Lord Deverill's Heir by Catherine Coulter (books to read for 13 year olds .txt) 📕

Justin. Thank God the passage had not caved in. She thought of her husband and calmed. She must be patient. She wiped her hands across her forehead and saw in the flickering candlelight traces of smeared blood. How odd, she thought, for she hadn’t felt any pain at all.

A falling stone had cut into her scalp, and now her hair was matted with blood. Better her hair than dripping off her nose. She laughed. That was better. Justin would come. Everything would be all right.

The silence was a heavy weight. The minutes stretched out endlessly.

Slowly she crawled to the center of the small cell. The sand floor was strewn with jagged pieces of stone, each positioned, it seemed, to poke and cut her palms and knees. She gritted her teeth against the sharp jabs. Carefully she cleared a small space and sat up, lifting the candle to look about her. The doorway looked as if it had vomited stone, leaving only a small space at the very top. She remembered the sound of collapse from the wall beside her, and carefully brought the candle about.

The breath caught in her throat, then spurted free. She screamed, a piercing, horrified sound that echoed back to her. Amid the fallen stone, stretched out toward her like death beckoning from hell, was a skeleton’s hand. The bony fingers nearly touched her skirt. She scrambled back on her heels and closed her eyes, fighting down another scream. The image of a cowled monk, his head and face covered in a rough woolen robe, filled her mind.

She forced her eyes open and gazed again at the grotesque curling fingers. Slowly she raised the candle and forced herself to look into the hollow created by the collapsing wall. The skeleton’s outstretched arm was attached to a body. It lay on its side, facing away from her, yet the head was twisted nearly backward, its eye sockets staring at her, but there were no eyes to see her. Broken teeth hung loosely in the gaping mouth. A white peruke was askew atop its fleshless head.

Arabella shuddered, gooseflesh rising on her arms. The remains of a long-dead monk would have been less terrifying. She felt a ghastly chill, the formless cold sweep of death.

For several moments she fought silently to force her courage to the forefront. As if to prove to herself that she wasn’t a coward, she reached out her fingers and touched the filthy worm-eaten velvet sleeve that covered the skeleton’s arm. How strange, she thought, it was still soft to the touch. She looked more closely. It was the skeleton of a man, dressed in a dark green coat and velvet breeches that fitted below the knees. She remembered as a child that her father had worn such a style.

The man could not have been buried more than twenty years in his ancient tomb. She leaned closer and saw a gaping hole over the man’s chest. It gave witness to his manner of death. At least he’d been dead before he’d been entombed.

It required a great effort of will for Arabella to slip her fingers into the coat pockets. Perhaps the man must have had some paper, some document to tell who he was. The pockets were empty. She drew a deep breath and plunged her hand into his breeches pocket. Her fingers closed around a small square of folded paper. Slowly she drew it out and sat back on her heels.

She unfolded the paper and saw that it was a letter. The ink was so faded with age that she had to hold the candle dangerously close to its yellowed edges.

She managed to make out the date—1789. The month had become illegible over the years. She looked down at the body of the letter and wanted to cry out in vexation, for it was written in French. With frustrating slowness she translated the letter word by word. She read: My beloved Charles, even though he knows of the growing unrest, the now violent revolts of the rabble against us, he forces me to come. He keeps my baby here to ensure my return to England. You know he is furious over what he believes to be my family’s treachery. He wants the remainder of my promised dowry. Listen, my love, do not worry, for I have a plan that will free us forever from him. Once in France, I shall travel to the château . . .

Try as she might, Arabella could not make out the next few lines. They blurred into shadowy shapes. Who was this Charles, anyway? And this woman? She shook her head and skipped the smudged lines.

Though our little Gervaise cannot escape with us, I have learned to bear the pain of separation. At least he will know safety with my brother.

Josette will post this, my last letter to you. Soon, my love, we will be together again. I know that we can escape him and rescue Elsbeth. We shall be rich, my darling, rich from his greed. A new life. Freedom. I trust in God and in you. Magdalaine.

Arabella sat quietly with the letter laying loosely in her fingers. She felt as if Magdalaine had come to her and unraveled the tangled, poignant threads of her short life. This man, Charles, was Magdalaine’s lover.

Gervaise was their child. He was not the Comte de Trécassis, but a bastard. She reeled back then as it struck her. Magdalaine was also Elsbeth’s mother. Dear God. Elsbeth was his half-sister. Oh God, did he know? Surely not, even he could not be so evil. Of course, she was aware of the likeness of their features. But now she no longer saw it as the mere resemblance of cousins, but the deep inherited traits of brother and sister.

Poor Elsbeth. Dear God, she had to protect her sister. She couldn’t let her ever find out that she had made love with her own brother. It would destroy her.

Arabella jerked as the truth hit her. Her