Love Never Lies by Rachel Donnelly

remembering how happy she looked until she spotted him. How she flicked him a heated look, then strode back inside the cottage, shielding Lara’s babe against her body as though he might eat the lad. By the time he rode away, he felt more a trespasser than lord of the land. “’Twill take more than a little hard work to kill that one.”
    A young page appeared on the other side of the high table scuffling his feet. “Beggin’ your pardon, my lord. But Aldwin bade me fetch you on a matter of importance.”
    “That paunchy loafer doth try my patience to the core.” Beaufort let forth a low growl. “He acts more lord than servant of this keep.”
    Alec rose to his feet. “I’ll leave you to confer with your steward then.” The hour grew late. He had no patience for domestic affairs. There would be plenty of that to contend with when Highburn fell into his hands. For now, he was thankful to seek his pallet and lose himself in sleep.
    He crossed the hall to the stone stairs, waving off raucous calls from his men.
    Once aloft he wasted no time finding the bedchamber allotted to him. He pushed opened the door to find a candle burning and a fire crackling in the grate. At last—blissful solitude. His eyes began to droop before he drew back the pelts on the bed.
    But it seemed as though his head had barely hit the pillow when he heard a pounding at the door.
    What now?
    He muttered an oath and reached for his braies at the end of the bed.
    Likely Will was scrapping again.
    God’s teeth! When would he learn, he was not skilled enough to take on someone twice his size? If he had to sit up with Will all night again, when the lad recovered, by the Lord, he’d beat some sense into him once and for all.

    ***

    Isabeau hugged her arms around her waist, wishing she hadn’t relinquished her mantle to the rotund steward. She did her best to keep her teeth from chattering as she followed Lord Beaufort from the dampness of the entrance alcove, but she could not control the tremor rattling through her limbs.
    Something about him seemed oddly familiar, but then many noblemen visited her uncle’s hall. Her mind was likely playing tricks on her. She was dead tired—all but asleep on her feet.
    He gave no sign that he knew her, and seemed very sympathetic to her plight.
    Isabeau kept her thoughts focused on the promise of a nice warm bed. But ‘twas difficult to maintain one’s dignity with a wet crown of braids weighing down her head and her blue kirtle clinging to her like a second skin.
    As it turned out, Kirkford Castle was much further from the village than she thought. ‘Twas well past dark by the time she trudged up the long winding road to the gates. But not before the heavens opened to slash cold rain down upon her. All she yearned for now was a soft pallet and a cup of sweet wine to warm her blood again.
    A staggering hush fell over the hall as they entered.
    Isabeau kept her eyes on Lord Beaufort’s back, praying he would lead her directly to the stairs.
    A string of low whispers followed her steps.
    But at that moment, she was too relieved to find sanctuary and too weary to care. Her feet hurt—nay, they did not just hurt, they were on fire, and the linen of her chemise chafed against her skin like wet sand.
    When Beaufort came to an unexpected stop, she lifted her gaze to look past him. What she beheld made her breath catch in her throat.
    Her blood froze.
    There, on the last step of the stone stairs, stood her captor, Fortin.
    Her mind went blank.
    Then, self-preservation took hold. Her heart began to beat at a furious rate. She turned on her heel to run, only to find Lord Beaufort blocking her path. At twice her size and only an arm’s length away, there was no getting past him. With nowhere to flee, she stood her ground, flashing him an accusing glare. “You tricked me!”
    “And for that I’m truly sorry.” His grave tone was at odds with the twinkle in his hazel eyes. “But as you can see, my friend would