Blake nodded at that. "Aye. I recall a sharp turn to the path when we reached the river. 'Twas several hours back."
Richard turned to Amaury now. "There may be a spot near there that can be forged during some parts of the year. If so, only someone who traveled this way often would know of it."
Amaury's face creased with worry. "But what if 'tis no such spot? What if he simply did not go this way, but headed somewhere else?"
The king frowned impatiently at him. He had ridden into battle with this man several times, and had never known him to be so indecisive and uncertain. What the hell was the matter with the man? "His keep is only about an hour from here, Amaury." There was a decided snap to his voice as the king pointed that out. "Why do we not finish what we have started, make our way there, and find out?"
"Aye, of course you are right."
"Hmm." Richard peered at him narrowly for a moment, then shook his head. The man was in no state to think clearly. Should they arrive at Bertrand's demesne to discover Lady Emmalene there, he would no doubt charge right up and get himself killed. If given the chance. He would not give him the chance then, Richard decided. "You will follow me from here," he announced abruptly, and urged his horse forward again.
She was seated on the bed again when Bertrand returned. A servant followed him in, carrying a tankard of mead. Emma smiled gratefully at the woman as she accepted the refreshment, doing her best not to wince at the scars and marks she also carried. Lady Ascot's treatment of her retainers showed well.
"Drink," Bertrand urged her as the woman left. "You must be parched."
Forcing a smile, she raised the tankard, only to pause with it at her mouth as she recalled the poison in her husband's ale. She did not fear being killed by poison, but there was always the possibility that one of those ways Lady Ascot had thought Gytha might know of to get rid of a child was through a potion of some sort. There were potions for everything else. Why not for miscarriages?
When she saw Bertrand frown over her hesitation, Emma continued to raise the tankard, taking a surreptitious sniff of its contents before pretending to sip from the container. She did not smell anything out of the ordinary in the liquid, but decided it was better to be cautious.
Faking a swallow, she lowered the tankard and smiled at him. "You look fair pleased with yourself, my lord."
Bertrand broke into a grin, his body visibly relaxing at her winsome smile. "I should be. I am this far from gaining everything I dreamed of." He held his thumb and forefinger a hair's breadth apart before her.
Emma felt herself flush from the tip of her forehead to her toes. She knew it was from anger, but could only hope Bertrand thought it a blush as she ducked her head in feigned shyness and murmured, "I must look awful."
"Aye."
Charm was not one of his failings, she decided, raising a hand to try to straighten her hair somewhat. She could feel that it had fallen loose and now lay in curly ringlets about her face. Her gown too had suffered, she saw with irritation, taking in its dusty wrinkled state. The gold material looked more of a mustard color now. No doubt her face was a sight as well, she thought impatiently. If she wished to succeed at her plan, she must look attractive to him.
Bertrand watched Emma straighten her appearance, and knew it was for his benefit. Women always primped when around him. Most often it annoyed him, but it had quite the opposite effect just now. His heart took flight. Lady Emmalene wanted him. He had thought she must, for most women did, but to have his hopes proved true was just wondrous. He wanted . . . he wanted . . . her.
Emma was taken by surprise when Bertrand suddenly launched himself at her. She was so unprepared, all she managed was a small squeak of protest as he tumbled her backward onto the bed, knocking the tankard from her hand.
They surveyed the castle from the cover of the trees in the dim twilight.
"They hold her here."
"Aye," Blake agreed with the king. "Just look, they have the drawbridge up. The keep is locked up tight as a drum."
Amaury started to urge his horse forward at that, but Richard and Blake both caught his reins and held him back. "Nay, Amaury. Wait," Blake urged him.
"Wait?! They hold my wife."
"What would you? Ride up and knock at the gate?" Blake asked grimly.
"Blake is right. We must wait for our men. Their size will aid us. Come." Richard turned his horse, then paused to glance back at Amaury where he hesitated. "We shall rest and plot our course as we wait."
Slumping in his saddle, Amaury nodded at that. It made sense. One never went riding heedlessly into a fray. One planned and plotted, and in the end won. He knew that. It was why he had never lost a battle . . . and yet he had nearly rushed headlong into this one. It almost made him sick. He could have gotten himself, or worse yet Emma, killed. He had been rushing about so since seeing her crakow drop from the tapestry. He had known it was something of his wife's before he had even seen it properly. Amaury had never had such premonitions before, but then no one he had loved had been in danger before.
Then he swallowed as he heard his own thoughts. Love. Damn! There was that word again. Such a little word for such a strong and tormenting emotion. Did he really love his wife? He certainly felt lust for her. His blood had seemed to be bubbling for weeks now, always threatening to boil over with his want of her. Mayhap he even liked her. She was fair smart. He liked that. She was charming too. Many was the time she had made him laugh in the last month, sometimes without even meaning too. It was hard to recall what his life had been like before marrying her. It seemed to him to be just a mass of gray days.
Just as his future would be should she die, he thought suddenly and felt pain stab through him. Nay, he could not lose her. Love or not, he liked having her around. In truth, he might even need her. He would give his life to save her, but would rather not have to. He looked forward to many long years with the temperamental wench. She could not die.
Amaury peered toward the keep again. Where was she? And what was happening to her? If Bertrand or his old witch mother harmed Emma, he would kill them both. Slowly.
"De Aneford!"
Sighing, Amaury turned his horse to follow the king. He must settle down some. Calm himself enough to come up with a plan. His wife would not die. Nor would he. Bertrand could not have her.
"Nay, my lord! Prithee, control thyself!" Emma muttered, pushing at Bertrand's chest as his lips slobbered a passionate circle by her ear. "We cannot!"
"We cannot?" He pulled back to frown at her. "You do not wish to?"
Emma blinked at that. She would rather-- well, it was of no matter. Just then she could not afford to be honest. She needed his favor were she to escape. "Aye, of course, but I-- pray, my Lord, forbear. We must forbear."
"Why?"
"Why?" Biting her lip, she thought frantically. "I--'tis my woman's time."
"Your . . ." He swallowed at that, distaste flashing across his features briefly, then he suddenly frowned. "But you are with child."
"Oh, well, I . . ." Emma stared at him blankly for a moment, then saw a way to save the child that might be growing within her, and smiled at him coyly. "Now my lord, do not tell me that you believed that?"
"What?"
"Well . . . Clever as you are, you must have realized that that was all a ploy?"
"A ploy?"
"Aye. My husband thought 'twould get you to leave him be."
His eyebrows rose slightly at that. "He did?"
"Oh, aye. But surely you realized that? That last attack near killed him. He was lucky to survive. He fears that the next might succeed." She silently sent up a quick prayer that her husband would forgive her such slander.
"He does?"
"Aye. So he insisted I say I was with child. I did not wish to, of course."
"You didn't?"
"Oh, nay, my lord. What? And give up the opportunity to have you for husband? A fine . . . er . . . handsome . . . intelligent man such as yourself?"
He preened briefly,
then narrowed his eyes. "Then why did you lie?"
"Why?"
"Aye. He was not in the garden. You could have told me the truth there."
"Um, well . . . Aye, 'tis so, but had he found out he would have beat me."
"Beat you?" His eyes widened.
"Aye. He threatened to beat me." Emma marveled even as she said that. It did seem she was quite adept at this new skill of weaving tales. She was actually even beginning to enjoy it somewhat.
"He did not?"
"Oh, aye," she told him airily. "And he is such a large man, I feared one beating would kill me."
"Oh, aye, 'twould," he agreed when she tried to look pathetic. Then he grimaced as he admitted, "My mother is over-fond of using her cane, but of course her beatings merely hurt. They could not kill you."
Emma did not know what to say to that, so she merely nodded with a sympathetic expression.
"Oh, my love!" Bertrand suddenly cried, catching her to his chest. "We have more in common than I had ever hoped. We shall be so happy together. I swear, I shall do my utmost to make it so." He emphasized that remark with a kiss that made Emma shudder inwardly.
"My lord, please," she gasped as soon as he released her lips to trail his mouth wetly down her throat. "My woman's time."
"Oh, aye." Releasing her at once, he put a goodly space between them. "I am sorry. I forget myself. 'Tis just that I am so happy."
"Aye, of course," Emma murmured with relief.