When she merely glared at him silently, Amaury closed the distance between them to grab her by the arms and give her a shake. "Did you?!"
"Aye!" she spat, and he released her at once, almost throwing her away.
"I poured that drink into the pot you set out for the dogs last night. Now they are dead . . . of poisoning. 'Twas poison in my cup."
Even Emma went still at that damning news. The entire hall seemed to hold its breath as it awaited her response, but before she could speak, Alden hurried to her side.
"Mayhap 'twas an accident," Amaury's squire suggested in her defense. " 'Tis fair true, my lord, those weeds look very similar. I cannot tell them apart. Mayhap . . ." He paused, searching for a way his beloved mistress might have accidentally almost killed her husband.
Emma wanted to cuff him. The mere fact that the boy was seeking an excuse told her he too thought her potion was the source of the poison. One glance around the room showed confusion on the others' faces as well. Emma felt as though she had been kicked in the stomach.
"I made no mistake and I did not poison my husband!" she bellowed furiously.
There was dismay on every face at her unladylike display, but Emma cared little for their opinion at that moment. They all thought her a killer, for goodness sake. Even her own people were looking uncertain. Disgusted with the lot of them, she turned on her heel to leave, but Amaury grabbed her arm, bringing her to an abrupt halt.
"You will not simply walk away from this, wife."
Emma glared pointedly at the hand grasping her arm, then raised cold eyes to his angry face. "Husband?"
She said it so sweetly and in such contrast to the icy fury on her face that his eyes narrowed warily. "Aye?"
"S'neck up!" The entire room seemed to gasp as she roared that. Glaring over them in cold satisfaction, Emma tore her arm away and swept toward the stairs. She had no intention of standing about listening to such tripe. Next they would be calling her a witch and preparing to burn her at the stake.
Amaury stared at his wife's retreating back in amazement, then turned to his friend. "What did she say to me?"
"I believe she said s'neck up."
"Aye." Amaury nodded, his eyes narrowing to slits. "She did."
He started to follow her then with murder in his eyes, but Blake caught him back quickly. "Nay, friend. Let her go for now. She is angry and--"
"She is angry!?" Amaury bellowed, turning on him. "My wife just told me to go hang myself! And in the lowest terms! She is no lady, Blake. I tell you, she is no lady! I suspected as much when she enjoyed the joining, but now I am sure. No lady would use such common language. Nor would they enjoy the marital act. And they sure as hell would not try to poison their husbands!" he roared toward Emma's retreating back, then turned to his own men. "Damn ye to hell, think ye to let her try to kill me then just walk away?! Stop her!"
"Now, Amaury, we must think this through," Blake cautioned desperately.
"What is there to think of? 'Tis not bad enough that I have bandits and mercenaries determined to do the deed, but now my wife tries to kill me!" He bellowed the last toward his wife's departing back. " 'Tis no wonder Fulk killed himself!"
Emma froze at those words and whirled to spit an opinion or two at her husband, but her attention was distracted by the four men hurrying toward her. Her eyes widened in dismay as she began to recognize the seriousness of her predicament. What was happening was a great deal more than a simple insult to her person. She had been dosing her husband with those blasted herbs, as everyone appeared to be aware. He had poured his ale into the dogs' dish the night afore, and now, this morn, they were dead . . . poison. It was damning evidence no matter the insult. Evidence of murder. An offense punishable by death.
The castle doors suddenly burst open, drawing all eyes in surprise. That surprise deepened when Lord Bertrand entered. Emma must have made a sound of surprise, for his eyes immediately flew to where she stood and he smiled brightly enough to near blind her.
"Lady Emmalene, I came soon as I heard!" Hurrying to her side, he reached for her hands.
"Heard what?" she asked, taking a nervous step backward from his presence. Her gaze flew to her would-be captors to see that they had paused and now stood uncertain whether to take her into custody or not. Her eyes were drawn abruptly back to Bertrand when he took her hands warmly in both of his and squeezed them gently. Confusion immediately set up a riot inside her. His demeanor and greeting were all wrong. He should not be so happy to see her. She had married another, vexing his plans. His parting scowl when he had last been here had hardly led her to expect such a warmhearted welcome now. And warmhearted it most definitely was, she thought with dismay as he drew her unwilling body toward him.
"Unhand my wife!"
Both of them were startled at Amaury's thunderous words. Emma took a relieved breath as Bertrand released her. Then she turned a scowl on her husband for his capricious behavior. One moment he was accusing her of trying to kill him, and the next he was barking possessively at another for touching her.
Amaury frowned at his wife's reaction, then took note of Bertrand's.
The man looked more than startled, he looked shocked. He also looked slightly sick as he murmured, "But you are supposed to be--"
"Bertrand!"
Emma cringed at that harsh, high-pitched voice. Turning to the doorway, she eyed the woman standing there warily. Tall, thin, and cadaver-like, the hard-faced woman stared coldly back. This time Bertrand had not come alone. More's the pity, Emma thought grimly as she met the cold hatred in Lady Ascot's eyes.
Amaury bore the silent war of wills between his wife and Bertrand's mother for as long as he could, then shifted impatiently, drawing both women's attention to himself. "I take it you have come for a reason?"
Lady Ascot arched an eyebrow at his rudeness, but Amaury did not care. He had no time to humor the old nag and her mewling son just now. He had three dead dogs and his wife to deal with.
"We were on our way to court and thought to stop and offer our congratulations," Lady Ascot said after a moment of silence. Then stamping her cane on the hard floor, she snapped, "Did we not, Bertrand?"
"Aye." He cleared his throat and moved closer to his mother in a sidling move that smacked of cowardice. "Congratulations."
Amaury's gaze narrowed on the twosome. They were like snakes, the both of them, slithering about his hall and flicking their honeyed lies off narrow forked tongues. He knew they had been staying at Chesterford's keep since his wedding. Chesterford had sent him news of that himself. And Eberhart would not be out of the way on their way to court, but if they had come to congratulate, then he was King Richard's dead wife. He had not missed Bertrand's words on entering. "I came soon as I heard." Heard what, pray tell? Of the dogs' deaths? Or something else? His gaze slid to his wife as he rolled things over in his head. She was eyeing the twosome by the door with unsavory suspicion. Then she peered back toward the unfortunate beasts frozen in their last moments of life by the fireplace, before glancing finally to him. Understanding slid across her face. Then her lips twisted bitterly. Amaury flinched under that look, guilt rising in him, a wraith that wrapped itself around his innards and gave a gleeful squeeze.
"We shall not tarry for refreshments," Lady Ascot announced arrogantly now, as if some had actually been offered. "We go to join court. Come, Bertrand." Whirling imperiously on the doorstep, she swept back out of the keep and out of sight, her son scurrying to keep up with her.
Amaury turned to the four men he had originally set after his wife. "Follow them. Ensure they leave my lands."
The four men left at once.
He glanced toward his wife then to see that she had turned on her heels and was hurrying above stairs.
"Shall I fetch her back?"
Sighing, Amaury shook his head at Little George's question, his gaze returning to his wife's backside as she mounted the last step and disappeared out of sight.
"I take it you have decided your wife ma
y not be responsible for the poison in your tankard?" Blake murmured, relief obvious in his voice.
Amaury glanced to his friend, then moved back to the head table and sank wearily onto the bench. Picking up his tankard he peered into it as the two men joined him. "I have had a streak of very bad luck lately."
"Aye," Blake agreed slowly. "I have never noticed you to have such bad luck. You have nearly died three times now in but a few short weeks."
"Hmm." Amaury frowned.
"What are you thinking?"
"I am thinking 'tis odd that the bandits attacked me. According to Emma's men-at-arms, they have never attacked anyone afore. Robbed? Aye. But not tried to kill. They did not demand my purse. So why did they attack?"
"Mayhap they feared that as the new lord you would force them out of the woods," Little George rumbled the words.
"But their attacking made me do just that, and would have forced such an occurrence no matter the outcome."
Blake nodded. "They were set on killing you."
"Aye, just like the mercenaries."
Little George's eyebrows rose. "You no longer think the mercenaries were hired by someone connected with your past employment?"
"Nay."
"And you no longer think your wife tried to poison you?"
He shook his head wearily and pointed out what had occurred to him only moments before. "She is the one who said 'twas poison. Else we would have thought it just sickness."
Both men nodded at the truth of that. Then Blake took in his expression and frowned slightly. "You do not seem pleased at that realization, my friend."
" 'Tis the truth I am not sure I am," Amaury admitted ruefully. "While I am glad my wife would not see me dead . . . I do not look forward to the cost of my incorrect accusation."
"She will forgive you," Blake assured him, a hand on his shoulder. "In truth, I think she has great affection for you."
Little George rumbled his agreement to that and Amaury straightened in his seat. "You do?" The hope on his face faded to be replaced by a grimace as he recalled the expression on her face when she had last looked at him. She had not looked to have any affection for him then.
"You are thinking the three occurrences are connected? The bandits, the mercenaries, and the poisoning?" Blake drew his attention back to the conversation at hand.