Lord Of Danger

by Stuart, Anne

  But she needed the proper husband for such a blissful future. She needed a country at peace. She was unlikely to get either of those rare commodities.

  He had to find her. To find out what she remembered about last night, and whether she suspected anything untoward in the silver vial that had rested on the work table. He had no illusions about Lady Alys—if she realized the vial was dangerous she would take it, and it was far too lethal to fall into the wrong hands.

  He could taste her on his mouth. Feel her skin against his hands. He could hear her muffled, shocked cry when he made her climax.

  He cursed himself. That damnable stuff had seemed to work as an aphrodisiac on his shy wife—and he must have inhaled too many fumes himself. Sex was the least of his worries. Alys’s soft, plump body was of no particular importance. Even if he couldn’t stop thinking of it. Of taking her, again and again and again, until they were both too weary to do more than sleep. And then wake, and do it again.

  He had to find Alys, and he had to make certain the vial was in Richard’s hands. Dangerous hands, undoubtedly, but at least Richard would know the power of the liquid. There would be no tragic mistakes, only deliberate ones.

  He had to find Alys. He had to make certain she was safe. And then he could start the arduous task of rearranging his life.

  Chapter Nineteen

  She’d been a fool to run away, Claire knew it deep within her heart, as much as she wished to deny it. It had been ridiculously simple—without Sir Thomas to watch over her, escape was easily arranged. Richard’s stable men were stupidly lax, and her glowering guardian hadn’t warned them that she was adept at getting her way. All she had to do was distract Madlen, send her off on a fool’s errand, and she was away before anyone realized she had left.

  It was growing late now, stormy. The wind had picked up, swirling the dry dead leaves around Arabia’s delicate feet as she picked her way deeper, ever deeper, into the forest. Claire had been riding for hours—she’d lost track of time, and only as the sky grew darker did she begin to realize she might have been a bit hasty in running away.

  She wondered if they even knew she was gone. She’d smiled sweetly at the guards who watched over the drawbridge of Summersedge Keep, and they’d stared at her with the same besotted expression they or their compatriots had shown the first time she ran off. She’d belted up her petticoats and jumped onto Arabia’s back the moment she thought it was safe, and there had been no cries of alarm. And now she found herself wishing that there had been.

  Alys had tried to warn her against her impetuous nature, and Claire had never listened. Alys’s prudence had landed her in the bed of a monster. Claire’s foolishness had probably led her to her death.

  She’d never realized how very tall the trees were. It was dark in the forest, but whether it was from the storm, the approaching night, or the thick growth of greenery, Claire couldn’t tell. She only knew she was frightened.

  It was an entirely unpleasant sensation. She had spent most of her young life relatively fearless. She was brave and reckless when it came to horses and her own safety, and if she ran into trouble her sister was always there to extricate her, to plead with the nuns, to take the blame and the punishment on her behalf. And Claire had let her.

  Just as she had let Alys be wed to a creature of darkness. She had let Alys sacrifice herself for her, and at that moment she felt completely unworthy of the trouble.

  She heard the rumble of thunder, and Arabia sidestepped nervously. That was one weakness shared by her sister and her horse—a strong dislike, even a fear, of thunderstorms. Claire could never understand why. She reveled in the wildness of nature, hungered for the strong wind to toss her hair, the rain to soak her skin.

  Though to be entirely honest, she wasn’t in the mood for it at that particular moment. Right then she would have been more than happy to be safe inside the east tower of Summersedge Keep, with Alys to keep her company and Sir Thomas to keep the monsters at bay.

  But Thomas had deserted her, when he swore he would keep her safe. He’d left her for his faithless wife, and Claire knew she was impossibly selfish and evil to begrudge a dead woman that small dignity.

  But she did. She wanted Thomas to watch over her, she wanted him to keep her safe, she wanted him to… she wanted him to… She wanted him.

  It was that shockingly simple. She wanted a man she could never have, a man who despised her and thought she was his personal path to eternal damnation. She wanted a poor knight, who didn’t want her and couldn’t have her even if he changed his mind. Her brother would see to that.

  Her brother would see to a great many other things, Claire reminded herself, and that was why she had run. She couldn’t save Alys, she could only save herself.

  The Convent of Saint Anne the Demure was somewhere on the other side of this vast forest. Alys had said they would not welcome her, but Alys didn’t know the force of Claire’s charm when she chose to exert it. Even the stern Mother Dominica had been helpless before Claire’s practiced, wistful smile and huge, tear-filled eyes.

  They’d take her in all right, particularly when she told them what her brother had attempted. They would keep her safe, as they always had, and eventually the wizard would tire of Alys and she would join her. And everything would be as it was, but safer.

  Claire had lost her taste for adventuring. She no longer wanted to run through fields, to have men fall at her feet. She was content to live a chaste life, as long as it meant Richard couldn’t get anywhere near her. If she couldn’t have Thomas, she didn’t want anyone else.

  It was growing colder. It was too early for snow, but there was a bite in the air that cut through her thin wool gown. She hadn’t been able to bring anything when she’d left—Madlen was simple and accepting but even she might have grown suspicious if Claire had gone for a simple walk loaded down with cloaks and extra food.

  They said this forest was haunted. She didn’t want to believe it, but each rustle of leaves, each tiny scuffling made her chilled skin shiver in fear. She was tired, and it was starting to rain, icy little pellets that stung her skin. She needed to find shelter, someplace warm and dry until the storm passed.

  She finally settled for. a small clearing in the woods. Two of the ancient trees had toppled to make a rude shelter, and she nudged Arabia forward to investigate, the reins held lightly in her hand.

  The crackle of lightning was shockingly close, the heavy rumble of the thunder shaking the ground beneath her. Arabia let out a panicked whinny, rearing into the air.

  Claire hadn’t been thrown from a horse in over three years, despite her recklessness, but the day had been long, her emotions were raw, and her concentration shattered. She could see the ground hurtling up at her, the crossed branches of the fallen tree, and she reached out her hands to shield herself, to break her fall, but it was too late, she was falling, trapped amid the branches, and Arabia was gone, deserting her in a mindless panic.

  Claire lay amid the branches, struggling for the breath that had been knocked from her body. It took endless moments for it to return, and with it came a sudden, blinding pain in her arm. She bit her lip, forcing herself to stay conscious, but the rain grew heavier, colder, and all she could do was crawl through the maze of branches and huddle beneath the uprooted trunks of the huge old trees.

  Another crash of lightning, and Claire let out a muffled shriek, pulling herself into a tight little ball of pain and cold and misery. She was protected from the rain, but just barely, and with her luck some ferocious wild animal would stumble upon her and have her for dinner.

  She didn’t care. She had never been more miserable in her life, and worst of all was that she couldn’t even feel sorry for herself. She had brought it on herself, she had done nothing to help her sister, and she deserved all the misery that had come her way.

  She would have given anything to see the proud, disapproving Sir Thomas again. She would throw herself at his feet, beg his forgiveness, beg him to rescue her, and prom
ise to spend the rest of her life chaste, docile, and holy. She would have her head shorn, dress in sackcloth and ashes instead of her fine clothes, and walk barefoot to the convent if only she could get out of this mess.

  But there was no one to save her this time. No strong, handsome knight, no willing sister. Even her horse had deserted her. She cradled her hand in her lap, pulled her knees up to her chest, and silently began to cry.

  Richard was waiting for him. He sat alone in his solar, a mug of strong ale in his hand. He looked up when Simon appeared in the door. “You’re much later than I expected,” he said. “It’s well into the middle of the day. I thought you weren’t going to emerge from the bridal bower at all.”

  “I had things to do,” Simon said coolly.

  “I’m certain you did.” Richard smirked. “And where is the blushing bride? Did you fuck her bowlegged?”

  “Your concern for your sister is touching,” he murmured. “Godfrey tells me she’s resting in her room in the east tower.”

  “How could Godfrey tell you anything? You cut out the man’s tongue,” Richard said in his cheerful voice.

  “In fact, I wasn’t the one who maimed Godfrey. He’d hardly be my devoted servant if I had done it. And we have no trouble communicating, I assure you.”

  Richard grimaced, taking a huge gulp from his ale. “So why are you here, Grendel?” he demanded. “Have you changed your mind about which sister you want? If you haven’t managed to take her maidenhead then I suppose we could see about an annulment, though I can tell you right now I’m not about to part with the other one.”

  “Such brotherly protectiveness is admirable.”

  “I told you, I don’t believe Claire’s any kin to me at all. Her mother was a whore, like all women. Of course she’d lie about the girl’s parenthood, since my own father was dead and couldn’t deny it.”

  “You say all women are whores. Does that include Lady Hedwiga?”

  Richard laughed at that. “Would that she were, my friend. She’d be a lot more interesting than she is now. What do you want from me?” His red-rimmed eyes met Simon’s without wavering.

  That was part of Richard’s particular strength. He had no qualms about his sins; he committed them boldly, without conscience.

  “We both know what I want, Richard,” he said gently. “The draught is not yet tested. It could be dangerous…”

  “The draught?” His face held the innocence of a gifted liar. “You told me you were days away from perfecting it.”

  “It’s not perfected yet. It could have unfortunate, unexpected effects…”

  “And you think I stole it from you? Which means, I gather, that it’s missing? That it’s fallen into the wrong hands?”

  “Indeed,” Simon said. “Dangerous hands.”

  Richard looked up at him from beneath his thinning blonde hair, and his expression was bordering on smug. “Then you’d best find it, before someone gets killed.”

  Simon didn’t move. The warning was implicit, and yet there was nothing he could do about it. He had no proof—he could scarce accuse his liege lord of high treason against the young king. As long as Richard stayed at Summersedge Keep then the king was safe, it was unlikely that Richard would trust anyone to commit the murder without him there to oversee it. Richard had an inflated opinion of his own abilities, and he would assume that none of his minions could perform properly without instructions. Simon had time.

  “That would be a great tragedy,” he said slowly. “Perhaps I simply misplaced it. You may be certain I’ll be more careful in the future.”

  Richard’s grin was smug. “I’m certain you will, Grendel. I know I can always count on you in the end.”

  “Always,” Simon agreed, lying effortlessly.

  Alys slept, a deep, dream-crazed sleep, tossing and turning in the wide bed in her tower room. There had been no sign of her sister when she’d entered the room, only Madlen sitting by the fire, placidly working on her stitchery. She’d taken one look at Alys’s face, made a comforting, clucking noise, and quickly divested her of the rumpled rose gown and tucked her into the bed. Alys never heard her leave.

  Her dreams were strange, tumbled things. They were pure sensation, touch and scent and taste that made no sense at all, and when she finally awoke the day was almost spent, and she was shivering.

  She sat up in her bed. Long shadows moved across the tower room, and the wind blew through the narrow slits, stirring the heavy wall hangings. Her headache was gone, but her mouth felt thick and sluggish, and her brain wasn’t functioning properly.

  “I thought you might be wanting a bath, my lady,” Madlen’s voice penetrated the sleepy haze that still befogged Alys’s brain. “Seeing as how you spent last night, that is.”

  Alys blinked. How would Madlen know how she spent the previous night?

  “Are you in much pain, my lady?” she asked, her solicitousness doing little to cover her avid curiosity.

  Alys didn’t know what to answer. She tried to remember the horrors that Lady Hedwiga had warned her of. Pain and blood, she’d said. Wet and disgusting. For some reason she had yet to associate Simon of Navarre with things that were disgusting, but then, he hadn’t wanted her. That in itself was fairly disheartening.

  “I’m fine,” she said shortly. “A bath would be lovely, but I would like privacy as well.”

  “My lady, if I may be so bold as to say so, at times like these women need the advice of other women,” Madlen said, not giving up easily.

  “Lady Hedwiga has already been more than helpful.”

  “You’ve seen her today?” Madlen sounded doubtful.

  Alys was becoming an adept liar. “We had private converse,” she said.

  “But Lord Richard said she was unwell—unable to see anyone.”

  Hell’s blood, Alys thought, adding cursing to her rapidly growing list of sins. “I brought her a posset,” she said. “An herbal concoction I learned from the nuns, to ease her discomfort.” She summoned a learned smile. “I’m entirely able to take care of myself as well.”

  Madlen looked doubtful, as well she might. Alys knew full well that Madlen was twice her age and had outlived two strong young husbands and one elderly one. She knew more about women’s bodies than most midwives, and the last thing Alys wanted was to expose herself to Madlen’s prying eyes.

  “As you wish, my lady,” she murmured politely, lowering her curious gaze. “If you change your mind you have only to summon me.”

  There was blood on her thighs when she lifted her chemise, blood staining her clothing, and she knew a moment’s horrified uncertainty as she slid into the warm, fragrant bath. Had she been mistaken all this time?

  The heated water was a blessing, and she dismissed her sudden suspicions. He didn’t want her, he’d made that clear. She must have been wrong about her monthly flow.

  She leaned back in the tub, letting her long hair soak up the water, and she shut her eyes, resting her head against the linen covered wood. She felt wonderfully peaceful, floating, almost ready to sleep some more.

  She let her drifting mind go chasing down the odd dreams that had plagued her, and the caress of the water against her skin reminded her of other caresses, touches, strange and dangerous delights that enticed and frightened.

  She sat up abruptly, splashing water over the floor and her discarded clothing. “Madlen!” she shrieked.

  As expected, Madlen was hovering, her plain face alight with avid curiosity. She glanced at the pile of clothing on the floor, but fortunately no blood stains could be seen. What a fool she’d been, Alys thought bitterly. So innocent and so trusting.

  “Bring me fresh clothing at once,” she said. “And send my sister to me. I have need of her…” Her voice trailed off as she saw the look of utter panic on Madlen’s plain face. “What’s wrong?” she demanded. “Has something happened to Claire? Where is Sir Thomas? Has Richard been near her, harmed her… ?”

  “In truth, my lady, I do not know,” Madlen said mise
rably. “We went for a walk in the courtyard earlier today and she just… disappeared.”

  Alys rose from the bath, oblivious to her nudity, the chill in the air, and Madlen’s curiosity. “Is her horse gone as well?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Alys tried to still her rising panic as Madlen helped her into dry clothes. “And what of Sir Thomas? Did he go after her?”

  “Sir Thomas isn’t here. Oh, my lady, forgive me, but I didn’t know what to do, and I thought she would return sooner or later!” Madlen wailed.

  It was almost full dark outside, and the rumble of thunder was ominously close. “Does my brother know she’s missing?”

  “No one does. My lady, where are you going?” Madlen’s voice rose, but Alys had already fled.

  She had no idea what she was going to do. Turning to Richard for help was out of the question—Alys trusted him no more than Claire did. Nor was she particularly eager to turn to her husband. Not if he’d done what she suspected. And if she was wrong it would make things even worse. She was only dimly aware of what had passed between them the night before, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to ask for his help. Sir Thomas was gone, Madlen said, and Alys trusted none of the other knights who filled Richard’s hall.

  She had reached the bottom of the east tower stairs when she barreled into a strong male figure, so intent on her sister’s whereabouts that she didn’t look where she was going.

  “Lady Alys.” The voice was grim, cool, but blessedly welcome as she looked up.

  “Sir Thomas!” she cried, and without thinking flung her arms around him. “Thank God you’ve returned! I need your help desperately.”

  Sir Thomas was not dull-witted. “Your sister. Where is she?” he said in a sharp voice. “Has anyone laid a hand on her?”

  “She’s run away. I was asleep, and that fool Madlen didn’t watch her carefully. I haven’t checked to see if her horse is missing but I’m certain it is.”