“Why on earth not?” Her mother frowned. “He must be witless to attempt to intimidate you so now. Your marriage has been recognized at court. It would be far better to resist until help arrives from Sir Damien.”
“We have not the luxury of that time, I am afraid,Mère. Nor am I certain, after reading this parchment, that Damien will be able to help me, ever again—”
Her voice broke off in a sob, and she pressed her fingers to her lips, barely able to finish, “Hugh has made it clear that it is he who has taken Michael. My gentle cousin is near death by his own brother’s command, and Hugh has promised that Michael will not see the dawn if we do not open our gates to him within this quarter hour.”
As if from a faraway place, Alissende watched Hugh’s mouth moving, saw his sickening smile, and heard her own emotionless answer before he turned and left the chamber.
The door slipped shut behind him, and she was left alone again.
Slowly, she sank to the floor, the fierce determination that had allowed her to remain upright for as long as her depraved cousin stood before her seeping away until naught was left but dark, cold emptiness. And grief. It lapped at her in waves, growing in strength and hurt until she bent over double from the agony of it, wrapping her arms around her stomach and rocking soundlessly, too raw for tears.
Damien was dead. The man she loved was dead.
It could be no otherwise, though she had allowed Hugh to think she believed his claims to the contrary. Aye, she had pretended to swallow his lies about Damien for Michael’s sake. Poor Michael, who had been tortured by Hugh’s men until he had finally revealed the truth about the incomplete marriage proxy, still undeclared in public by the parties involved, and so therefore still invalid. Worse yet, under the force of his torment, Michael had confessed about the Writ of Absolution, admitting he had penned it without Church sanction, to protect Damien from further interrogation by the Inquisition.
Yet even though tortured to within a breath of his life, Michael had not died, and so Alissende had pretended to accept Hugh’s version of events to buy some time. She had feigned agreement to the marriage he’d proposed as if she’d lacked the will to deny him longer. And to her surprise, he had believed her. Nodding his approval, he had left to make the arrangements for the ceremony to take place the day after next.
It had been a hollow victory.
His lies still rang in her ears, each word cutting at her heart. Damien had fled to Scotland, Hugh had claimed, when given the choice between suffering rearrest and interrogation by the Inquisition or signing a parchment asserting that their marriage had been in name only. He had given Damien the option, he’d told her in a revoltingly false display of care, to protect her from the ugliness and danger a public scandal of this nature would incur. And he pretended grudging admiration in Damien’s supposed decision to flee, calling it ultimately selfless—and making her glad she had not been able to eat earlier, else she would have lost the contents of her stomach at his feet.
With every wretched syllable he’d uttered, she had known Hugh lied. Even when he had shown her the parchment, signed in Damien’s own unpracticed hand, she’d known. In truth, the sight of that wobbly signature had nearly broken her composure, flooding her with heartbreaking pain and loss, for it had done nothing but confirm her worst fears. She knew better than anyone that Damien never would willingly break a vow he made, even if he risked his life to complete it. He had promised to protect her from Hugh, and if he could no longer fulfill that oath, it was because he was no longer breathing, not because he had fled the country.
And so she was left with naught but stunning grief and her own resolution to stop Hugh from hurting anyone else, through whatever means were left open to her. She had looked him in the eye and told him that she saw the wisdom in finally yielding to his decision to wed her. Promised that she would stand in the chapel with him and pledge him her troth…
And then, after the wedding feast was over and he led her to their chamber to consummate their vows, she would ease into her palm the dagger she would hide in her sleeve, and she’d drive it straight into his black heart.
If she succeeded, she would be tried for his murder and no doubt hanged, since a woman—even a noblewoman—could not commit such a crime against a man of title and be absolved of it without forfeit of her own life. And of course there was always the possibility that she might falter at the necessary moment, perhaps miss the mark or become overpowered by Hugh’s superior strength. He might in fact turn the dagger on her, instead.
It did not matter. Either way, she would be dead and released from the pain of this existence.
Resolve.
It was all Alissende had left, and she decided to hold onto it and nurture it like a bitter, shiny seed within her breast, keeping it safe until it bore the deadly fruit that would end Hugh’s life and her own torment…
Once and for all.
The dungeons at Grantley Hall
That same day
It had been like stepping back into hell.
From the moment Damien had been tossed into this diabolical lair, the horrific sights, the cries of agony and pleas for mercy…the smells, oh God, the smells, of rot, waste, and burning flesh—had assaulted his senses with merciless brutality. He had not been able to breathe, his gorge rising up to choke him.
The fact that he knew what was still to come had been almost enough to drive him mad. His inquisitors had not begun his interrogation in earnest yet. They clung to the belief that they might yet free him from the grip of Satan through the cleansing purification of their questioning, and so they made sure not to take him down that path too quickly, lest they be deprived of their prize.
They would never have the chance to do more, if he had any say in it.
Pressing back against the wall of his fetid dungeon chamber, Damien concentrated on the thin line of light visible beneath the door. He focused on it, even as he heard the sounds of scraping and clanking that let him know the first group of Templars was being returned to their cells. Spent, tortured unto senselessness by their ordeal, they would be exchanged for fresh blood, as happened every day.
In a few minutes, Damien’s door would open, the guards would stride in, and he would be dragged, squinting against the light, into one of the various interrogation rooms. His session of questioning would begin shortly thereafter, after they’d bound him to a table, or to a chair, or perhaps, as they had promised if he refused to cooperate today, to the rack.
His stomach clenched at the thought, and he willed his mind to slow and his panic to recede, lest he be unable to complete the steps needed to make sure that it turned out the way he intended this time.
For all was not lost. Nay, he had been shocked to realize, even through the threat of unspeakable agonies and the knowledge of the immense physical pain they could unleash on him if they chose, that something burned within him, giving him strength and a sense of hope he had not realized he possessed.
His love for Alissende.
