Maris shook her head and forced herself to drink more of the bitter tea. “Nay, for were he to be poisoned, would I not be the first at which the fingers would point? ’Tis to bring on my monthly flux. Bon will not touch me while I am unclean, and I pray my Papa will arrive before ’tis through. Bring me as much as you are able, as I must drink a good portion to ensure that it begins on the morrow. I must needs find some other way to keep him from me tomorrow night, as ’twill surely not start ere then.”
“Mayhap there is something to put his lordship to sleep early,” Agnes suggested.
“Mayhap, yet that is bound to be discovered. Is it not common for a bridegroom to spend the eve before his wedding fasting and doing penance?” Maris asked with a smile.
“I’ve not heard of such a thing, my lady,” Agnes shook her head.
“Methinks I’ll make such a suggestion to my lord Bon, and I’ll pray he swallows it.” Maris took a final draught of pennyroyal tea, then, looking ruefully under the bed, added, “I’m certain to be up in the night to use this” —she pulled a chamber pot from under the high bed— “after drinking so much of this tea, but it cannot be helped. Here, Agnes, climb you into bed, and we shall keep the other warm.”
Outside the chamber door, Dirick leaned against the rough stone wall, trying to erase the mental picture of the helpless Maris sprawled on Bon’s lap, her breasts spilling from her gown.
He snorted. Helpless? Maris of Langumont was anything but helpless. She already had her abductor wrapped neatly around her little finger, and the ease with which she’d done so was both admirable and frightening. Bon would probably set her free if she begged prettily enough.
Yet, he thought there’d been more than a trace of fear in her eyes when he burst unannounced into her chamber. Maris was definitely not out of danger yet.
Dirick did some quick calculations: he’d sent the messenger to Langumont just before the evening meal. The man would not reach his destination until late on the morrow…and then it would no doubt take Merle some time to gather his forces before they were on their way to Breakston. He estimated two days at best, more likely three, until Dirick would have help from that quarter. Unless by some miracle Merle had already discovered the identity of his daughter’s abductor.
But he didn’t have the luxury of three days, for Bon was determined to wed the day after the morrow.
Dirick leaned against the wall, considering his options. It wasn’t the marriage itself that would be so much the problem: a forced marriage could easily be annulled, and he was a clear witness to the forced aspect of it. Nay, what concerned him the most was the harm that could be done to Maris in the meanwhile. The loss of a maidenhead, so crucial to a profitable marriage, could not be rectified, but it was the manner it which it would be taken that troubled Dirick. His insides soured at the thought of the stocky, hirsute Bon poised over Maris’s delicate, white body.
Maris awoke with a start to find her mouth muffled by a large hand, and a great weight pushing her into the bed. She panicked, thrashing frantically beneath the figure above her, ignoring his urgent whispers. Her eyes bulged wide open above the firm hand, trying to see her tormenter.
The chamber was still dim, although the fire, which had quieted during the night, gave off a low light, and a hint of dawn peered around the tapestries that covered the windows. She kicked and clawed viciously, forcing him to capture a wrist with his free hand.
“Maris, calm yourself,” the voice urged, coming altogether too close to her ear.
She was as startled as he when, with one lucky thud, she placed a heavy kick near his groin and in the ensuing confusion, tumbled him off the bed. Then she let loose a blood curdling scream.
“God’s blood, Maris!” Dirick scrambled to his feet, tangling in the rumpled bedclothes. “Do you want me killed that badly?” He stood, staring down at her, hands on his hips, breathing heavily, his dark hair wild and his face furious.
“Sir Dirick!” she exclaimed, her heart pounding madly and her knees still weak. “How dare you—Where’s Agnes?”
“Be still and listen to me,” he spoke rapidly and urgently. “By God, I mean you no harm. I will help you escape if you will only trust me—”
“Trust you!” she spat, pulling the bedclothes up to cover her bare thighs. “Pah! You were here to welcome me to this—this serpent’s lair!”
“Maris.” In the interest of time, Dirick resisted the urge to throttle her. In fact, he could hear the stomping of feet drawing near. “Dammit, woman, I mean you no harm! I am sent by the ki—”
The door flew open and Bon burst in, followed by Edwin and two other men-at-arms.
“What goes on here?” Dressed only in a long loose shirt and sagging chausses, he brandished a sword and immediately set its point at Dirick’s throat. “I shall kill you as you stand for daring to enter my lady’s chambers!” The other men surrounded Dirick as he froze in place.
“Nay!” Maris’s commanding voice stopped the final thrust of the sword. “My lord, this man—er, Sir Drake? I cannot recall his name—but entered the chamber in response to my scream.”
She took on an expression of mortification. “I am sorry, my lord, I could not sleep, and as I prepared to rise to stoke the fire, I saw a mouse skitter across the floor.” She ducked her head in embarrassment as one of the men-at-arms snickered.
Before Bon could question why he had had to open her chamber door if, indeed, Dirick had rushed in to her rescue, Maris put a pout of indignation on her face, even thrusting her lower lip out a bit as she’d seen the little girl Bit do when she wanted aught from her father. “An’ I see, my lord, that the rodents are yet another matter to which I must attend in this keep. Do you not think I could find a cat in the village and keep her in my chamber—our chamber—until we are well rid of these mice?” She widened her eyes innocently, all the while heavily aware of Sir Dirick’s attention on her and the sword-point at his throat.
Slowly, Bon dropped his blade and made the slightest bow to Dirick. “My apologies, sir. I am well pleased that you have taken my lady’s well being to heart.”
Then he turned to Maris. “Alas, my lady, I do not care for cats…however, I shall think on your request.” He said these words with such sincere formality that she had to swallow back a nervous giggle.
“Now, if you please,” she said, the imperiousness returning to her voice, “I fear I am much exhausted from all of this excitement and should seek my bed.” Her eyes fastened purposely on Bon. “Until the morrow, my lord.”
“Until the morrow, my wife.” And for the second time that night, Bon de Savrille meekly led his men from her chamber.
Chapter Thirteen
Allegra had not risen from her bed since Merle led his army of men at arms to Maris’s rescue. Maella fussed worriedly over her mistress, but the frail woman did nothing but clutch at a worn wooden crucifix and pray.
“Milady, ’t has been nearly two days. You must eat!” The maidservant thrust a bowl of broth under her lady’s nose. “Lord Merle will bring the lady home safely.”
“Nay.” Allegra’s voice was hoarse from overuse in cantations to the saints. “I have not much chance for life when he returns to Langumont. My lord Merle will kill me.”
Maella’s face grew soft at her mistress’s confession. Pulling a stool near the bed, she smoothed a worn hand over the furrowed forehead of the woman she had served since birth, noticing the new white streaks throughout her soft brown hair. They had appeared over night. “My lord is just and fair. He holds no anger toward you for the actions of your brother, my lady.”
“Nay.” Allegra’s hand curled around the hand that stroked her forehead. “Nay, Maella, ’tis not for that that I fear my life. ’Tis that I—I have told Michael that he is Maris’s true father, and begged him to release her from the betrothal.”