Trenton was watching her seriously, feeling the impact of her hopeless and sorrowful words. “But you never thought to ask your father for help?” he asked. “Surely he could have protected you.”
Lysabel shrugged. “I belong to my husband,” she said simply. “My father had no say in how he treated me, so why tell him? It would only make him miserable. It would make him commit murder. How could I do that to my father, to have such a thing on his conscience? Killing my husband and knowing he did it because the man… because of what he did to me. My father is a sensitive man, Trenton. You know this. He is emotional about things.”
Trenton knew Matthew well enough to know that what she said was true. “Then you did not tell him to protect him?”
“Aye. I love my papa too much to make him realize that he condemned me to such a terrible life. That is not fair to him.”
Trenton understood, somewhat. It was an extremely noble attitude, protecting her father while she suffered so terribly. Not that he agreed with it, but he did understand her.
“When was the last time you saw your father?” he asked. “You are not too terribly far from Wellesbourne Castle. Does he come to visit?”
She nodded. “He and my mother visit about every year or so,” she said. “Of course, Benoit was always on his best behavior. Papa never saw anything wrong.”
“So he never knew?”
“Never.”
Trenton couldn’t imagine a world in which a father wouldn’t see the miserable existence of his daughter, but he didn’t pry anymore about it. He’d probably already pried too much.
“That is all over with now,” he said quietly. “Had I known this was going on, I would have come for de Wilde much sooner than I did. Mayhap you fear for your father’s soul in killing his daughter’s husband, but I have no such fear for my soul. I was happy to do what was necessary to protect you.”
She looked at him, hearing a chivalrous declaration. Simply kind words from an old friend, she thought, but she was touched nonetheless. It had been a very long time since she’d last heard anything chivalrous.
“Why did Henry want my husband?” she asked.
Because the man stole a mistress away from the king, Trenton thought. But he didn’t say what he was thinking; the woman had suffered enough indignity at the hands of Benoit de Wilde. He didn’t want to add to it.
“That was not made clear to me, my lady,” he lied. “All I knew was that Benoit de Wilde was my target. Henry wanted him, and as an agent for the king, it is my duty to carry out the king’s command.”
Fortunately, Lysabel seemed to believe him. She lifted her eyebrows in resignation. “Benoit had many dealings that were less than ethical,” she said. “I am not surprised he attracted the king’s attention.”
“Indeed.”
“I will not ask what you did with him, Trenton. But I hope you threw his body in a river and let the fish eat him.”
It was a rather strong thing to say coming from a genteel lady. “You do not wish to know what I did with him?” he asked.
“Nay.”
There was coldness to her answer, something he was pleased to see. He’d seen some women, even after being beaten by their husbands, still have some feeling for them, but not Lysabel. It was clear that she held nothing but contempt for the man who’d made her life a living hell for so many years. But her excuse for not letting the world in on that shame was because she wanted to protect her father’s honor. It wasn’t because she was weak or afraid – it was simply to protect the man she loved.
Strength.
The woman had strength that was rare. Trenton had noticed it the night he’d come for Benoit, that even beaten and broken, Lysabel still had a dignity her husband couldn’t take from her. That was the Wellesbourne breeding, but it was also something more. Quite simply, Lysabel was just a strong woman in general. To be married to the devil de Wilde for all those years, she had to be.
How on earth did he not notice this strong woman those years ago? Or perhaps, it was simply something that developed after years of abuse – perhaps, she’d had to learn to be strong. In either case, Trenton’s respect for her grew.
In truth, Trenton knew a little something about abused women. The woman he called his mother wasn’t the woman who gave birth to him, but she was the woman who married his father and treated Trenton as if he were her very own son. Trenton had been eight years of age when he’d first met Lady Remington Stoneley. Although his father had tried to refrain from telling him too much about her past, and of her first husband, Trenton knew several things that her son, Dane, had told him – mostly that Dane’s biological father had been an evil bastard who had abused Remington and her sisters terribly.
The man had been an enemy of the crown and had ended up in prison in the Tower of London, only to escape and try to return to the life he had before he’d been imprisoned. That meant reclaiming his wife, and Trenton remembered well the events leading up to the showdown between Gaston de Russe and Sir Guy Stoneley. Being young, but determined to help save Remington from the clutches of her evil husband, Trenton and Dane had set out to protect her, only to be captured by Guy himself.
In the end, Guy had been killed, and Remington had married Gaston. She’d been happily married to the man for many years now, and he treated her with the respect inherent to a man deeply in love, but Trenton still remembered witnessing some of what the woman had been forced to endure at the hands of an abuser.
Therefore, it made him more sympathetic to Lysabel than most, simply because he understood something about the abuse of a woman.
“Then I will not tell you what became of him,” he said after a moment. “You need not be troubled over it.”
Lysabel nodded, in appreciation he thought, and she didn’t seem willing to linger over the subject. “I will not be,” she said with some courage. “It is over and done now, although I will admit that I can still hardly believe it. I keep thinking that I shall wake up and this will all have been a dream.”
He smiled wryly. “It is no dream, I promise. I was there.”
“I know. I saw you.”
He snorted. “And I do not make it a habit of appearing in women’s dreams,” he said. Then, he sobered unnaturally fast. “Unless I have appeared in your sister’s dreams. Did Rosamunde ever dream of me?”
Lysabel burst out laughing. “When she was fourteen years of age, mayhap,” she said. “But nowadays, I do not think her husband would like it very much.”
He scoffed. “I fear no man,” he said. “Wait – who did she marry? I may have to amend that statement.”
Lysabel continued laughing. “Leo de Lara,” she said. “He is from the great Marcher Lords of de Lara. Do you know of them?”
Trenton nodded. “I do,” he said. “I did not know she married into that family.”
“She did.”
“And the rest of your siblings? Don’t tell me they are all married away, too.”
Lysabel shook her head. “Not all of them,” she said. “Rosamunde is married, but my brothers, James and Thomas, are not. My other sister, Emeline, is married, as is my brother, Daniel. But my youngest brother, William, will probably never marry. Papa says he has too much of my Uncle Luke in him. Luke was killed at Bosworth right before I was born. Did you ever know him?”
Trenton shook his head. “Regretfully, I did not,” he said. “But I well remember your brother, William, with his red hair and loud voice. I can remember your father trying to tame his wild streak, even when he was a young lad.”
Lysabel grinned. “He still has that wild streak, so I am told.”
“He will outgrow it.”
“According to my mother, my father does not think so. God help us, we shall have a wild Wellesbourne on our hands.”
Trenton smiled, gazing into the woman’s eyes and feeling a jolt when he did. Like a spark, a hint of something that made his belly quivery, just a bit. He wanted to continue staring into her eyes, but something about her big blue eyes made
him feel like she was sucking him right in, dragging him into that blue oblivion. He almost couldn’t look away, and it was an effort to do so.
“Even if that is true, he has the Wellesbourne soul, and that means his character is inherently good,” he said, tearing his gaze away because he was starting to feel strange. Unnerved… giddy, even. “And, mayhap, this has been enough of a conversation for one night. Thank you for speaking to me, my lady. Again, I am sorry to have taken you away from your meal, but I am glad we have had this time to speak in private. When I last left you, it was under stressful conditions. I hope you understand that, as someone who has known you your entire life, I simply couldn’t walk away. I had to return to make sure you were well.”
Another declaration she could have construed as chivalrous. Caring, even. God’s Bones, Lysabel hadn’t experienced a man’s caring in years and had no idea how to respond to it. It was sweet, and endearing, but there was also something strangely uncomfortable about it. Years under Benoit’s abuse had left her wondering if she was good enough to even be cared for in such a way.
“I am well,” she assured him. “Thanks to you, I am well and so are my children. What we owe you, Trenton, I fear I can never repay.”
Trenton was starting to feel very strange as he looked at her, something he’d never experienced before. The more he looked into her eyes, the more his gaze drifted over the curve of her face, the lines of her figure… something was happening inside of him that he didn’t recognize. His initial discomfort at it had turned into something else, too, something that made his insides feel quivery. If he hadn’t known any better, he would swear there was some interest in the lady on his part.
But, no…
It is fatigue, he told himself. He’d ridden hard the past few days, so it was logical that his body was starting to revolt. All he needed was rest.
But all he wanted to do was stay and talk to Lysabel.
He had to get out of there.
“I do not expect you to repay me,” he said. “I would not want you to. What I did, I did because the king ordered me to do it. I did it because it was the right thing to do. But returning to make sure you had fared well in the wake of everything was my own idea. I owe your father too much to have behaved any other way.”
Lysabel smiled faintly. “Mayhap someday, when he is very old, we shall tell my father what happened with Benoit,” she said. “But until that time, I will tell him what I have told everyone else – that my husband left Stretford one night and never returned. Promise me that is all you will ever tell him, too.”
Trenton nodded. “I already swore I would,” he said. “You needn’t worry, my lady. Your secret is safe.”
Lysabel gazed at the man, feeling more comfort than she’d ever known in her life with his massive presence. It was true, he’d been a terrifying and intimidating young man, but she didn’t feel that way about him any longer. He’d saved her and all she could feel when she looked at him was comfort.
Safe.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. Then, she took a deep breath, her manner brightening. “Now, I am sure you must be famished. Will you join my daughters and me for a meal? I would very much like them to meet an old family friend.”
Trenton thought that sounded rather attractive. A naturally solitary man, who ate and slept alone except when he was working with his team, the thought of sharing a meal with Lysabel and her daughters did not distress him. In fact, his inclination to leave the woman, to get away from her, because of the odd feelings she seemed to be stirring in him was weakened by her invitation. Trenton wasn’t a weak man by nature, but when it came to any kind of emotion, something he kept very closely protected, he wasn’t as adept at controlling it as he should be.
He could feel himself slipping.
“I would be… honored,” he said after a moment. “I should like to meet Matthew’s granddaughters.”
Lysabel was pleased. “Good,” she said, leading him towards the chamber door. “Cissy looks just like him, but Cinny takes after her father’s side of the family. She is quiet, more reserved. I am sure they will be very happy to meet you.”
Very happy to meet the man that killed their father, Trenton thought. Of course, they wouldn’t know it, and probably never would, but he realized as he followed Lysabel back towards the hall, listening to her chatter, that he didn’t accept her invitation to sup to meet her daughters.
He did it to be around her.
He was slipping further…
CHAPTER FOUR
It was dawn and he was awake.
He was always awake at dawn, simply because years of training as a knight meant there was no sloth or laziness involved. Men went to bed late and rose early, always to go about their duties, always to ensure their world, and the world of their lords, was safe and prepared for anything.
Therefore, he was always awake before the sun rose, as if his mind knew exactly when light was about to appear in the eastern horizon. He would get up, wash his face, throw water on his hair, and dress, and by the time he was finished, the horizon was turning shades of pale blue and pink.
But the trouble was on this day that he had no real duties to attend to. He was away from London, away from the king, and at a location where he had no responsibilities. He felt rather useless, but rather than wander around aimlessly and look like an idiot, he decided to head to the stables and tend to his horse. At least then, he’d be doing something.
The stable was dark at this hour, but the moment he entered, the animals began to shift around, knowing that human presence meant food in their bellies. When Trenton had arrived, he’d requested that his horse be put in the farthest stall from the door because the animal was quite excitable, and vicious, and people coming in and out of the stable would agitate it.
While most knights traveled on horses that were designed for travel, lighter-weight animals that were swift, comfortable, and agile, Trenton didn’t hold to that philosophy. He traveled on his destrier, a massively heavy-boned warhorse that he’d taken into battle many times. The beast had been a gift from his father as a yearling, fifteen years ago, and was perhaps the smartest and most experienced battle horse in all of England.
Trenton was rather particular about the horses he rode on, and owned, resulting from a bad experience when he’d been a young lad, riding an old nag halfway across England because it was the only horse available. He and his brother had been forced to share the animal, and since that time, Trenton only rode horses that could accommodate his bulk easily and didn’t crush his manhood. That meant he didn’t ride on small or even medium-sized horses. Of course, the saddle had a good deal to do with that, too, and he had the finest saddle made, one he could ride in comfortably for hours on end.
His preference for horses and saddles was peculiar, indeed.
At the end of the row of tied-up horses stood his enormous warhorse; he could see the outline of the horse’s back, taller than all of the other horses, when he approached. He whistled low to the animal to let him know he was approaching. The horse’s massive head shot up, eyeballing Trenton in the darkness, nickering softly to him. A horse that could bite off men’s hands or stomp them to death had a definite fondness for his master.
Trenton slipped into the stall, rubbing the big, black head affectionately. Dewi was the horse’s name, named for the Welsh dragon god, simply because the horse was the closest thing Trenton had ever seen to a fire-breathing dragon. Dewi’s big lips pulled at Trenton, nipping at him playfully, and Trenton avoided the seeking lips as he untied the horse’s tether and backed him out of the stall.
Leading the animal to the front of the stables and tying the lead rope around his muzzle to prevent him from trying to snap at anyone, Trenton proceeded to check over the horse to ensure the rough travel hadn’t done any damage. Dewi seemed well enough, now swishing his big tail at Trenton, as he was hungry and trying to prompt his master into procuring his food. Trenton slapped the big, black butt of the horse, grinning because the hor
se was doing everything it could to try and force him to go and get his morning meal. When Dewi started to lift his hind leg, as if to kick out at Trenton, the man laughed softly and decided he should hunt down a stable servant so his spoiled glutton of a horse could be fed.
The very subject of a meal had him thinking about the previous night’s feast with Lysabel and her daughters. The children had been adorable and delightful for the most part, with their mother’s sweet face. At least, he thought so, although the youngest girl did look a good deal like Matthew. It had been a long time since Trenton had lingered on thoughts of a woman, but he’d gone to sleep with thoughts of Lysabel on his mind and even now, visions of her lovely face and tinkling laughter filled his head.
In fact, he’d been unable to really sleep well because of it. He kept thinking of that long-limbed little girl he’d known; one who would run and play and jump with her siblings, and one who would sit on her father’s lap and listen to him tell stories until she fell asleep. Of course, Trenton hadn’t really been part of the family – he’d been a squire for a few years before Matthew knighted him, but he was always there, always around the family, and always watching. He remembered well the mostly-blond Wellesbourne children, except for Lysabel and Rosamunde, who had their mother’s glossy bronze hair, and then William, who inherited red hair. He remembered them all, but he’d never given any of them much thought.
Until now.
Now, he was thinking of one of them in particular.
God, he was insane for doing it. This was all so foolish and confusing. His conversation with Henry came to mind, the one before he’d come to Stretford, where Henry reminded him what a terrible record he had with women. It wasn’t untrue, and a terrible record was putting it mildly. But there was so much more to it.