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d’Olivet.”
    Letting
go of both Meadowlark’s reins and her cap, he gripped both her arms and lifted
her to her toes. “What is the meaning of this?  What fool idea got in your
female head that you would venture this far from home in such a pitiful
masquerade?”
    “It
wasn’t pitiful,” she defiantly snapped. “I didn’t have time for my best
stitches. No one else but you would have accosted me.”
    “And
just where were you headed?”
    There
was no hope for it. Isabeau briefly closed her eyes and licked her lips. “I was
on my way to the Sisters of Saint Ignatius.”
    “The
convent?” His anger turned to astonishment. “For what purpose?”
    “Why,
to take vows?  What other reason?”
    He
recaptured the reins and began to usher her back to the road. “What other
reason could there be?  Do you know how far the convent is?  You have
another full day’s ride. On your own?  I wager you have never slept alone
beneath the stars in your pampered life. And you thought to go such a
distance?”
    At
the road’s edge, he threw her up into the saddle and gave the reins to
Carstairs. “I don’t believe you. In fact, there is little about your tale that
I credit. A lady of gentle birth taking to the road without escort?  In
the guise of courier?  We will go to Olivet and verify your story.”
    Isabeau
rode in silence. She gripped the saddle until her fingers turned white and her
nails cut into the leather. What was she to do now?  She would not only
have to face Simon’s punishment but now she had brought Bennington’s wrath down
about her ears. He thought she had brought Malak to a dire end. He had little
reason to trust her or show her mercy.
    She
tried to remember the tales her father had told her of Donovan’s heroic
exploits. How his battle campaigns had brought victory in the name of King
Edward III. He fought without fear. His battle-plans were without flaws. He
meted out justice with a cool and relentless hand.
    Though
only in his twenty-seventh year, he had worn the mantel and responsibilities of
Earl of Bennington for nearly a decade. His father had fallen in battle,
fighting for the king and Donovan became liege lord of Isabeau’s father as well
as the other noblemen in the region. His every action had become legend among
his people as with every mission, he exceeded his father’s deeds. Where some
knights might go tourneying -- adding prestige and riches -- Bennington went to
battle.
    Was
this a man to show leniency to an impostor? 
    Then
she remembered Christian. She felt a bittersweet smile curve the corner of her
mouth. The black-haired three-year-old had been a miniature of his father. The
boy had adored his much-absent parent as much as the puppy the man had given
him. A puppy the fierce warrior had brought across the waters from Normandy.
    All
too soon, Isabeau recognized landmarks close to Olivet. The very air seemed as
oppressive as Simon’s rule. While not overly hot, the hazy sky teased the farmers
with a hint of rain that the clouds refused to release. She felt disheartened
not only at her return, but also at the realization she had not covered as much
ground as she had thought. Simon’s fury at her attempt to escape would know no
bounds. She would be lucky if she survived this day.
    But
she was of Olivet. Determination stirred.    
    Straightening
her spine, she called out desperately at her captor’s back, “my lord?”
    For
several heartbeats, she thought he was going to ignore her but then he slowed
the pace of his horse to easily fall in line with her.
    “Yes,
milady?” he asked with a sardonic crook to his brow, the white line prominent
in the sun.
    “I
would ask a boon of you.”
    There
was no humor in the laugh that rolled out of his mouth. “You are a bold little
bit. And what would this boon be?”
    “I
would ask that you allow me to enter the gates of Olivet without my—present
costume. I would not wish to—to disrupt the manor any more than it will