“You most certainly do,” he retorted. “As my wife, you are my chattel, and you will do as I instruct. You will not leave until I bid you do so.” He smiled. “Fear not, it may be soon.”
Her lip curled. “And you would remain here, in this keep built with my father’s coin, spending the dowry that should see to my comfort for all the days of my life.”
“I can make those days shorter, if you would prefer. Indeed, I wonder if I might have need of a younger wife, the better to ensure I have a son.”
Marie’s outrage was clear. “You would not dare to put me aside. The king chose me as your spouse…”
“And the king is said to be in Anjou, mustering for a crusade. His gaze turns east not north. I doubt he would even notice any tidings of your demise.”
“Fiend!” Marie cried and Royce smiled as he turned to leave.
“Lock the portal,” he instructed the man in the corridor. “And do not permit my wife to leave her chambers.”
“Scoundrel!” Marie shouted and Royce glanced back in time to see the crockery cup she cast at him. He ducked and it shattered on the opposite wall.
Royce descended several steps so she would not have a clear shot, and the sentry slammed the door. Another crockery cup smashed against it as he turned the key in the lock. “Have you seen Gaultier?” he asked the sentry when their gazes met.
“Not since the dawn, sir.”
Marie began to laugh.
Royce eyed the door. Her laughter was filled with malice and satisfaction, much as it had been once when she had played a practical joke on a villager.
What did she know?
Surely Gaultier was not in her chamber? Surely he had not so misplaced his trust?
*
Marie waited, more than ready to gloat. She could hear Royce breathing on the other side of the portal and exchanged a triumphant glance with Emma.
Her lord husband cleared his throat.
“Have you seen Gaultier, wife of mine?” He spoke sweetly.
Her smile broadened. “Of course. I know exactly where he is.”
“Then tell me.”
Marie laughed again.
“I command that you tell me!” Royce thundered.
“And I have no reason to do as much as long as this portal is locked.”
She could fairly hear him seething. She knew his eyes would be flashing and in a way, she wished he would open the portal and have his way with her. But nay, she heard his boots on the stairs as he rapidly descended.
“Pack it all,” she bade Emma. “I will not leave so much as a needle behind.”
Doubtless Royce checked the hall, the kitchens, the stables, the armory, perhaps even the chapel. He would not find Gaultier in any of those places. Marie opened a trunk, removed a thin sharp blade of Venetian manufacture, and slid it into her girdle. It pressed against her hip bone and from this angle, disappeared in the folds of her kirtle. She turned to Emma and raised her hands, turning in silent query.
Emma shook her head. It could not be discerned.
Boots hammered on the stairs and the two women faced the portal as a man—Royce by the odds—halted on the other side.
“Where is he?” he demanded.
“You are surly, Royce,” Marie chided. “No woman would reply to such a query.”
