Chapter Seventeen

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Shrewsbury Castle

G rier didn't think she'd slept at all.

It was dawn on the second day after the horrible scene with Dane and Grier found herself standing at the lancet window of the chamber she'd once shared with him, a chamber that had now become her prison. He'd locked her up and the only time she saw him after that was when he unlocked the door for the servants to bring her food, which she didn't eat.

Even now, the boiled mutton and other items of food from the night before sat near the door where they had been delivered, untouched. The mutton was like leather and everything else was either hard or stone-cold, making it particularly unappetizing. But it wasn't as if Grier had any inclination to touch it; she hadn't eaten anything in two days and she hadn't slept.

All she'd done was pray.

Weary and pale, she watched the sky as the sun began to rise, clutching her marriage brooch against her chest. She'd taken it off of her garment the day Dane locked her in and she hadn't let go of it. It was something Dane had given to her on the day of their wedding, along with the gold ring on her finger, and she clung to it as if that small bejeweled piece of metal was the last link to Dane.

She wasn't going to let it go.

God, how could she have been so stupid. It never occurred to her that Dane would consider her letter a sign of betrayal. Never, ever had that entered her mind. She had only been trying to help him, and for keeping it a secret, she was guilty. But that was the only thing she was guilty of– trying to help her husband by not telling him. Yet Dane thought she was sending messages to her Welsh lover, the one who had tried to kill him.

God… she was stupid.

The tears came again. It seemed to be a constant flow. She wept for the misunderstanding that was going to cost her everything, and for the shattered trust between her and her husband. She didn't blame Dane for thinking what he did; she knew it looked bad. And he must have gotten the letter from Euphemia, who was nowhere to be found. Perhaps she was locked away, too, somewhere, punished for her mistress' actions. Grier had no idea how Dane came across the letter, but she hoped Euphemia was well and hadn't been hurt in the process. The not knowing was eating her alive.

The master's chamber had several windows in it, three of which overlooked the inner bailey gatehouse as well as the outer bailey beyond. Grier could very nearly see all of the outer bailey from where she stood, and she could clearly see that men were assembling at this early morning hour.

A carriage had been brought out as well as a wagon. Perhaps it was an escort of some sort. Worse still, perhaps those two vehicles had nothing to do with the soldiers that were assembling. Perhaps, the Welsh raiders had returned. The mere thought nearly drove Grier mad with worry, so very worried that, somehow, Dane would be another target for the Welsh.

Worried that Davies had returned.

But there was nothing she could do about it. She'd tried and it had cost her everything. She had no idea what was going to happen to her now, if Dane was going to send her back to St. Idloes and forget he ever had a wife. Exhausted, unable to eat, and emotionally shattered, Grier kept the brooch clutched up against her chest because it was the only thing left from Dane.

She'd lost the man.

Turning away from the window, she wandered over to the hearth, which was dark and cold at this hour. Since Dane had locked her in, she hadn't let anyone in to tend it. She'd rather be cold. There was an iron bolt on the inside as well as the door lock, which could be locked from both sides and, as of last night after her supper was brought, she'd thrown the bolt from the inside. She didn't want anyone to come in, period. Frankly, she was content to starve to death at this point.

In truth, there was nothing to live for.

But it was dawn now and she expected her morning meal to be brought to her at any moment. Since the door was bolted, there was no way for anyone to get in. Sitting heavily before the black, sooty hearth, she was staring into the dark abyss of the fireplace when she heard a key in the lock. Someone, more than likely Dane, unlocked the door but when they went to open it, they found it bolted from the inside.

Predictably, that brought a confused pause. She heard someone try the lock again and, realizing the door was, indeed, unlocked, they tried the latch. The door didn't budge. They rattled the door slightly, a couple of times, and then stopped. There was silence for the longest time.

"Grier?" It was Dane, his voice muffled from the other side. "Unlock the door."

The sound of his voice brought tears to her eyes and she turned her head away, stifling the sobs. The door rattled again, stronger this time.

"Grier?" Dane said. "Open the door, I say."

Grier ignored him, at least for the moment. But she quickly realized that he wasn't going to go away. He'd shake the door again, and tell her to open the door, and then if she didn't, he'd probably kick the door in. Grier began to think that she should open the door if only to avoid having the door smashed and splinters all over the room. But the more she sat there and thought about it, about her situation, the more unstable and edgy she became.

Dane had locked her in like an animal. Perhaps, he expected her to act like one. Rising from the chair, and feeling woozy from lack of food, she made her way to the door.

"Go away," she said loudly. "I do not want your food, so you can return it to the kitchen. I do not need anything from you, so do me the courtesy of leaving me alone."

There were several seconds of silence on the other side of the door before she heard the reply.

"Unbolt the door, Grier," Dane said again. "I would speak with you."

The tears streamed down Grier's face as she leaned against the door, putting her hands onto as if to touch Dane on the other side. God, she missed him so badly, but she knew he only wanted to speak with her about what she'd done.

She didn't want to hear it.

"Nay," she said. "I will not unbolt it and I will not hear you tell me again how I have betrayed you. I have heard enough. I did not do it and I will go to my grave swearing that I have done nothing wrong. It is you who are a faithless soul, unwilling to believe a woman with true intentions and an even truer heart. You do not deserve me, Dane de Russe, so go away and leave me alone. I do not want to hear you and I do not want to see you. You locked me in here, and here I will stay for the rest of my life. Go away!"

She pounded on the door to punctuate the last two words, breaking down into sobs as she went back over to the chair by the hearth and collapsed in it, weeping. She half-expected him to kick the door down in his anger because she had refused his command, but he didn't. In fact, he didn't touch the door again. Grier didn't know how long she'd been sobbing when she realized there was dead silence on the other side of the door. As she'd asked, he'd gone away, and the realization of it hurt her more deeply than anything ever could.

God help her… he'd done as she'd asked.

… gone.

*

"I am sorry, Charlisa," Dane said. "Grier is still feeling terrible and is unable to come to bid you a farewell, but she told me to wish you a good journey. She shall see you when you return."

Standing in the cold, shadowed bailey as dawn broke, Charlisa was greatly concerned at Dane's words. Grier had been ill for a couple of days and she'd not been allowed to see the woman, per her own request according to Dane. The fact that she was still ill gave Charlisa pause.

"Then mayhap I should not leave," she said. "Dastan and Laria can take Syler home for burial. If Lady de Russe is feeling poorly, then mayhap I am needed most here."

The escort to return Syler to Netherworld Castle, a two-day ride into Powys, was gathered in the outer bailey and preparing to depart. Netherworld Castle was an enclave of English amid the Welsh, and had been for over three hundred years. The House of de Poyer had never lost its Saesneg heritage and, strangely, had historically had very little trouble with its Welsh neighbors. Syler had grown up in that world, and it was to that world he would be returning.

But Dane was determined that the entire family should go, mostly because he didn't want them at Shrewsbury at the moment. They had no idea what had happened with Grier because he hadn't wanted to add to their burden. To know his wife had been part of the raid that had killed Syler would have been too much for them to deal with, and Dane simply didn't wish to burden them.

But that wasn't entirely true.

There was a greater part of him that didn't want the shame of having a traitor for a wife, so until he could decide how to deal with Grier, it was best to keep up the fa?ade that she was simply ill and had taken to her bed. That was the story he would maintain. At the moment, he considered this a family problem, and a family problem it would remain.

"That is not necessary," he said after a moment. "I am here, as are Willie and Boden. We can accomplish whatever needs to be done, so do not worry. It is more important that you be with your family. Syler deserves that respect."

"Are you certain?"

"I am."

Charlisa looked to Dastan, who nodded his head to confirm Dane's words. It was their duty to take Syler home, so Charlisa relented. She wasn't happy about it, but she relented.

"Will you tell Lady de Russe that I will pray for her good health, then?" she said. "I am so very sorry I cannot bid her farewell in person."

Dane smiled weakly. "She is sorry, too," he said. "Godspeed, my lady. Safe travels."

With a bittersweet smile, Charlisa was forced to say her farewells to Dane and turn for the carriage as her husband moved in to help her climb into it. Dane stood back as Dastan and William helped both Charlisa and Laria into the fortified carriage, a wooden and iron cab built specifically to securely transport women and children.

It was a Shrewsbury cab, an older wagon that had spent all day yesterday with the wheelwright so he could fix the axles and shore up the wheels. It hadn't been used in a couple of decades, at least, but this morning, it was fresh and ready to traverse the bumpy roads to Wales.

Dane could only imagine that the cab, at one time, had transported Grier and her mother in days gone by. It was yet another thing to remind him of her. He watched Dastan secure the cab, silently observing as William went back to the flatbed wagon to ensure that Syler's coffin was secure. He tested the ropes one last time, which had been tested already by Dastan, Boden, and even Dane, all of them making sure Syler was secure for his final trip home.

As Dane's gaze lingered on the coffin, he couldn't help the guilt he felt, knowing how the man had died. Knowing that Grier had a hand in the man's death was something Dane didn't ever think he'd shake. He'd spent the past two days agonizing over it, alternately enraged at Grier and then wondering if he'd been unfair about it. She'd denied any involvement, swearing to God, and the truth was that Dane had some doubt. But the evidence was overwhelming, in his opinion. Even as the escort pulled out, and the fortified cab moved past him, followed by the wagon bearing Syler's coffin, all Dane could think about was Grier.

The entire situation had him in knots.

"How is your lady wife?"

The question came from Boden, who had walked up to stand beside him. Dane glanced at his brother.

"She is ill," he said.

"Have you at least sent for a physic?" Boden pressed. "It has been a couple of days, has it not? Mayhap, she needs to see a physic."

Dane simply shook his head. "She will heal."

That was all he said, but Boden knew he was lying. He knew something was wrong, although he didn't know what, exactly, it was.

Something serious was amiss.

Lady de Russe's mysterious affliction had started when Boden had handed Dane the letter that the old serving woman had given him, and he had been there when Dane had read it and then fled into the keep. In fact, he'd followed him. But once Dane had located Grier, he'd slammed the door in Boden's face and through the thick door, Boden hadn't been able to hear much of the conversation, but he had heard the tones– Dane's threatening growl and Grier's hysterical sobs.

Something was happening.

Boden had been very concerned, but he wasn't sure it was any of his business. If Dane had wanted him to know, he would have told him, so Boden reluctantly headed out of the keep, only to stop near the entry when the door to the duchess' solar flew open and Dane appeared, dragging Grier out by her wrist.

Grier had been weeping deeply as Dane continued to drag her up the stairs in a stone-cold manner that had shocked Boden. He'd never seen his brother behave so. Dane was always the congenial one, always the tactful one, so to see him treating his wife with such anger was completely out of character for him.

And no one had seen Lady de Russe since that unhappy incident.

Therefore, Boden was more solicitous than he usually was. Something was terribly wrong with Dane and he wanted to know what it was. As Dane began to walk away, William came up beside Boden.

"If the weather holds, they should make it in a less than two days," he said.

Boden's mind was still on Dane, his gaze lingering on his brother. "What are you talking about?"

"Dastan's party," William clarified. "If the weather holds, they should make good time. The roads are not too terrible this time of year."

Boden nodded, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. William peered at him. "What is wrong with you?" he demanded.

Boden looked at him, knowing he'd been distracted. He was torn between giving William a truthful answer or a benign lie. He settled for the truth. William may have been foolish, but he was a trustworthy fool, and a smart one.

Boden had no one else to turn to.

"I think we have a problem, Willie," he said quietly, his gaze lingering on Dane as the man made his way towards the keep.

William frowned. "What problem?"

Boden turned to him. "Swear to me this goes no further."

"I swear it."

Boden believed him, but he was still hesitant. It was difficult to put his concerns into words. He didn't want to sound like a worrisome old woman.

"Two days ago, I was at the gatehouse when I was approached by Lady de Russe's maid," he began. "You know the woman we picked up in Welshpool? The old cow with the yellow teeth? The woman handed me a letter that she said was written by the duchess. She told me to make all due haste to give it to Dane. Before I could question her further, she disappeared out of the gates and lost herself in the town. So, I went to find Dane and gave him the letter. The look on his face when he read it… Willie, I cannot describe it. I have never seen an expression like that in my entire life."

William was greatly intrigued. "What happened?"

Boden threw up a hand in exasperation. "He ran into the keep," he said. "He was hunting for Lady de Russe and when he found her, she was in one of the smaller solars. I think it is the one the chatelaine uses. As I went to follow him into the chamber, he slammed the door in my face and all I could hear was his threatening tone and Lady de Russe's sobs. The last I saw of her, Dane was dragging her up to their chamber, and no one has seen her for two days. Willie… I know Dane would never hurt the woman, but…"

William was beside himself with concern and dismay. "Of course he would not," he hissed. "But you must have some concern about it if you are so worried about all of this. Why would you ever think Dane could hurt a woman?"

Boden sighed heavily. "You would not know this, but Dane's father by blood was an abuser," he said, lowering his voice. "I have heard tale of him. Guy Stoneley was a bastard of a man. He beat Dane's mother and aunts, from what I have been told, and did even worse things to them. He was a horrible excuse for a man, and he was alive until Dane was seven or eight years old. Until my father came into Dane's life, Guy was the only example Dane had. Although I cannot believe Dane would ever raise a hand to a woman, his father had that vicious streak in him. It is possible that Dane does, too, only he has never given in to it. What I saw… what I heard… with Lady de Russe concerns me greatly."

Now William was filled with the same apprehension riddling Boden. "What do we do?"

Boden glanced up at the keep, up at the windows of the very room where Lady de Russe was supposed to be. After a moment, he simply shook his head.

"I do not know what happened, but I do know that we cannot stand by if Lady de Russe is in need of help," he said. "I have been thinking to ask Dane what is amiss to see if I can help. Something is horribly wrong and if I can help, I want to. While I speak with Dane, mayhap you can slip into the keep and knock on the door of the master's chamber. See if Lady de Russe even answers you."

William's expression was full of anxiety. "And if she does not?"

Boden sighed heavily. "I do not know," he said. "Let me see if I can get to the bottom of this with Dane, but if I cannot, we may have to send for my father. I do not know what else to do."

William shook his head. "But your father is ill, Boden," he said. "Traveling will be very difficult for him."

"Then we send for your father," Boden said. "I will send for Uncle Matthew. And Trenton, too. Mayhap, Trenton can help if we cannot. He and Dane have always been extremely close. In any case, I intend to speak to Dane about it now. While I have him occupied, see if you can get an answer from Lady de Russe."

William nodded firmly. "I will."

"And do not let Dane know that I have told you any of this. It is best if he thinks you are ignorant."

William grinned that impish, flashy grin he was so famous for. "That will not be difficult. I am the ignorant sort."

"God only knows how true that is."

It looked as if it was about to turn into fisticuffs, as it so often did with the pair, but Boden broke down in snorts and William slapped him on the head in an affectionate gesture. Together, the two of them headed for the keep, anticipating what was to come between the Duke of Shrewsbury and his lady wife.

In truth, neither one of them was particularly eager to get at the truth.

But it had to be done.