*
Gaston met withArik on his way to the vault.
“I hear you found her,” Arik said gravely. “Did you dispose of her yet?”
“I am on my way,” Gaston replied, grim.
Arik started to walk with him but Gaston stopped him. “Nay, man, I will do this alone.”
Arik paused. “Gaston… mayhap I should do this,” he said. “After all, ’tis Trenton’s mother we speak of and I do not believe your son will be comfortable with the fact that his father killed his mother.”
Gaston pondered his statement a moment. “Yet I cannot ask anyone else to do what must be done. The woman has been a thorn in my side for thirteen years, Arik. The shame and cruelty she has brought into the house of de Russe is mine to bear. Tonight she tried to kill someone… she must be punished, and I alone must do it.”
Arik looked at him, trying to read his thoughts. “Are you using the attempt on Remington’s life as an excuse to rid yourself of your hated wife? Or are your motives more true than that?”
Gaston’s jaw ticked. “What are you saying? That I am being completely selfish in my motives? With Mari-Elle out of the way, I will be free to pursue my desires? Arik, I should hope that you would know me better than that.”
“I thought I did,” Arik said quietly, though not accusingly. “But then I have never known you to be in love before.”
Gaston’s gaze lingered on his tall; pale friend. He thought to deny the allegation, but reconsidered. He was not a graceful liar.
“She must be punished,” he said simply. “Who is to say that if I set her free, that she will not try to kill again? I cannot risk a murderess running amongst us, no matter who she is. You have always known my wrath to be swift and severe.”
Arik nodded, fairly convinced that Gaston’s motives were sincere. Of course, he heartily agreed with him, but his lord of late had puzzled him greatly. For his own peace of mind, he felt the need to pry a bit.
Gaston continued to the stairwell that led to the vault. Arik had followed, anyway, although neither one knew why or tried to stop him. The sharp, acrid odor assaulted their nostrils as they moved to the first locked cell.
“The bolt is locked,” Arik pointed out.
Gaston looked at it a moment. “No matter,” wrapping his hands around the thick wooden bolt, he pulled and worked at it until it weakened. Grunting with effort, he continued to tug and twist until the old wooden bolt popped free of the door with a great snap of rotted splinters.
The bolt hung loose, swinging on the wall as it was still attached to the lock, and Gaston opened the door. Arik shook his head at the display of strength; the man was beyond believing.
The cell was dark except for the dim flicker of the torch. Gaston could see the figure of his wife huddled against the wall and put out his hand to stop Arik from following any further.
Arik understood and stepped back into the hall as Gaston proceeded in, looming over his wife. He called her name once, twice, and then finally knelt down beside the slumped form.
“Mari-Elle,” he said firmly, putting out his hand to yank her to her feet.
He gave a tug but she was dead weight. Angered, he grasped both her arms and hauled her to her feet and was astonished to see a great pool of blood on the floor underneath her.
“Arik,” he snapped.
Arik rushed to his side, his blue eyes widening at the blood. It was everywhere, soaking her skirt, the dirty straw. Gaston tried to rouse her as Arik searched for the wound.
“Where is this coming from?” Gaston demanded.
Arik was fumbling with the folds of the surcoat. “I do not see a weapon, or a tear in the surcoat, nothing,” he looked around the floor. “Lay her down, Gaston. Mayhap we can discover where she has injured herself.”
Gaston laid Mari-Elle on her back. Her pulse was extremely weak and the two men scrutinized her closely for damage. The blood was saturating her from the waist down, it seemed, and finally Gaston tossed up her skirts to get a better look. He was shocked to see that she was bleeding from her privates, gushing bright red and black clots.
“My God,” he hissed. “What in the hell happened?”
Arik, having seen his share of blood and gore throughout his career, was nearly sickened by the sight. A distasteful expression creased his face.
“Mayhap you should send for her physician,” he suggested. He certainly did not want to deal with it.
“There is nothing he can do,” Gaston replied. “She’s already dead.”
