“She carries a babe. Yer babe.”
Brant wasn’t sure if it was joy or fear that took hold of him. A child? My child? Della carries my heir within her belly? Why would she not tell me?
“We ride?” Gunther asked.
Brant stared blindly at the child. Rab paled and took a step back. When Brant turned to Gunter and Roldan, he noted their weary but willing expressions. “Yea, we leave at once.”
“Do I ready the men, m’lord?” Roldan asked.
“Nay, we ride alone.” Brant swung onto his stallion, nodding at Rab before urging his horse toward the front gate.
“Bring her back, m’lord!” Rab yelled.
Brant stopped outside the castle only long enough to gain Roldan’s directions to the oak tree. None of them wore armor, not having taken the time to put it on. The only weapons they carried were the swords hanging in fleece-lined scabbards, their daggers, and their grim determination to see the countess back safely. Overhead, lightening burst, streaking across the sky to light their way, followed by the booming sound of thunder.
* * * * *
Time wore on until Della had no idea how long she stayed in the cottage. Hours felt like days and days like years. The longer she remained within the walls, the dingier the place appeared. Stuart didn’t let her out of the room, not even to relieve herself. Serilda served as her handmaid, though the woman was hardly a dependable servant.
It was impossible to judge the number of days that passed by the meals they served her, for the food was scarce and unpalatable. She was weak from the lack of nourishment and sleep, but clung to the faint hope that she would someday see Brant again. It gave her strength like nothing else could.
Stuart did not order her legs pricked with the witch’s powder again and she was slowly able to walk. But her body ached, and she was never left completely alone, not even to sleep. If Stuart was not with her in her chamber to keep her in distressed company, then Cedric or Serilda were just outside her door. Any little sound she made, whether it was to stand or simply turn over too loudly on the cot, they were in her room eyeing her like she was trying to escape.
Unable to rest, Della spent hours staring into the orange flames of the fireplace. They reminded her of her fiery husband. She replayed every moment with him in her mind, until each detail was remembered and every memory was emblazoned on her heart. When she closed her eyes, she saw his piercing blue gaze and the slight curl of his half smile.
The more she thought of him, the more she knew she had been wrong about everything—her view on their marriage, her esteem for her cousin, her blind hatred of his people. Brant had been nothing but understanding and kind, and she’d repaid him with every cruel insult she could think of. He’d given her space after her father died, had taken care of her and, when she was ready for him to be, he’d been a gentle lover. And how did she repay him? She’d banished him to Blackwell for it.
Although the image of him was always in her heart, she forced it from her mind. She could not think of him when Stuart was near. Her cousin would see the sadness and would know she longed for Brant. If Stuart suspected the truth of her heart, then she would not be able to save her husband or their child.
Another chair had been brought in and placed next to the table. As Stuart set yet another trencher of unsavory food before her, Della couldn’t help but eye the excessively molded cheese in disdain. She strained to smile, though the motion was tight and felt as if it might crack her face. Her forced pleasantry drained her senses and she was frightened she might make a mistake.
“Stuart?” Della looked at her cousin.
He took a seat across from her, smiling as if they dined like royalty. His eyes glimmered with an innocent light, which still amazed her with its clarity. He nodded gallantly at her, permitting her to speak. “Yea, Della?”
“Did you deliver the missive?” Della refused to look into his eyes for too long. The brown orbs were so familiar and it pained her greatly to gaze into them. They were the same eyes he had turned to her as a child and she wanted to hate him, but she could not find it completely in her heart to do so. There was a deep past between them, so many tears and so much pain. Della wanted to reach into his soul and find the scared, half-starved little boy who’d come to her so lost. She hoped to see a glimmer of that lonely child within the man. Everything between them couldn’t have been an act, could it?
Seeing that he watched her closely, she busied herself by tearing the green and white mold off the cheese. She set it aside on the trencher, forming a small pile. Deciding she was too squeamish to eat, she set it down and picked up her goblet of sour ale.