“So be it.”
Steel rang out—once, twice, a flurry of blows. Something crashed to the ground. As in a nightmare, horror riveted her in place, the desperate fear that her appearance would cause a fatal distraction to Jervaise.
“Be reasonable, Raven.” Bedingfield chuckled. “All hope is lost. What can you possibly hope to gain?”
“What I value most—honor and my lady’s love. For that, I offer you one chance to surrender.”
“Oh, very generous, to be certain. But I aim for more than an honorable execution. Though your offer of mercy is touching, I fear I must decline.”
Again steel shinged, and a man gasped in pain. Able to restrain herself no longer, Alienore eased the door open and peeked inside.
Before her, the poisoner’s laboratory spread like a chamber of horrors. From her limited vantage, an inventory of nightmares lurked. On the table, a glass flask held a teeming mass of hairy spiders. Nearby, a coiled heap of serpents writhed in their enclosure. A long-necked beaker held a swarm of rusty insects with barbed tails.
Sir Bors stood behind the table, before an alchemical apparatus—all coils and tubes—and a flask bubbling with viscous green ichor. Though mail encased his powerful body and a sword hung at his belt, the sorcerer’s hands were empty. At his back, a door opened on a stair that plunged down to blackness. The scuff of feet and the scrape of metal echoed from its depths.
Around the table stalked a knight in black armor, his curved scimitar streaked with crimson. The bodies of the slain lay heaped at his feet.
A paralyzing relief swept through her to see Jervaise whole and alive—and no traitor. But she’d always known that. She sagged against the wall.
“What are your ambitions?” Jervaise’s slitted gaze fixed the alchemist with deadly intent. “What did the king’s traitor sons promise you?”
Bors spread his hands, rings glittering green and black. “They promised nothing that is not already mine by birthright—namely, the duchy our brother left to you.”
In midstep, Jervaise froze, tension etched in every muscle. “Our brother?”
“Our half brother, to be precise. Can it possibly surprise you? Our father abandoned his bastards to fight over his duchy like those scorpions there. Only the strongest will survive.”
“You were behind the counterclaim.” Jervaise eased forward another step, but the other still stood beyond reach.
“Indeed, and who else?” Bors’s hands danced around the apparatus, turning a valve, uncorking a vial. Her eyes hurt as she followed his movements. “For years I had woven my tangled skeins, dispatching or discrediting the rival claimants one by one—even you, Raven. Did you never question the accusations that rained down on you after our father’s death?”
Another invader appeared in the open door, and Alienore edged deeper into cover. Bors directed him with a negligent gesture. Raising his claymore, the Scot charged around the table. Jervaise deflected the blow with a whirling parry.
Alienore could no longer remain a passive observer. Flinging the door wide, she strode in with her sword raised.
“You have outwitted yourself, Bedingfield!” Her voice rang out, jerking his pale head toward her. “You reckoned without Ormonde’s loyalty to the king—and mine to Ormonde.”
Amid the thrust and parry of combat, Jervaise darted her a fulminating look. “Allah’s heart, Alienore. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Fie, Lord Raven!” Sir Bors swept her an ironic bow. “Is that any courteous greeting for your lady? I was expecting her, even if you were not.”
“Were you also expecting Benedict to betray you?” She placed Sir Bors between herself and Jervaise. “My brother stands before the gates and orders our defense.”
Bors’s eyes narrowed as he pivoted to keep her in sight. Behind him, Jervaise ducked another blow.
“You sent those assassins at Le Mans and killed them after.” She’d known it, but sought to keep him talking, to deflect his attention from Jervaise.
“Once your brother and your troublesome husband are dead, Prince Richard will grant both Ormonde and Lyonstone to me in reward for my role in overthrowing his father.”
“What claim on this shire can you possibly have?”
“My claim devolves from you.” Bors gave her a silken smile. “Lady Alienore of Lyonstone—my bride.”
Behind him, Jervaise snarled. His scimitar arced forward, carving through the invader’s defense. The Scot fell, and Jervaise kicked his claymore aside.
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten,” he rasped. “The lady’s wedded to me.”
“A trifling complication.” Bors tipped a vial over his bubbling flask. “Which, I assure you, shall shortly be remedied.”
Fury flared through her. “I would rather be fodder for carrion crows than wedded to a cur like you!”
“If you insist, that too can be arranged.” Acrid steam rose from his flask, making her eyes sting and her throat itch. “Perhaps the crows will relish cooked meat.”
Still he stood barricaded behind his apparatus, with her crouched on one side, Jervaise advancing on the other. Only the stair behind him offered an escape, where the clatter and tramp of men sounded ever louder. Somehow, God save her, they had to close that door!
Tenderly, Bors cradled the flask. A waft of steam leaked out, fouling the air with a sulfurous reek, and Jervaise froze.
“Alienore,” he said, barely audible. “Don’t move.”
“Ah, so you recognize the stench?” Bors smiled. “I warrant you would, Raven, since it burned away your voice and your honor both.”
With a sinking dread, she knew what must be in that flask. Beneath his bronzed skin, Jervaise paled.
“You’d have us think you will use Greek fire?” She drew the alchemist’s gaze. “Do not be absurd. You require me alive to legitimize your claim to Lyonstone.”
“Aye, your quarrel’s with me,” Jervaise said. “Let Alienore withdraw.”
“I won’t leave you,” she cried.
Bors barely looked at her, all his attention focused on Jervaise as the greater threat. Stealthily she eased forward.
“Alienore, by the Prophet!” Jervaise scowled. “Do as you’re bidden, for once in your life.”
“My place is at your side—in life or death.”
“How very touching,” Bors murmured. “I do believe she loves you, Raven. If you value her, lower your blade slowly to the floor.”
“Done,” Jervaise said. “But let her go first.”
“And you, my dear.” Bedingfield’s eyes flickered toward her. “Lower your sword, and come to me. Pity about your butchered hair, but you shall make me a fine duchess.”
“Will you drug me into submission as you did my brother?” Hoping to keep his attention, she lowered her sword slowly to the ground. At his bidding, she nudged the blade with her foot, sliding it out of reach.
Puffing from the climb, another invader appeared in the door, sword gripped before him. Bors addressed him without turning.
“You there—go to the black knight and collect his weapons. Mind that he presents them with his left hand only, hilt first.”
Cautious, the Scot advanced. When Bors pivoted to follow the exchange, Alienore palmed the long-knife from her belt.
Inscrutable, Jervaise reversed his sword and offered it. Not by the flicker of an eyelid did he betray whether he saw her drawing her knife. For a precious second, Bors was fixed on Jervaise, intent as the hooded serpent rearing in its jar.
Her husband was a dead man the moment he disarmed.
“My dear Alienore,” Bors said, without looking at her. “Come to me.”
“As you wish.” She cocked the knife and hurled it.
Her blade flashed through the air. It grazed Bors’s ear—missing him entirely, curse her aim—and buried itself in the door beyond.
Leaping aside, Bors swore and dropped the flask. It shattered at his feet and splashed his armored legs. With a blinding flash, a whoosh of flames erupted. The fire craw
led eagerly up his legs.
Even then, Bors kept his head. Drawing his sword, he scraped the viscous substance from his legs and boots.
Hearing the clank of armor on the darkened stair, Alienore ran to slam the door in a soldier’s bearded face. She rammed the bolt across the frame as a mailed fist hammered against it.
With his invasion blocked, Bors’s composure slipped. Standing like a demon in a spreading pool of fire, ablaze from the knees down, he leveled his smoldering blade toward her. “Why, my dear Alienore! I underestimated you.”
“And me.” Jervaise rose up behind him like the devil climbing from hell. His scimitar screamed crosswise through the air. A shower of crimson exploded as Bedingfield’s head tumbled from his shoulders.
Alienore staggered aside as his body toppled. Leaping over the burning corpse, Jervaise charged straight toward her through the flames. His trailing mantle ignited into a sheet of fire, and she screamed his name.
Flinging the burning garment away, he emerged from the sea of fire and dragged her away from the flames.
Despite the sulfurous smoke that burned her eyes and seared her lungs, she clung to him.
“Jervaise.” She pressed her face into his singed hauberk. “God be praised . . .”
“Aye,” he said roughly. “Allah be praised.”
She lifted her head to meet his kiss in a blaze of heat that left her breathless.
“I sent Vulgrin with a message.” He crushed her against him. “Tried to warn you. The queen’s whelp is here—Prince Richard—allied with Bedingfield. But they captured Vulgrin and left him bound in the wood.”
Half carrying her, he strode toward the tower stair. “Pretended to play along, but they never trusted me. I was watched too closely to escape.”
“I never doubted you.” She knew her heart was in her face as she stared up at him.
“Why the devil not?” His mouth twisted with the old bitterness. “How could you possibly trust me?”
“Because,” she choked, coughing as she stumbled alongside. “As I told you days ago, I love you!
“I love you,” she repeated, tears stinging her eyes. “And I will always love you, even if you cannot love me in return.”
The cool darkness of the stair enveloped them, shelter from the spreading flames. He pivoted toward her, hands closing hard on her shoulders.
“Allah’s blood, I was a stubborn fool.” Blazing in his soot-streaked face, his golden eyes devoured her. “No use denying it. I’ve loved you since the first day I saw you and recognized you as the one who rode out in all your glory to challenge me.”
She stared up at him, afraid to hope, but longing so desperately to believe. The racket of battle drifted through the walls, but its fervor seemed to be easing, now they’d halted the invasion from within. Flames crackled from the laboratory and consumed the diabolical contents. No one would emerge from that deadly chamber ever again.
Dimly she knew they must extinguish the flames. Sand, she’d heard, was the only way to quench Greek fire. Yet the tower was isolated, and the danger of spreading flames was slight.
Her injured leg throbbed, but she hardly noticed, the pain dwarfed by the magnitude of Jervaise’s confession. Aye, she’d dared to hope. Yet she’d feared he might never conquer his demons, never accept her love. The heady knowledge bubbled up, pushing against her chest with the ache of unshed tears.
“Do you know,” she murmured, arms slipping around his neck, “I believe I sensed your feelings. No matter what you said, ’Twas why I dared to believe in you.”
“You took one hell of a risk. I was terrified to admit I loved you. And I’ll never know how I managed to deserve you.”
His eager mouth met hers halfway. Their kiss blazed through her like a holy light, a declaration of the love that burned bright as faith between them.
Senses swimming, heart surging with triumph, Alienore surfaced from the kiss and laughed. “We must discuss this love of ours when we are at leisure. For now, we have the devil of a mess to mop up.”
“Aye.” He grinned, teeth flashing against mahogany skin. “A war to win and a kingdom to save.”
Epilogue
I’ll be sorry to see you leave us, sister.” As retainers bustled around them preparing for the road, the Earl of Lyonstone stepped forward to grasp her hands.
Alienore looked into the gray eyes so like her own and returned the squeeze. Bathed in the golden haze of summer, Benedict—like the keep around him—had recovered from the Scottish assault and Sir Bors’s treachery swifter than she’d ever dared hope. The invaders had lost heart and disbanded after Bors’s defeat, when their secret access to the castle was sealed against them. As for her brother, he regained weight and vigor daily.
God be praised, the debilitating symptoms caused by the alchemist’s potions had vanished completely.
“I shall return next spring,” she promised with a smile, “after affairs are set in order at Ormonde. Jervaise and I have agreed to divide our time between his holdings and mine, since both require our attention.”
“Wishing Stone Manor will be waiting for you,” Benedict said, “under Raoul’s good stewardship. The king cannot fail to confirm your inheritance, now that I’ve supported it.”
“We intend to make certain of that.” Jervaise pivoted away from the party assembling under his command and strode to her side. “Henry’s crossed the Channel to mop up the last dregs of this rebellion and collect his wayward son. We’ll pay our respects before sailing.”
Leaning into his warm embrace, Alienore looked into his sunlit amber eyes. He’d done a hero’s duty, leading the effort to sweep the Scots back across the border where they belonged, while she and Benedict repaired the minor damage to the shire.
Now, three months after the battle of Lyonstone, she realized what a fool she’d been to fear Jervaise would abandon her. They would never know the truth, she supposed, of who had sired her. But it mattered less to her now. She was who she was.
She was Alienore of Lyonstone, Duchesse d’Ormonde, married to a man who loved her.
“We should depart.” Jervaise caressed her waist as he released her. Tendrils of warmth spread from his touch, rousing her as he ever did.
As she made her farewells to Lyonstone with Remus frisking at her heels, she felt no sorrow at the prospect of leaving for a time. Together, she and Jervaise had saved her people, restored them to health and vigor. Her future lay with this Saracen knight, with his cunning wit and sinful touch, who’d shown her that love and passion were naught to fear.
Anticipation bubbling in her blood, she spurred Galahad through the gates at his side. Their small procession of guardsmen and retainers, including her faithful Nesta, trotted in their wake. A raven cawed overhead as they set their course eastward, toward the sea.
They’d barely left the castle behind when Jervaise spied travelers approaching on the road. As their defense was hearty and the other party comprised only a handful of riders, Alienore felt little concern at first.
Abruptly, Jervaise flung up an arm to halt their progress. Sudden alertness crackled like flames along his armored body. She followed his narrowed gaze to the lead rider as the party cantered toward them. She noted the big-boned charger—a warhorse fit for a king—his stocky rider clad in a hunter’s leather doublet. She marked his tousled red hair and the keen eyes gleaming above his whiskers, and suddenly she knew him.
Flinging a leg over his pommel, Jervaise leaped down and dropped to one knee. As their retainers scrambled to follow, she dismounted and sank into a curtsy.
“Good my lord,” she murmured, falling back on court etiquette. “Bid you good day.”
“Well met, my old friends!” Henry Plantagenet flung back his head and laughed. “You need not have ridden out to meet me. I’ll not stand on ceremony, after the good turn you did my realm at Easter!”
“We depart for Ormonde,” Jervaise said, “now that Lyon-stone’s in order.”
“Then I’m glad to have caught you
.” Tossing his reins to his squire, Henry swept a burly arm, drawing them away from the dusty road. At his shout, a page ran forward, juggling a wineskin and goblets. Thus, as pleasantries were exchanged, Alienore found herself sharing crisp English cider with her sovereign.
Recalling her responsibilities, she stirred with a sigh. “We are honored to extend the hospitality of Lyonstone, in my brother’s name. Our departure for Normandy can wait another day—”
“Your husband would have my head for that, madam!” Henry laughed. “Nay, I’ll not keep you from Ormonde another hour, for that would be poor recompense indeed for your good service. I’m lodged well enough at Newcastle while I review the borders. So I shan’t remain for long.”
Jervaise scrutinized his king. “What other service do you require?”
“Coming straight to the point, as always.” Affectionately, the king cuffed his shoulder. “I thought only to deliver this missive here into your lady’s hand.”
Blinking, she accepted the rolled parchment. Staring down at the red wax stamped with the Plantagenet lion crossed with dangling ribbons and fobs, she felt her heartbeat quicken. Suddenly, she knew why the king had sought them out.
“God’s eyes, madam!” Henry’s cobalt gaze snapped with humor. “That parchment will not bite you. It’s but the deed of seisin granting Wishing Stone Manor, its attendant lands and revenues into your capable hands.”
“You have confirmed my father’s bequest?” Though she’d never really doubted it after Benedict threw his support behind her, the achievement of this long-sought dream struck her like a hammer to the chest. Tears filled her eyes, and she struggled to contain them.
The dark scent of musk and sandalwood filled her head as Jervaise supported her, a firm hand beneath her arm. Feeling strength and reassurance resonate from his grip, she sank into her deepest curtsy.
“Your Grace, I cannot thank you enough for your trust. I swear you shall not regret it.”
“Nay, now,” Henry said gruffly, raising her up. “It’s I should thank you, madam—and this rascal you’ve married—for keeping my borders safe from those impatient sons of mine.”
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