“What do you wish to discuss?” she asked as he fell into step beside her.
“I will tell you when we reach the great hall.”
The hall . A silent sigh of relief rippled through her. There would be plenty of other folk there. At least he was not taking her somewhere secluded, such as his solar.
They reached the landing, and with curious gallantry, he gestured for her to go ahead of him down the stairs to the hall. Most of the tables from the evening meal had been cleared back against the walls, allowing room for the servants to lay their straw pallets to sleep for the night. Three tables had been left standing near the dais, and mercenaries sat at them. Five thugs cast bets on a staring contest between two burly contestants. At another table, four men drank, talked, and laughed, not caring to caution their rough language or lower their voices.
As Claire’s gaze skimmed the hall, she saw most of the reed torches along the far walls had been extinguished. Children were sleeping in the dark corner, several dogs lying alongside their pallets.
Tye motioned to the hearth. A fire blazed, its golden glow warm and inviting. Two high-backed chairs had been pushed up to the hearthside. A table nestled between them, set with a wine jug, two goblets, and a plate laden with two thick slices of cake.
“Please. Sit,” Tye said.
She did, sitting close to the chair’s edge. The faint scent of ginger wafted over the tang of wood smoke. Was that ginger cake on the plate? Cook’s special treat, made from a recipe that had been passed down through the women in Cook’s family? Claire’s favorite? How had Tye managed that, and why would he have bothered?
You know why. Tonight, he will demand more , her conscience taunted.
Fighting a fresh wave of lightheadedness along with a tingle of dread—aye, ’twas surely dread, not excitement—Claire clasped her sweat-dampened hands on her lap. He might demand more, but she would refuse him. ’Twould take far more than a piece of cake to sway her.
Tye dropped into the other chair, leaned against the carved back, and propped his left booted foot sideways on his right knee—a posture that made him look both relaxed and controlled. The fingers of his left hand trailed over the smooth, polished arm of the chair; the small, deliberate caresses roused the image of him brushing his fingertips over her bare skin.
Claire stared straight ahead at the fire and tried to remember how many pairs of shoes were in her linen chest. Counting would help to rein in her wanton thoughts.
“You are ready to run, I see.”
“Run?” She clasped her hands tighter. “Nay.”
“As I said earlier, I wish only to talk. Anything more would require a far softer surface beneath you than a wooden chair.”
Mercy . When Tye said things like that , counting shoes most certainly didn’t help. “You speak very brazenly this evening, milord.”
“Every evening, actually.”
’Twas likely the truth. She smiled, while the scent of cake teased her. How shameful that her mouth watered with the remembered taste of the moist, spicy delicacy.
“Would you like some cake?”
Oh, indeed she would, but she mustn’t be too eager. “What kind is it?”
His grin didn’t waver, as if he knew exactly why she was delaying in taking her portion. “’’Tis ginger cake, with plenty of raisins. The cook mentioned this is one of your favorites. I understand you also like apple tarts with custard and—”
“You were discussing me with Cook?”
“Not you in particular.” He picked up the plate and offered it to her. Claire delayed one more moment, and then could fight the temptation no longer. She took the closest slice of cake. She bit into it, sighing as the spicy and sweet flavors tumbled into her mouth. Tye took the other piece, bit off a mouthful, and chewed. “Very good,” he murmured.
“Mmm.” Claire agreed. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him eat. He didn’t cram the cake into his mouth and gobble it, but ate it a mouthful at a time, savoring it. When his tongue slid out to lick a crumb from the corner of his mouth, her mind immediately shot back to the day in her chamber when he’d licked the spoon, over and over in a most sinful manner. She fought to keep her thoughts under control. “You were saying?” she finally asked. “About Cook?”
“I visited the kitchens yesterday to see what kind of state they were in,” Tye answered. “She went on and on about the leak in the thatched roof near the back wall, bemoaned her worn pots and pans, and pointed out the need for new pantry shelves. In her opinion, the kitchen is not to the standard it should be for a castle of this size and renown. She insisted she could make much finer fare with better cookware.”
Fighting a pang of regret, Claire downed another mouthful of the cake. Cook had been asking Lady Brackendale for months to have the roof fixed and for new pots and pans. Her ladyship had promised to see to the matters, but caught up in her grief and despair, had done naught.
“I promised Cook that once Wode is formally awarded to me, I will fix the thatch and buy her whatever cooking implements she needs. I could see she was delighted, although she tried to continue the ruse of being indignant about my takeover here. Today, when I stopped by the kitchens, she presented me with the ginger cake. She barely smiled when she pushed the plate toward me, but I could see she wanted me to taste it.” Finished eating his cake, he brushed crumbs from this tunic. “I did my best to sound appreciative of her talents. If I am lucky, she might surprise me with another treat tomorrow.”
With a sigh, Claire finished the rest of her slice. “You are not only bold, but devious,” she said, licking a bit of cake from her finger.
“Sometimes, ’tis necessary to be devious. It got me into Wode, and I am here to stay.” Tye watched her tongue glide over her skin. His gaze darkened and filled with a hunger that made her quickly drop her hand back down into her lap.
“Tell me about Delwyn de Lysonne, Claire.”
Her eyes widened. “How do you know about—?”
“He arrived at the castle gates earlier today. He brought a letter from your sister.”
Claire could barely contain her joy. “Johanna is so good at sending letters. She must have realized, with the snowstorm, that I was still at Wode—”
“Still at Wode? Do you not live here as a ward of Lady Brackendale?”
“I do. However, I decided weeks ago, for…personal reasons, to leave Wode and go and live with my aunt. I was meant to travel to her keep, providing the weather was good, on the day of the siege.”
“Lucky for me, then, that the snow fell and I chose that day to attack,” Tye said with a wink.
Lucky ? Goodness . Trying to ignore an inappropriate tingle of delight, Claire said, “I must write to Johanna. Once the situation at Wode is settled, of course.”
Tye nodded, but the piercing heat of his stare didn’t diminish. “You did not answer my question yet. Delwyn—”
“He is a friend, a squire at the keep where Johanna lives as a ward.”
“He spoke fondly of you.”
“I have known him since we were children. He has delivered every letter from my sister.”
Tension suddenly seemed to define Tye’s posture. “Is he courting you?”
Shocked laughter bubbled from Claire. “Nay.”
“He seemed the perfect man to catch your eye. Young, comely, and of fine noble breeding.”
In the flickering light and shadows of the fire, Tye’s features appeared hewn from stone. If she didn’t know better, she would think he was jealous. “If Delwyn is courting anyone,” she said, “I hope ’tis Johanna.”
Tye’s gaze didn’t waver. Not so much as a flicker of his eyelashes.
“I have always thought he and Johanna well suited.
They are close to the same age. They share many friends. I have encouraged my sister to accept his advances, and I believe I have been successful.”
“’Tis the truth?”
“If you have read my letters from Johanna, as you have claimed to have done, then you would know I am telling the truth.”
The silence between them persisted, marked by the pops and hisses of the fire. Then, Tye smiled. His crooked grin held such devastating charm, Claire’s head spun. She must still be feeling the effects of the wine she’d drunk a short while ago, or else Tye was entirely responsible for her giddiness. She grabbed hold of one arm of the chair to steady herself.
“I have read only a few of her letters,” he finally said. “There has, as you know, been a great deal to accomplish in the last few days.” Before Claire could say a word, he added quietly, “I am also a slow reader. It takes me a while to make out the words.”
’Twas a rare admission from such a proud man. “If I may ask, who taught you to read? ’Tis not common for…” a man of your ilk , her thoughts continued. But, she didn’t want to offend him. Not when she had such an ideal opportunity to learn more about him. Frowning, she tried to find the right words.
“For a rogue and a bastard, you mean?”
She bit down on her lip. “I did not mean—”
“If you must know, a wealthy French widow taught me. Her name was Georgette. I was her much younger lover, a role I greatly enjoyed and lived to the fullest.”
Judging by his reckless grin and the teasing gleam in his eyes, Tye had hoped to shock her. He had. Yet, Claire couldn’t ignore a pang of sadness, to know he’d been the plaything of a rich woman and subject to her whims. Had he let himself be used in such a way because he’d believed he had no other choice in life? Mayhap he’d desperately needed Georgette’s generosity to eat and have a place to sleep. Claire shouldn’t care to know his reasons, but she did.
“In the afternoons,” he was saying, “after I had satisfied all of her desires, Georgette liked to sit in her bed, open to a page in a book, and teach me words. She had a small collection of leather-bound tomes that had become hers after her husband, a spice merchant, died. She told me that teaching me to read was her gift to me. She said her husband’s ability to read had helped him in deals with less-than-honorable buyers, who had added clauses into contracts without telling him beforehand. He was able to point out the additions and correct the documents. Likewise, she insisted that being able to read would help me avoid unfavorable deals in my life. If I wished, I could become more than a mere sword for hire.”
Georgette had obviously cared for Tye, otherwise she wouldn’t have bothered to teach him. “How long ago was this?” Claire asked. “Do you still keep in contact with her?”
His smile tinged with regret. “She died. She caught a cough that worsened and would not go away, no matter how much she spent on visits from the local healer and foul-smelling poultices. In her last days, I simply held her, lying next to her in the bed, while she shivered and coughed. She died in my arms.”
“I am sorry,” Claire whispered.
“So am I. I will not soon forget her.” He shook his head, as if to draw himself out of that sad moment. “Since her passing, I have not spent much time practicing my reading. ’Tis why I am still slow.”
“Did you read Johanna’s letter that arrived today?” Claire asked. She hadn’t seen it yet. Mayhap he intended to keep it, along with the others he’d confiscated, rather than give it to her.
“Aye.” He reached to his hip, lifted the edge of his tunic, and withdrew a rolled parchment tucked into the belt of his hose. He handed the letter to her.
Her fingers closed around the parchment, warmed by his body. The broken edge of the wax seal touched her palm. She shouldn’t be angry that he’d read it first. After all—
“I had to be sure the letter was not a ruse,” Tye answered, without a hint of apology. “Moreover, there might have been news in there of my father.”
She set the letter on her lap. “Was there?”
“Nay.”
“Then you read my personal correspondence for naught.”
“I disagree, Kitten. I learned about the new gowns your sister purchased from a shop in the nearby village, and the four pairs of shoes that she bought to go with them.”
Claire giggled. “She does like to shop.”
Tye rolled his eyes. “And go on and on about the color and design of her purchases.” As Claire’s laughter faded, he leaned forward, picked up the wine jug, and poured some of the dark red liquid into a goblet. He handed it to her.
“Thank you.” She wouldn’t drink much; she was lightheaded enough already. However, she’d linger as long as she could with Tye, for ’twas a welcome change from the solitude of her chamber. Through talking with him, she’d also glean fresh details about him to include in the journal.
She sipped from the goblet. The drink was not wine, as she’d expected, but a piquant, fruity liqueur.
“Good?” Tye asked, taking a sip as well.
“Delicious. What is it?”
“Blackberry liqueur. I found in the cellar.”
She stilled, the goblet halfway to her lips. Her stomach knotted. Silently scolding herself for her obvious shock, she lifted the vessel to her mouth and drank. “The storage room below the keep?” she asked, proud that her voice didn’t wobble.
Tye’s dark brows rose. “There is another?”
She laughed, more brightly she’d intended. “There is only the one. However, if Lord Brackendale had been able to convince her ladyship otherwise, there would have been several. He loved his liqueurs. He purchased most of them from a monastery a few leagues from here. The monks use the fruit grown in their gardens and orchards to make wines and liqueurs, which they sell at a stall in the local market. His lordship had amassed quite a collection.”
“Indeed, he had.”
After swallowing another sip, Claire glanced down into the goblet. As her innards heated with the potent drink, sadness tugged at her, for she missed his lordship: his boisterous laugh, his kindness, and his wry sense of humor. She couldn’t imagine him being very pleased that one of his prized and expensive liqueurs had been opened and enjoyed by a rogue who’d seized the castle.
Aware that Tye was watching her, she looked up, a little too fast. Her head whirled a moment before her vision cleared, but the knot in her belly remained. If he had been down to the cellar, he might have discovered the hidden door. She had to find out, and in a way that wouldn’t alert him to the fact that the room was more than a place to store drink.
Tightening her grip on the goblet’s stem, she asked, “What else did you find in the cellar?”
“Casks of ale. Barrels of wine.” He shrugged. “Plenty of cobwebs as well.”
He hadn’t mentioned the secret door. Had he found it, or not? Claire scrambled to think of a way to continue her questioning and not make him suspicious.
“Why are you so curious about the storage room?” Tye asked.
Oh, God . Forcing a careless shrug, she said, “No particular reason. I have only been down there once. There are still some chambers in the keep that I have not visited.”
“I have seen most of them.” His tone hardened, as though in warning. Was he telling her that he knew about the cellar door and that if she hoped to escape through it, that such a plan wouldn’t work?
Dizziness taunted her again. Whatever he was thinking, she must convince him otherwise. “A lord does need to know every chamber of his fortress. Likewise, he should know the history of his keep, all the way back to the day masons started building it.”
Reaching over, Tye picked up the wine jug. “I know the history of Wode.”
“You do?”
His lips thinned. “The parts that matter to me.”
A cry for caution sifted through her. And yet, she could not stop the words from tumbling from her mouth. “Those parts, surely, mean more when considered as parts of the whole.”
In the midst of pouring himself more liqueur, he paused. The wine goblet hovered, firelight glinting off the engraved silver surface.
“I see the history of this fortress as if ’tis a tapestry,” she said. “If some of the threads are missing, or if there are holes in the fabric, the tapestry is incomplete.”
He finished filling his goblet and offered more liqueur to her. She shook her head. He set the jug down, the tautness not leaving his features; his hand resting on the arm of his chair tightened into a fist.
“You speak of the history of this place as though every single year is significant,” he said.
“Exactly right. Each year has contributed to making this fortress what it is today.”
He sneered. “What matters to me— all that matters—is that Wode used to belong to my father. I conquered it. I won it through victory in battle. ’Tis mine now, and will remain mine. Do not believe there is more, Kitten, for there is not.”
***
Her arms crossed, Veronique leaned against the wall in the inky shadows just inside the forebuilding, out of view of the folk in the hall. She watched Tye and the beauty sitting with regal poise near him, her hair shining like the purest gold in the firelight and her skin as pale as fresh snow.
Envy uncoiled within Veronique like a waking viper. She examined Claire’s gown, noting every feminine curve and swell beneath the fine quality fabric. Once, years ago, Veronique’s figure had been that remarkable, her breasts high and firm, her waist small, her hips generous—quite different to her aging body now that sagged, ached, and required extraordinary care with lotions, herbal potions, and ghastly tonics that made her vomit and left her mouth burning with the taste of rotten apples. But her beauty, aging or not, was the one thing Veronique would never let go, regardless of the cost. Any cost.
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