Page 92 of The Saxon Lord's Unwanted Bride
She shook her head, blinking back tears of shame.
Was he here? How she must disgust him! She looked around the chamber, but she only saw the stone walls of the chamber—walls which pulsed to a rhythm, bowing toward her, closing in to confine her once more. She shrank back.
“No,” she croaked, “don’t let him near me.”
“He’ll never hurt you again,” Agatha said. Beauvisage is dead.”
He may be dead but his stench still clung to her. What she had done—what she’d let him do—Harald would be repulsed by it. Even Agatha would turn away in disgust if she knew. But she must confess her sins.
She pushed the nun’s hand away.
“Agatha, I must leave.”
“Nay, Lady,” Agatha said. “You cannot leave until you’re recovered.”
“You don’t understand, Agatha. I’ve sinned—so dreadfully. You would hate me if you knew.”
Agatha sighed. “Sweet lady—we know everything.”
“No!”
“Aye. You talked much in your sleep while I tended to you,” the nun said. “I know about Beauvisage—what he did. And how he died.”
Agatha’s hold on her tightened, as if anticipating an attempt to struggle free. But weak, and in pain, Eloise was no match for her, and she let her body go limp.
“How you can bear to look at me, let alone touch me?”
“Sweet one, you committed no sin. You did what was necessary, to save a young boy and your unborn child. You’ll not be condemned for sacrificing yourself to spare others.”
“But I’ll be judged by those around me.”
“Who in the world has the right to judge another? We don’t judge you—we admire your courage. We love you—and Violette is anxious to see you recovered.”
“Violette.”
“Aye, the child has been helping me tend to you,” Agatha said. “Now, you must eat, to build your strength—then I shall let you sleep.”
Eloise complied in silence while Agatha fed her spoonfuls of broth—her own recipe from Morigeaux.
“Drink this.” Agatha handed her a goblet. Eloise recognized the bitter taste of the sleeping draught Agatha had given her on her arrival. How many days had she been here?
“How long…”
“You’ve been here almost a fortnight,” came the reply. “Sleep now and we’ll speak again tomorrow.”
A fortnight? So much could happen in a fortnight. How fared the boy, Alfred? Where was Violette?
And what of the child she carried? If it was a girl, she could be brought up as Violette had been raised—and Eloise could remain at the convent with her. But if it were a boy—what could be done for him? Once again fear for her child plagued her mind before the draught took effect. The colors faded and her mind yielded to the darkness.
The following morning she woke with a new purpose. The child she carried would be her salvation. But first she must make her confession to the child she had borne—to Violette, who would soon have a brother or sister.
The room appeared smaller in the morning light, its thick stone walls bringing forth memories of her imprisonment. Panic rose within her—she had to get outside.
She sat up, limbs aching, and drew back the bedfur to reveal her arms and legs, covered in bruises. One of her feet was tightly bound, and needles of pain shot through her deformed arm which had been bandaged from elbow to shoulder.
The door opened.
“Lady Eloise! You must take care!”
