Free Betrothed by Lori Snow

intruders searching for treasures.
He pulled it open and beckoned two of the waiting men into the room.
    Donovan
waved at the table. “Porter and Carstairs -- my man-at-arms -- have been
charged with the responsibility of collecting and securing Lady Isabeau’s
dowry.” He paused to slide a flattened roll of parchment from his belt and
handed it over to his lieutenant.
    Turning
to Simon, he continued, “This document includes all items mentioned in your
father’s will as well as—certain—penalties. I wish it ready within the hour,
Porter. Carstairs. I believe you might find some of those items in the
possession of Lady Syllba.”
    “Yes,
my lord.” Porter’s voice quivered.
    “Yes,
my lord.” Carstairs’ voice was slick with amusement. Apparently, he hadn’t been
overly impressed with Lady d’Olivet.
    “But,
my lord?” Isabeau cried out as he stepped to the door.
    Donovan
turned back to her. “What is it, my lady?”
    “You
are taking all my dowry?  What I have done—am I to be so harshly
judged?  Will I have nothing to offer?” Her tilted head prevented the
welling tears from trickling down her pale cheeks.
    “You
mistake my orders.” Donovan gave his head one shake. “The dowry will be put to
the use for which it is intended. As a settlement to your bridegroom.”
    She
licked her lips and swallowed. “Who?  Please? Pray not Lord Kirney?”
    For
a moment, Donovan paused. She needed an answer. Everyone needed an answer. He
looked at Carstairs who had glance up from perusing the parchment. His
lieutenant had earned a just reward for his loyalty. He was of marriageable age
and it was time for him to settle down with a wife and property. Donovan was
sure Carstairs would refuse neither Lady Isabeau nor her dowry. She would be
safe—away from her brother, Syllba and Kirney—in Carstairs’ keeping.
    It
was a solution.
    “Nay,”
Donovan shook his head again. “Your lord brother is about to sign your nuptial contract
to me. In the hour before we leave for Bennington, we will exchange the vows of
betrothal in front of Olivet’s priest. The Bennington priest will hear our
marriage vows. We will wed in d'Allyonshire chapel as tradition dictates.”
    He
was as astonished as the rest that the words that had slipped so easily from
his mouth. Where had they come from?  The last thing he wanted was another
unwilling wife.
    What
had he done?
    Before
Isabeau could offer up a protest, he strode to the door. He turned one last time
to encompass all in his fierce glance. “With the lengthening days, we will have
plenty of time to get some distance from this place. I’ll not spend another
night under this roof.”  
             

C hapter 8
     
     
    The
room rang with the finality of the earl’s proclamation and the echo of the
slamming of the door behind him.
    Isabeau
stared at it as if turned to stone. Her unshed tears burned dry in her eyes.
The weight in her chest reminded her to breathe.
    She
was betrothed?
    To
the Earl of Bennington?
    Her
head felt light. Snowflakes peppered her vision.
    She
was betrothed to the Earl of Bennington.
    May
the saints have mercy!  She had no business being a countess. There had to
be a mistake. His lord was only jesting.
    “My
lady?”
    She
turned from the door at Carstairs’ quiet inquiry.
    “Yes?”
    “You
have less than an hour to prepare for our journey,” he reminded her gently.
    Isabeau
shook her head. “He couldn’t have meant it. Surely, it is just a joke?”
    Carstairs
smiled. “You will find the earl means exactly what he says. He will be the
first one to tell you he has no sense of humor. Now, you had best begin to pack
your chests. You will need a bit more than you carried yesterday.”
    “Oh,
heavens,” Isabeau started for the door. “What am I to do?”
    “Pack.”
Carstairs answered succinctly.
        
    Isabeau
rushed from the counting room and raced to her chamber. She had so much to do
and so little time. It was good she had few