The YIELDING by Tamara Leigh Page B

for Michael saving his arm from amputation, but out of need for a physician for his infirm father—Michael had sent for his brother. Eager as ever, Simon had appeared within a fortnight. Though Michael had intended to enlist him as a household knight, Aldous Lavonne encouraged his son to take him into his own household. Grudgingly, Michael agreed, knowing it would provide better opportunities for Simon, never guessing it would mean his death when he was sent to fetch the baron’s unwilling bride.
    Michael drew a breath of dank air. Cruel mockery was the least Beatrix Wulfrith deserved. Where was she?

    Would they never come? They searched for D’Arci, that she knew from talk of the villagers she had slipped amongst this morn, but none found their way to Purley.
    Leave. Someone will come.
    Beatrix sighed and once more swept her gaze over the ruins. All appeared as it had when she had left. The rope alongside the breach was barely visible, coiled as it was beneath dirt and leaves, and the only movement was of birds and a trio of squirrels scurrying among the ruins.
    She stepped from behind the tree and grimaced as her boots sucked mud up over the toes. Not that they were any worse than the rest of her, the journey to the village having flecked her toe to hip. Mayhap this afternoon she would bathe in the chill stream.
    As she started across the nave, she dropped the hood of the mantle and pushed the garment off her shoulders so it hung down her back. It was not so much a warm day that made her seek relief from the heat, but exertion from having run all the way to the abbey.
    She lowered to her haunches before the true crypt and touched the pouch at her belt. Berries of deepest pink, the name of which fled her, swelled the cloth and seeped their juice through the loose weave. Outside the village, she had paused to indulge in the sweet, slightly sour fruits. Though she told herself D’Arci would reject them as he had the fish, she had nothing else to offer. Was it poisoning he feared? If so, why did he drink the water? Or did he?
    She leaned forward. The high sun shone through the breach, and when she peered nearer, she saw D’Arci was on her pallet. Watching and waiting.
    She let the rope down and began her descent. When her feet met the floor, she stepped forward and only then realized she had not removed the mantle. As it was gotten by ill means, she was loath to wear it in D’Arci’s presence, but there was nothing for it now.
    Her eyes adjusted as she neared him and nose twitched at the ripening scent made worse by fish turning foul. Though she could not help but resent the waste of food that would have eased the ache of her own belly, she removed the pouch from her belt. Twelve feet distant from D’Arci, she halted.
    “’Twas the red that revealed you.” He jutted his chin. “My mantle.”
    So he had glimpsed the crimson when she had passed him at the castle—that bit of color her undoing. For the fool her tongue made of her, she resisted his attempt to converse and tossed the pouch to him. He caught it but granted it no more than a glance.
    “Stay,” he called as she retreated. “I would speak with you.”
    Nay, he would taunt her.
    “You do not wish to know about your family? The reason they have not come for you?”
    She struggled against snapping at the bait. And failed. “The reason?”
    His hand tested the weight of the pouch. “Surely it must pain you to know they have left you at the mercy of Baron Lavonne.”
    Though she knew she ought to climb the rope as fast as her hands could reach, she took a step toward him, and another, all the while practicing the delivery of what she would say. “Why have they not come?”
    “’Tis apparent, is it not, that by murder you have stained the Wulfrith name?”
    She knew his words for what they were, for never would her family believe such ill of her. “That is as large a lie as the lie that I…killed your brother.”
    His brow lowered. “Then ‘twas not