Page 119 of Bold Angel
“You mustn’t cry,” she said with false brightness. “’Tis beautiful here, is it not?” She continued to smile for long heartbreaking moments, forcing away thoughts of home, thoughts of Ral and love and her loneliness, until finally Gweneth’s soft red lips began to curl upward.
Caryn reached toward a small stand of bluebells, plucked one and handed it to Gweneth. “See how pretty? The same shade as your eyes.” Her sister was smiling in earnest now, nodding eagerly, searching the ground for more of the precious blue flowers. She spotted a patch some distance away and wandered in that direction. Caryn watched her go, knowing Gweneth’s sadness was forgotten, the pain as fleeting as the butterfly she had started to pursue.
Caryn’s own pain had not altered, searing in its intensity, burning a hole in her heart. For the first time in her life, she felt no joy in her surroundings, no joy in the sunshine, or the blueness of the sky. For the first time ever, she envied her older sister the oblivion of the far-off world in which she lived.
Chapter Twenty-three
Ral glanced toward the big empty bed and the pain in his heart stabbed fiercely. It never left him now, not since the night he had argued with Odo. In truth, it had worsened each day since the doubt had crept in.
He ached for Caryn, thought of her moment by moment as he had from the beginning, only now the ache was dulled neither by an outpouring of spirits nor the blinding haze of his rage.
Sometimes he hated Odo for what he had done, stirring up his anguish, rousing his uncertainties. From dawn of one day to dusk of the next, the doubts never left him, springing up at the oddest times, memories of little things his wife had done or said, things that spoke of her care of him… things Odo would say spoke of love.
He remembered every detail of the time they hadspent together, the way in the beginning she had run to escape their marriage then faced his wrath with such courage; the way afterward he had held her and she had cried against his chest. He remembered the way she had stood beside him, risking her life as she faced the wolves, determined not to leave him. She had braved his anger for Leo, protecting the boy at no small risk to herself. In doing so she had won his admiration, and his respect.
His mouth curved up as he remembered her care of the hall—then her flagrant disregard of it. What courage it had taken to defy him, but in the end she had won the servants’ loyalty and no small amount of his own. He thought of Lynette and how much his taking of the woman had hurt her. Why had she felt such pain if she did not care?
Or mayhap it was the pain he had inflicted that had driven her away from him.
Ral sat down in his chair, his elbows propped on the table, his head bent forward, his fingers laced in his hair. How many times would he think of her, remember the feel of her soft woman’s body? How many times would he dream of her smile, imagine her laughter, or simply the sound of her voice?
How could he feel such despair over the loss of a woman who would betray him?
He sighed into the darkness of the room, lit only by a single, guttering candle. He thought of Eliana, tried to remember the hurt he had felt when he had discovered her evil liaison with her brother. There had been pain then, too. The pain of being duped, of feeling used, of losing something destined to be yours.
But there was none of the anguish he had felt since he had lost Caryn.
And because his feelings were so very different this time, the doubts continued to plague him. He asked himself, would he feel so much grief for a woman capable of such pretense, a woman of so few morals she would take a lover behind his back, dupe him, deceive him, and use him to gain her own ends?
Would he hurt so for a woman such as that? Were his instincts so dulled by his passions that she had led him that far astray?
He heard a slight shuffling sound and lifted his head to see Marta standing in front of the stout wooden table.
“You have suffered much, my lord, but so has she. Are you ready yet to hear the truth?”
His heart skipped at her words then began thudding softly, yet there was wariness in him, too. “What truth?”
“The truth of what happened the night your Caryn betrayed you.”
“She is no longer my—”
“Is she not? Then why is it you grieve so?”
“If you’ve something to say, old woman, then say it or leave me in peace.”
Marta pulled an empty goblet from the folds of her gray linen tunic and set it upon the table. “’Tis the same one your lady wife drank from the eve of your search for the Ferret.”
“If you are saying she was drunk, it matters not. If she cannot be trusted—”
“She was not drunk. She had only but this one goblet. I am saying that she was drugged.”
“Drugged?” He tried to bury the small surge of hope, the indefinable pulse that had not beat in so long, but it would not be still. “You are saying that Geoffrey put something in her wine?”
“’Tis called verosa. Far more than just something. The juice of the plant is dried into small brown cakes and used to deaden pain. When the dose is too strong, it can make a person see things… do things he would not do.”
“You expect me to believe such a tale? What proof have you—and why did you not speak out sooner?”
“Is there a time you would have listened?”
