Sanctuary of Roses by Colleen Gleason Read Free Book Online Page B

like horses,” she managed to say just before he
wrapped one powerful arm around her waist, lifting her easily into
the air. A faint shriek emitted from her mouth, surprising her
before she pulled herself under control. “There is no need—”
    Her words were stopped as he set her
none-too-gently on the back of the dancing stallion. Before she
could gather her bearings, she felt him leap into the saddle behind
her. Suddenly, a long, firm thigh slid along her legs, which rested
over one side of the saddle, and two hard arms enclosed her on
either side. Madelyne fought to control a whimper of nervousness as
the horse responded to the command of Mal Verne’s legs, nearly
leaping forward in its impatience to be off.
    As the destrier stepped eagerly into a fast
trot, Madelyne was jostled backward by the momentum, back against
the hard wall of man. Her breath caught in her throat as she became
aware that she was completely enclosed by Gavin of Mal Verne,
completely in his arms and completely in his power…and they rode
from the gates of Lock Rose Abbey.

Five

    The abbey was hours behind them and the sun
dropping in the west before Gavin spoke directly to Madelyne. She
seemed to have overcome, or at least concealed, her mislike and
fear of riding.
    When he leaned forward to speak into her
ear, she straightened as if startled. “Tell me, Lady Madelyne, how
did you come to the abbey, and leave your father to believe you and
your mother drowned?”
    She was quiet for a moment, in a silence he
had come to expect from her—as if she took the time to carefully
measure her words in response to certain questions. Her hands,
stained from the boiled rose petals, clutched the pommel in front
of her, and the corner of her veil flapped in his face as they
jounced along at a brisk trot.
    “I do not know how that particular story
came about—I was only ten summers, and there was much my mother did
not tell me. ’Tis likely the man-at-arms who helped us to escape
created the tale of our drowning.”
    “Escape?”
    “Aye, ’twas an escape from my father.” He
felt her move against him as she drew in a deep breath. “My father
would fly into obscene rages when he prayed, and when he did, he
oft beat and whipped my mother. One can understand why she would
seek to escape him and that life…and of course, she would not leave
me behind.”
    Gavin fought back a resurgence of loathing
for Fantin de Belgrume as he raked a hand through his shaggy,
overlong hair. Any man who would hit a woman was a coward, though
verily there were many who did. There was no law against a man
beating his wife—she was his property and his to do with as he
wished—but Gavin could not stomach the thought of raising a hand to
a weaker being.
    Regardless, de Belgrume must have struck out
at his wife once too often. Yet, ’twas not a common thing, women
leaving their husbands—for there were few places for a gentlelady
to go. And if a woman did leave her husband, she could be
rightfully returned to him.
    And, Gavin reminded himself ruefully, what
was seen through the eyes of a ten-year-old girl could be
misconstrued and misunderstood. If there was a man-at-arms who
dared to assist in their escape, likely that man had a deeper, more
intimate involvement with the lady of Tricourten than he
should.
    Gavin’s mouth twisted and his chin jutted
forward in remembrance of how it felt to be a husband who had been
betrayed. ’Twas not any mean feat to comprehend how a man could be
driven to such rage as to hit his wife.
    But how did they come to the abbey, and what
of the mother?
    He leaned forward again in order to speak
over the sound of thumping hooves and the ebullient conversations
of his men. Her veil slapped into his face again, and he had the
urge to yank it from her head so that his vision would not be
obscured…and so that he could see the color of her hair.
    Gavin sat back, upright, without asking his
question. The color of her hair ? From where had that