“Hang on,” Tiny said with amazement. “Be his life mate? How could she be his life mate? She was your father’s life mate. And where were his men?”
“He must have sent his men away, intending to deal with my mother and me himself.” Mirabeau said, then grimaced, and explained, “As for her being his life mate, my uncle could not read or control my mother either. She could have been a life mate to either brother, but chose my father.”
“Smart lady,” Tiny muttered.
Mirabeau sighed. “Perhaps, but I think that is what really drove him mad. That had she but chosen him, he would have had all that my father did.”
“I see.” Tiny nodded solemnly. “Yes, that must have been hard for him to bear. I’m sorry. Go on.”
Mirabeau took a breath herself and swallowed down the pain that always rose in her when she thought on these events. She hadn’t told the tale to anyone since Lucian had come upon her that night, and she’d sobbed the story to him. She found, though, that this time it hurt much less and wondered if it was the passage of time, or because it was Tiny she was finally telling it to. It did still hurt, and tears were crowding her eyes, but she was nowhere near sobbing with the agony of loss she’d suffered.
Mirabeau glanced down, noticed his large hand covering her own on her leg, and wondered when Tiny had put it there, but then she cleared her throat and continued, “My uncle told my mother that if she agreed to be his life mate and backed him up in the story that a roaming group of Roman Catholic vigilantes had killed my father and brothers, he would let me live.”
“Bastard,” Tiny muttered again.
Much to Mirabeau’s amazement, she actually felt a smile twitch at her lips at the angry word and the support behind it. But the desire to smile died quickly as she continued, “I thought my mother would agree. I was silently begging her to, thinking we would find a way to escape later and tell the truth…and I really think she would have had she not spotted me peeking out from the hayloft. She straightened then, her expression determined as she said, ‘No.’
“My uncle was furious. “Not even to save your daughter?” he raged with disbelief, and she suddenly looked serene and stared right at me as she said, “My daughter can save herself. You will not be able to kill Mirabeau. She is strong and brave. She will escape you and carry word of what you have done to the people who can do something about it.”
“She was telling you what to do,” Tiny murmured quietly.
“Yes,” Mirabeau agreed.
“What did your uncle do?” he prompted, when she didn’t immediately continue.
“He roared, ‘I will slaughter her in her bed where she even now lies sleeping,’ and pressed his sword to her throat, but my mother just smiled at me reassuringly over his shoulder, and said, ‘You may try. But I vow you will not succeed, and much as I love my daughter, I will not spend one moment even pretending to be your life mate. I shall never let you touch or think of me in that way.’”
When Mirabeau fell silent as she recalled that moment, Tiny squeezed her hand and asked in a hushed whisper, “And so he killed her?”
Mirabeau shook her head and used her free hand to wipe away the tear that had escaped her. “No. She killed herself.”
“What?” he asked with amazement. “But how? Why?”
Mirabeau shrugged. “The why is because while he couldn’t control her, and they were both immortals, he was still male and stronger. He would have raped and tormented her first, and I would have tried to save her, endangering myself. She knew all this, and so…” Mirabeau took a deep breath. “The moment the last word had left her lips, she caught his hand holding the sword and jerked it toward herself while throwing her head forward, beheading herself on the steel edge.”
“Jesus,” Tiny breathed, then shook his head faintly. “I wouldn’t even have thought that possible. The strength needed to do it, both physically and just in fortitude…”
“We are strong,” Mirabeau said simply, though she had found it all rather shocking at the time. She had never imagined anyone doing that either, but her mother had been like Marguerite, a strong woman capable of doing whatever she put her mind to. And, Mirabeau supposed, her mother had probably seen little to live for with her life mate lying dead at her feet. Finding a life mate was a rare thing, and life could be so lonely when you moved through it without one.
Pushing that thought aside, Mirabeau admitted quietly, “I started to scream when she did it. Fortunately, Fredrique covered my mouth, and my uncle didn’t hear what little sound escaped over his own frustrated roar. We stayed where we were while he ranted madly, but when he left to go find me, we slipped out of the loft. I told Fredrique to make himself scarce and mounted a horse and fled. My uncle’s men were camped in the woods outside the castle walls. They mounted and gave chase when I raced through their camp. I think they might have caught me had Lucian not suddenly appeared. He and my father were both horse enthusiasts and had become good friends. He’d been heading to La Roche to see the new horse. He arrived just as my uncle’s men were about to overtake me.”