“Back away,” he bellowed at Mortimer’s men. “Touch her and you die.”
It was not a threat; it was a promise. Tate’s tone was full of power and hazard. Toby, in fact, had never heard that inflection in his voice and it was frightening. Stephen and Wallace had placed themselves close to him, unfortunately revealing their loyalties as they did so. Stephen even pulled off his soldier’s helm, revealing his face to Mortimer and his men. He heard the namePemburywhispered through the room but, at this point, he didn’t care that he had revealed himself. As Mortimer’s menknew Dragonblade, they knew his ally Pembury also. And his duty was to protect Tate and Toby.
“You heard him,” Stephen growled as he unsheathed his sword. “Back away or feel my wrath.”
The men backed off. Isabella was still slapping soldiers away, widening the circle of wolves that were surrounding Tate and Toby. Tate, however, was not paying much attention to the ring of doom all around him; his focus was on his wife as he took her by the arms and shook her gently, beseechingly.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded quietly.
Toby’s reply was to throw her arms around his neck and squeeze tightly. He held her close, inhaling her scent, his shock fading and being replaced by a fierce sense of protectiveness. She had returned to the lion’s den and he would know why.
“I do not understand,” he rasped into her hair. “Why are you here? What has happened?”
Her mouth was on his ear. “I had to come,” she murmured. “I had to save you.”
Tate felt as if he had been hit in the stomach. “Save me?” he repeated, incredulous. “Sweetheart, you were safe. You were free. What are you…?”
She cut him off abruptly by releasing him. Tate gazed into her beloved hazel eyes, never more in love with her nor more terrified for her. His control, so carefully held when it was only himself to worry about, was in danger of shattering.
“Whatever I say, do not fight me,” she whispered. “You must let me do this.”
“Do what?” he was becoming increasingly agitated. “What are you doing?”
She smiled bravely at him and he nearly came apart. He just knew it was something awful. Toby squeezed his hand and released him, turning for Roger.
Mortimer was gazing at her with suspicion and delight, an odd combination. Toby’s heart was pounding in her chest as she summoned the courage to do as she must. She had reviewed her plan as she had ridden to Wigmore and was convinced that the only way to gain Tate’s freedom would be to play on Isabella’s jealousies. More than that, it was the only plan she had. She could not think of anything else. She prayed that it was enough.
“My lord,” she addressed Roger steadily. “I have returned to offer myself to you in return for my husband’s life. You once offered a proposition to me; one night for St. Héver’s life. I have returned to offer you the same proposition with one change; one night for my husband’s life. I will spend a night of passion with you if you will release him. Will you accept?”
Roger visibly blanched, his gaze darting to Isabella as she stood near Tate. But he could not wait for her reaction. He looked back at Toby, his nerves evident as he spoke.
“You must have misunderstood, Lady de Lara,” he replied. “I never made such an offer to you.”
Toby cocked an eyebrow. “I believe we have several witnesses to your proposition who will swear that I did not misunderstand you,” she said. “I have returned to make you the same offer with the mentioned changes provided that the Queen approves.”
The mood of the room suddenly turned dark and brittle; all eyes turned to Isabella, whose cheeks were turning a dull shade of pink. She gazed back at Toby with the stark jealousy that all women have when facing a younger, more beautiful rival. But instead of focusing her venom on Toby, she looked at Roger.
“Did you ask this of this woman?” she demanded, her voice low and shaky.
Roger shook his head. “Of course I did not.”
Isabella sighed sharply, her jaw ticking and her dark eyes burning. Toby, watching the interaction, knew it was time to act. If she was going to succeed as planned, then she needed tobe strong and dramatic. Bursting into loud sobs, she suddenly buried her face in her hands.
“It is true,” she wept loudly. “He tried to force himself on me again and again. He told me that he would kill St. Héver if I did not spend a night of passion with him. He was most descriptive in his desires, how he wished to taste my flesh and gorge himself on my delicacies. I… I did not know what to do. Now that he has my husband, I felt that I had to offer myself in order to gain his freedom. I had to come back!”
It was an overwrought performance at best. Tate stared at her, torn between the urge to tear Mortimer apart with his bare hands and his curiosity on how Isabella was going to react. He could see what Toby was doing; God bless her, he knew exactly what she was doing and had to admit that it was brilliant. He had tried to do the same thing but Toby was playing upon the queen’s jealousies far better than he ever could. So he held his tongue, and his fists, to wait for the queen’s reaction.
It wasn’t long in coming. Isabella’s face darkened with fury and she clenched her little fists, pushing her way past Stephen and standing next to Toby. She stood for a moment, watching the woman’s lowered head as she sobbed. Her lips pressed into an angry, flat line.
“Did he touch you while you were his guest at Wigmore?” she demanded.
Toby bawled. “He touched my… my….”
She appeared too distraught to continue. Even Tate was on edge. Isabella reached out and shook her.
“Where did he touch you?”
Toby took one hand away from her face and put it on her inner right thigh, very close to the junction where her legs joined. “Here!”
