Betrothed by Lori Snow

formed a circle in the outer bailey around two men
engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Her first instinct was to put a stop to the
battle but she quickly realized it was a friendly match. The spectators made
varied wagers ranging from chores to pieces of gold.
    Noticing
Donovan’s horse—his reins held by an eager stable-boy--Isabeau searched the
undulating ring for the earl and failed to pick him out of the crowd. Her gaze
returned to the combatants as cheers rose for the victor. Just before the
circle surged towards the winner with enthusiastic congratulations, she caught
the glint of the sun on onyx black hair. Disheveled and sweating, the earl took
the accolades with accustomed calm. He was gracious in his triumph—all the
while assuring his defeated opponent of his skill.
    Before
being swallowed by the surging swarm of bodies, he chose that single moment to
look up. Isabeau found herself caught in the swirling depths of his dark eyes.
    She
sucked in a breath, nearly choking on air, as their gazes locked.
    Wordlessly,
she backed away from the crowd and practically ran back to the safety of the
bustling kitchens.

C hapter 7
     
    Donovan
stretched his tested muscles and then began to brush some of the dust from his tunic
before searching out Porter once more. He needed more information from the man.
When he ran from Syllba’s chambers like a child running from a bogie, he wanted
only to put as much distance as possible between himself and the fetid bitch.
That a woman had sent him running—even for a second—shamed him to the core.
    His
horse, still saddled, was a handy escape but, he hadn’t gotten far. Carstairs
had been in the process of putting the Olivet men through their paces—testing
their mettle—as a unit, as a man. Donovan had reined in his flight, slid from
Nemesis and joined in the fray.
    Fighting
with the men went a long way towards fighting his demons.
    But
it wasn’t enough.
    Her
vile verbal poison could do him no harm. Marta rested in her grave. The only
one who would have been hurt—other than Marta—was her son. He had preceded her
in death by several weeks. Christian had been spared the knowledge of his
mother’s depravity.
    Syllba
would not profit should she repeat her noxious tale. Simon’s wife would be
vilified. Her own people would turn on her and her lord. Her chambers would no
longer be her serpent’s nest but her prison.
    He
clenched his teeth. He had come close to making it her tomb. Never before had
he wanted to kill—had such a blood-thirst—for a woman. She reveled in her
taunts, proud of her conquest.
    Marta
was no longer here to accept her due, but what would he have done if she still
lived?  Would he have denounced her?  Sent her back to her family in
disgrace?  Exposed her perversities to the church?
    When
all was said and done, Marta had been his wife, his countess—the mother of his
son.   
    Mayhap
fate had given him a blessing in not forcing him to make such a decision.
    But
that still left today.
    It
left him to with deal with Syllba.
    And
where the devil was the lord of manor?
    What
part did Simon d’Olivet play in this madness?  Did he know of his wife’s
proclivities?  Did he condone them?
    What
of Lady Isabeau?  What did she know?  She had tried to run away. Was
she as innocent as she appeared?  Had he erred in forcing her
return? 
    He
wished Warren would hurry back with Malak. The lad had a talent for seeing more
than expected. Perhaps he had seen or heard something during his stay before
moving on to Montrose. People often said more than they should in front of him,
which was strange considering how much the boy talked himself.
    Donovan
found Porter in a storeroom taking inventory of goods on hand and those needed.
    “Porter.”
His dry throat surprised Donovan. Just the dust from the battlefield.
    “Aye,
my lord?” Porter lowered his wax tablet and stylus as he whipped around to
address his liege.
    “Porter,
we have some matters to discuss. The