By Design

by Madeline Hunter

  She had taken everything with her. Every item, and even her ghost. There was no evidence remaining to prove that she had shared his life these weeks.

  In her fear, the severing had been complete. And brave. And ruthless.

  Rhys found Mortimer in his garden, eating fruit beneath the canopy.

  He accepted the berries offered him, and drank some wine. He made Mortimer ask what he had learned, and then let him suspect that he held something back. In response to pointed questions, the information emerged bit by bit, almost apologetically. He made light of it, and spoke of vague rumors and overheard bits and pieces. He offered his own opinion that it was all much ado about nothing.

  By the time Rhys took his leave, Roger Mortimer, the Earl of March, the Queen's lover and the most powerful man in the realm, was very worried. His stupid spy had just confirmed his own suspicions. The dense mason simply did not comprehend the significance of what had just been related.

  Rhys aimed for the nearest palace door. Once in the building, he considered his next move.

  His part in this was done. The rest would be work for the King and his knights. He did not even have to report on this meeting. When Mortimer left Westminster, Addis would know what to do.

  They did not need him anymore. No one did.

  Which left him free to follow his blood. And right now his blood wanted to punish a man who had almost destroyed a helpless woman.

  Not Mortimer. Addis was right, and an assassin's hand should not resolve that. But somewhere in this palace another man waited, anticipating the sick pleasure that came from forcing the weak into degradation.

  Joan had run away, but flight would not ensure her safety this time.

  Rhys began searching for a handsome, predatory face. The fires of justice burned in him as they had not done in years. It might be the last act of his life, but he would make sure that Guy Leighton could not hunt down the children of Marcus de Brecon.

  He asked a passing servant where to find Guy Leighton. The woman directed him to the chamber given over to Mortimer's guest.

  There was no guarantee that the man would be there, but he went anyway. It did not matter where he found him. The privacy of a chamber would be useful, but if he had to confront him in the middle of the palace practice yard, he would do it.

  A scratch on the door brought no response. He was about to look elsewhere when the vaguest sound came from within, barely penetrating the thick wood below his fingers.

  He gently pushed the door ajar. Heavy breathing, marked by tiny desperate sounds, leaked out to him.

  He pushed harder. The door swung wide to reveal a scene of horror.

  Blood, red and fresh. A growing pool of it, spreading from Guy's body, edging toward Moira's basket.

  A woman, looking down with blank, wide eyes.

  He stepped in and closed the door quickly. Joan did not respond to the sound. She just kept staring at Guy's motionless body and closed eyes. Her face had gone so white that it looked more dead than her enemy's. Her arms hung rigidly, angled away from her body as though she balanced precariously. Breaths pumped out of her, carrying those tiny, gasping cries.

  Blood stained her hand, and her brown gown.

  She had decided to become her own champion.

  She noticed that she was not alone, and turned astonished eyes to him.

  And then he saw how her wimple sagged low on her neck, revealing red marks on her skin where someone had gripped her. He would have killed the man then, if Joan had not already seen to it.

  “He is dead,” she whispered.

  “Aye, it appears that he is. Let the devil have him.” To hell with Guy Leighton. Nothing mattered but saving her from discovery, and there wasn't much time. He strode to a clothing chest and yanked it open and threw items out until he found a cloak. “You have to get away from here. Did anyone see you come?”

  She did not answer. She just stared.

  Questions would have to wait for later. He threw the cloak around her to hide the bloodstained gown, and slid the basket on her arm. “Come with me now.”

  She tore her gaze away. She let him lead her to the door.

  Clutching her in a close embrace, he walked her through the chambers and passageways. He chose a longer route than necessary to avoid the busy parts of the palace. He made for a stairway and a portal close to the stables.

  A group of household guards approached them, heading toward the royal apartments. Rhys pulled Joan into a corner, and shielded her with his body while he pressed a kiss on her cold lips. The guards sauntered by, and shouted lewd encouragement to the lovers.

  He felt the life come back to her with his kiss. Her body pulsed beneath his. Warmth replaced chill, and her pale face flushed. She grew alert to what he was doing, and pulled herself out of her shock.

  He gently caressed her neck. “He hurt you.”

  “I would not let him … Not again. Not now. Not after …” She blinked hard. “I had a knife. It is beneath him. I cut his arm, but it did not stop him. Then it went into his side, but I do not remember how.”

  He pulled out of the corner and sped her forward on their escape. A fear bigger than he had ever known gripped him. Not for himself, but for her—for what would happen if he did not get her away before some squire or servant entered that chamber, and raised the cry.

  “Is that why you came here? Why you left?”

  “I came here to kill Mortimer, not him.”

  Jesus. He almost thanked God that Guy had found her, and forced her hand in a private chamber. If she had attacked Mortimer, she would be dead already.

  “I should finish that now, and be done with all of it,” Joan whispered vaguely.

  “The hell you will. Keep walking, woman, or I will carry you.”

  Her lips thinned. A spark of rebellion tried to catch fire, but it died, and only sad discouragement looked up at him. “I can not, anyway. I don't have a weapon anymore, and now you have been seen with me. I do not think I am brave enough in any case. It is much harder than I thought.”

  His heart went out to her. Guy certainly deserved killing, and she had only defended herself. But, aye, it was much harder than she had thought.

  At the stables he called for his horse. He mounted and lifted her up behind him. He barely resisted the urge to bolt across the yard and through the gate. He kept the animal to a walk only by repeating to himself that they must draw no attention.

  “Were you veiled all morning? While you were with him?” he asked, weighing her danger.

  “Aye.”

  That relieved him somewhat. Her face was not well known in the palace. Anyone who had seen her with Guy might just remember a lowborn woman being flattered by a knight.

  It was possible that the servant with whom he had spoken would remember his query, however. He counted on that being unlikely. Servants rarely offered information in such situations, lest the eyes of suspicion turn to them.

  He could not be sure that she would be safe, though. Someone who had seen her with Guy might speak of it. There would definitely be a search. He could not risk even the small chance that she might be accused.

  They finally got out the gate. Once in the town's lanes, he moved his mount to a trot. He headed toward London, but not to stay. They would collect her brother, and then leave for good.

  Her embracing arms tightened snugly. Her head lulled against his back. The aftermath of her ordeal was defeating her.

  “I am so glad that you guessed,” she said. “I am so glad that you followed me.”

  He pressed her overlapping hands against his stomach. He did not tell her that he had not followed at all, that he had assumed that she was long gone from the city. Nor did he say that he had not trailed her to Guy's chambers, but had gone there on his own, for his own reasons.

  He would never need to explain that. Once the shock passed, she would figure that part out for herself.

  Newgate beckoned ahead. He normally saw it as a portal to freedom, and the entry to a sanc
tuary. But now London's walls could prove dangerous and confining.

  It was time to find safety somewhere else.

  CHAPTER 23

  SHE LET HIM take care of her. She seemed to accept that they were in this together now.

  He left her to pack the wagon while he went to get Mark. He found him loitering around the shop where David served as an apprentice. The master was nowhere in sight, and Rhys was just as glad for that.

  Mark reacted with suspicion. “She said that she would come.”

  “She sent me instead.”

  “I think that I should wait for her.”

  “You will come now. If it means tying you up and dragging you, I will do it.”

  “How do I know that you can be trusted, and that you came at her bidding and not someone else's?”

  “You know. More to the point, I know. All of it.” He turned to David. “If anyone should ask, he was not here. You have not seen him in two days. Tell your master and the others that I said for all of you to claim this.”

  Mark followed Rhys out of the shop. “You say that you know all of it. What does that mean?”

  “I know who you are. I know that Guy Leighton let Mortimer think the heir to Brecon had perished in a river. I know that Guy learned you are alive, and came looking for you. Your sister did not tell me this, but I know it anyway.”

  “She truly sent you? It is over? She found a way to finish it?”

  “She certainly did that.”

  “She went to the King?”

  “Nay, she went to Guy.”

  Mark spit a curse. “Then she finished nothing. I should have guessed what she intended to do. I told her I would not stand for it, that I would see us both dead before she agreed to that again.” He paced on furiously. “If she thinks this will stop me, she is wrong.”

  Rhys grabbed Mark and pushed him up against a building. “Stop you from what?”

  “From being a man. From acting like the son of my father instead of some cowardly, gutter-born bastard.”

  “Did you tell her that you planned to challenge Guy Leighton? Is that why you and she did not leave last night?”

  “I said that I would die with honor, not like some hare run to ground. I told her that we are not going to hide anymore.”

  “Well, you are going to hide now, boy. You are going to do whatever is necessary to save your sister. She did not go to Guy to bargain. She killed the man, and I'll be damned if I will let your callow conceit interfere with getting her away from here.”

  “She killed him?”

  “It was to defend herself, but it is done just the same.”

  “I told her that I would deal with him!”

  “As did I, but she did the dealing on her own. If I can put aside my pride, you can, too. Now, move, and if you say one word to upbraid her, if I see any criticism in your eyes, I will treat you like the man you claim to be and make you wish that you had never been born.”

  Rhys grabbed Mark by the scruff of the neck and pushed him forward down the lane.

  Joan had finished packing the wagon when they got back. She emerged from the kitchen just as they entered the garden. She had changed her gown.

  She faced her brother cautiously, waiting for his anger. Rhys saw very different emotions haunt the youth's dark eyes. Relief that she was alive and whole. Worry that she might be hunted now because his own arrogance had forced her hand. Something else shadowed his expression too. Guilt. A terrible guilt that had festered for three years.

  Rhys placed a hand on Mark's shoulder. “Do not blame yourself for anything that has happened, or that you were too young to protect her. Do not feel ashamed about the sacrifices she has made to keep you alive.”

  Mark's eyes filmed. Rhys squeezed his shoulder. “Go to her. I will make sure that all is ready.”

  Mark went to his sister and embraced her. Rhys returned to the alley and waited. He could not see them through the portal, but his gaze fell upon the carved saint beneath its canvas.

  Eventually someone from the ward would come, curious about his absence, and it would be found. It would be taken to the church, and set up in its rightful place. Ursula would serve the duty for which she had been created. Others would see to that.

  Joan stepped into view and walked toward him with Mark by her side. Like the noble saint whose form she blocked from view, she had chosen martyrdom in the name of a great cause. She had gone to Westminster to save her brother's life again, knowing that if she killed Mortimer, she would certainly die, too.

  She had chosen her course before she came to him last night. It had been in her heart the whole time. Thinking about her secret death watch made his throat tighten. His pride wanted to find some anger at her deception, but none surfaced. All that mattered was that she had chosen to spend her last hours in his arms.

  Mark carried an old sword that he slipped into the wagon without explanation.

  “I packed the bow and dagger. I rolled most of your parchments, too,” Joan said. “They are wrapped in that blanket there.”

  He had not thought of the parchments, or of anything except her safety. “We must be gone. Get in the back with your brother. Try to get some rest.”

  She strode around to the front of the wagon. “Nay, I will sit up here.”

  He climbed up beside her and took the reins. Her hand settled on his thigh, and from its grip he could tell that she understood their danger. But the gesture spoke of trust. And of unity, for a little longer at least.

  Joan's heart leapt every time a horseman overtook them, and did not calm again until the hooves clamored past. She told herself that no one knew to look for her, that no one would follow, but she experienced the fear of the hunted just the same.

  She kept her hand on Rhys. She needed to feel his solidity. His presence both soothed her and added to her worry. He would protect her and Mark, but if the worst happened, and they were taken, he would now share their fate.

  She needed to touch him for other reasons. The warmth under her hand reminded her that she was alive. The surprise of that stirred her blood in powerful ways. There was a euphoria in receiving a reprieve after expecting the end. She reveled in it, even while she listened for the sounds of pursuit.

  The feel of him also kept darker emotions at bay. Not just the fear. Not only guilt at having failed in her goal, and at thrusting them all into danger worse than before. Deep inside her heart she also slowly came to terms with what she had done. The image of Guy falling, and of his astonished eyes closing, threatened to haunt her.

  She gripped a little tighter, and leaned against him. “I want to make love.”

  “Do you think it can wait until we stop for the night? It is possible up here, while I hold the reins, but passing travelers might think it very bawdy, and then there is your brother…”

  His quiet humor almost made things seem normal again. “Aye, it can wait. But this day has made me need you in ways I can not explain.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “Can you find it in your heart to give some comfort to the daughter of Brecon? Can you embrace a woman who has killed a man?”

  Rhys took the reins in one hand and moved his arm to surround her. “I am honored to do so. I only waited for the sign that you did not plan to deal with this, too, on your own. And for you to decide how it would be between us, since you intended last night to be both a beginning and an end.”

  “I am beyond decisions now. I can not think about tomorrow, let alone such notions as beginnings and ends. As to how it will be between us, I only know what I need now, and that is to lose myself in you, and to forget everything else.”

  “Then I will make sure that you do. We will both forget while we can, and then remember when we must.”

  The sun moved too slowly. The road kept rising to meet them. She nestled alongside him, clinging with body and soul to the solace he gave her. Finally, in the last light of day, he steered the wagon into some trees set back from the road.

  Sword in hand, Mark went to scout their s
urroundings while Rhys pulled out blankets and Joan found some cheese and bread. They started no fire, but only made a rough camp among the pine needles bedding the ground.

  Mark returned to report that there was a pond nearby, where the trees met a field. He finally set down his weapon and carried a bucket away to get some water. When he returned he sat to their simple meal, with the sword again by his side.

  “Where are we going?” he asked Rhys.

  “West. To Barrowburgh, the estate of Addis de Valence.”

  “Safer to go to Lancaster, if we are going to present ourselves as our father's children.”

  “Addis will give you sanctuary. He is no friend of Mortimer, and he can be trusted. Lancaster might use you as pawns, and abandon you if it suits his strategy of the moment. If Addis takes you in, he will fight a war before he lets harm come to you.”

  “And if he does not take us in?”

  “He will. I know the man. You will have to trust my judgment on this.”

  “So we live at Barrowburgh until Mortimer grows old and dies? Even a castle can be a prison.”

  Rhys brushed off his hands, and pulled Joan into the circle of his arms. “It will not be so long. One way or the other, this will be over soon.”

  He seemed very sure of that. She relished his embrace, and her body began anticipating more, but his words cast a pall over the peace he offered. She could not think about tomorrow, but he did, and it sounded as if he did not expect there to be very many tomorrows to share.

  She turned into his body, and let his warmth obliterate the shadow that his reassurances had created.

  Mark looked at them, and rose in exasperation. “Hell, I'm not staying here if you two are going to …” He grabbed up a blanket and his sword. “I'll sleep out near the road. If anyone comes, I'll raise the cry. Try to notice.”

  His movement through the trees had barely receded before Rhys laid her down. They came together, hot and impatient, in a passion that made the day's danger disappear. Nothing existed for Joan but his taste and touch, and her exultant arousal reminded her what it meant to be completely alive.