be? This was the first real opportunity she’d had in ten years to escape the horrors Titus heaped on her.
“What of Titus’s steward?” Darianne asked. “How long can you be away before our other little game is found out?”
“Come harvest I must be home to fix the numbers, or I must wed. That gives me nigh on seven months. I foresee no problem, for either Lord Merin’s heir will send me straight home or he’ll honor the contract. I should be safe either way.”
“I pray you’re right, child.” Darianne’s voice wavered with emotion.
Gwendolyn prayed also, under her breath. She looked around the dank, unkempt kitchen, and faint memories haunted her. Long ago this room had held happy, busy servants, the walls had sparkled with cleanliness. Her mother had…The rest eluded her. Each time Gwendolyn tried to picture her life before Titus, the image blurred more and more. Was she forgetting, or was desperation clouding even the pictures in her mind?
“Our luck is changing, love,” Darianne sang as she began to gather their meager belongings.
“But for the worse or the better?” Gwendolyn couldn’t help asking under her breath. Would her betrothal be her salvation or destruction?
Chapter Two
“I tell you he murdered him.” Outrage rang in the knight’s