Anger spiked through Aurora. A gift when she was clearly busy attending other matters? When others waited upon her to hear their petitions? She pushed the anger down and regarded the quiver of happiness in Roke’s lips, the arrogance in his lifted chin. A betrothal to this wretched man would be a punishment worse than death. “How kind, Lord Roke. But as you can see, I am conducting –”
A self-satisfied smile beamed from his wrinkled face. His voice lowered as he announced, “I have brought you this assassin.”
Assassin. The word sent tremors of fear and misgiving shuddering through Aurora.
Around her, villagers whispered and a murmur swept through the hall like a rippling breeze. Sir Rupert stepped forward, his hand moving to the hilt of his weapon. “You dare bring an assassin before Lady Aurora?” He glowered hotly at Roke.
Aurora lifted her hand, stilling all around her. Her gaze came to rest on the bound and bloodied man. Rage charred through her and she forced her fists not to clench. Assassin. The most loathsome kind of human being. “Who did he kill?” she asked.
Roke’s grin quirked to the side. “Lord Delamore’s wife.”
A woman. A victim just like her mother. She carefully kept her face and her voice neutral, dispelling the warring emotions swirling within her. Anger, anxiety, trepidation. “Why bring him to me?”
“Why, my dear, I am ever vigilant for the assassin who killed your mother.”
Aurora didn’t move for a very long moment. Emotions from the past threatened to tidal wave over her, but she kept a strong reign on her feelings, burying them deep inside. She was Lady Aurora of Acquitaine, a figurehead to her people. Always level headed, always fair. She couldn’t just crumple into a heap of fear and dread even though her very limbs were threatening to give out on her. She looked past Roke at William the Baker who met her gaze with concern. His worry gave her strength. Aurora swallowed and took a step forward.
“My Lady,” Sir Rupert hissed from behind her. “Have a care.”
She snapped her gaze to the assassin as she moved toward him. His jaw was tight and his eyes darted from side to side. She moved by Lord Roke to stand before the assassin. She could feel her heart hammering hard in her chest and willed herself to remain calm.
“I was hoping you could identify him,” Roke whispered.
A quiver of repulsion shook her at the sound of Roke’s voice so close. She ignored it, concentrating on the assassin. He was short, maybe half a head taller than her. But that was not important. She remembered one thing about the assassin from seven years ago. One thing she would never forget. She leaned closer to look into his eyes.
He reared back and turned his head away from her.
She grabbed his jaw and jerked his face back toward her.
He stared at her with a mixture of defiance and apprehension.
She held his face still, glaring into his eyes, searching for the monstrous eyes that still haunted her nightmares. The most dead, cold and uncaring, unfeeling and distant eyes she had ever seen. But the eyes staring back at her were not those eyes. And their shape was more oval than the eyes she remembered. She released him, pushing his face away with a resolved sigh. She stepped back. “It’s not him. He is not the one.”
“Have no fear, my dear. I will not rest until your mother’s killer is brought to you,” Lord Roke reassured her. “It is my duty as your future husband.”
Aurora cringed at the certainty in Roke’s declaration of their future marriage. She looked away from him and then noticed a red smudge on her fingers. She lifted her hand, inspecting it. Blood. It was the assassin’s blood. Aurora swung her gaze back to Roke. He was still grinning as if this were some kind of amusing stage play he was performing in. She could see he was not surprised at all by her declaration that this man was not the murderer of her mother. Then she looked over her shoulder at the assassin. There was too much blood on his chin for a simple cut lip. Her eyes narrowed. “What happened to him?”
“He was properly punished.”
“How?”
“He was spouting lies, so we cut out his tongue.” Roke’s tone was gleeful, proud.
Gasps sounded from the villagers within earshot of Roke’s gloat.
“It is not for you to dispense justice,” Aurora said calmly, forcing herself to show none of the disgust she felt. “Bring him to Lord Delamore. He can bestow the proper justice to his wife’s murderer.”
*****
Aurora stared down at the smear of blood still staining her hand. The assassin’s blood. She had listened to one more petition after Roke’s interference. Then, the bell had tolled. Thankful, she dismissed the rest, promising to add an extra hearing for tomorrow. It had been difficult for her to concentrate after Roke’s interruption. She had used a rag to wipe the blood from her hands but no matter how much she scrubbed, the red stain had remained. She moved through the hallway to her room and closed the door.
She stood with her back against the door, staring down at her hand, at the smear of blood on it. The assassin’s blood. Fear swirled in the deepest recess of her soul as she lifted her eyes to search her room. The murky corners, the gloom, taunted her. She never felt safe near the darkness, always feeling as if someone were there in the shadows. Watching. Waiting.
Ridiculous, she told herself and pushed away from the door to a small basin on the table beside the wall. She dipped her hand into the water, scrubbing at the red stain.
It had been seven years almost to the day since her mother’s death. But the man who had killed her mother had never been caught. The assassin was still out there.
Aurora rubbed at the blood harder, finally able to remove the last of the red smears from her skin. This is my home, my castle, my lands, she thought. I will not be afraid here.
The door swung open and she jumped, knocking the basin over as she spun around. The water splashed across the floor.
Her father swept into the room, his gray brows angled over his eyes. “Aurora?”
Aurora’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Father,” she whispered as if reassuring herself.
He rushed up to her with hurried steps, his gaze moving over her in concern. “Are you alright?”
Aurora bent to pick up the basin. “Other than being scared to death…” When he didn’t answer, she looked up at him, noticing his unease. She stood slowly, her hands empty. “What is it? What’s happened?”
He shook his head and glanced back at the door where Sir Rupert stood looking down at his boots. When he looked back at her, he took her hand into his. “Rupert told me Roke was here.”
Disgust and annoyance at Roke’s name churned within her, but didn’t reach her face. “Yes. He was here.”
The concern never left his eyes. “He brought an assassin?”
Aurora nodded and then slowly shook her head. “But it wasn’t him. He wasn’t the one who killed mother.”
Her father’s hand tightened around her own. “What else did Roke say?”
Her gaze swept his face in confusion and she shrugged. “What else could he say? It wasn’t him.”
Her father turned away from her, letting her hand slide from his own. “He didn’t… say anything else?”
Aurora stepped toward her father, ducking her head to try to peer into his averted eyes. “He said he would do all he could to find the man who killed mother,” she paused and then distastefully added, “as was befitting for my future husband.”
Haunted blue eyes lifted to Aurora. “He wants to marry you very badly.” Her father’s tone was flat and unemotional.
A shiver of trepidation snaked up her spine at the thought of marrying Roke. “Yes. I’ve been meaning to speak to you… I mean ask you how the decision was going.”
He straightened. “There are many suitors vying for your hand, Aurora. Many.” He hesitated, his chest deflating slightly. “And any one of them would be most fortunate to have you as a wife.”
She grinned, but the slight smile quickly faded and she looked away, fingering the
edge of the table beside the wall. “What of Lord Roke? Are you considering him?”
He walked to her window and looked out over the village. “I have to consider all requests.”
It was Aurora’s turn to worry. She nervously took a cloth from the table and knelt on the floor, soaking up the spilled water. She would do what her father asked. Misgivings churned within her. What if he asked her to marry Roke?
He turned to her. “Mostly, I want you to be happy.”
She sat back on her heels. “I would do anything to make you proud, father. Anything.”
He walked up to her and knelt before her, cupping her cheek tenderly. “You already make me proud.”
She closed her eyes, grateful for his compliment. “I don’t want to marry Roke.” She opened her eyes, expecting to see disappointment. Instead, she saw understanding. “He is manipulative and uncompassionate. Not a fitting father for your grandchildren.”
A sad smile touched the corners of his lips. He nodded. “So be it. You shall not marry Roke.”
Relief swelled within her and she threw her arms around her father’s neck.
“He will not be happy,” her father muttered. She couldn’t see the troubled look that filled his eyes as he squeezed her tightly. “No,” he whispered. “Roke will not be happy at all.”
Chapter Two
Four days later
Damien watched the market square from the shadowed darkness of the candle maker’s shop. Warin Roke is a mad man, Damien thought. But if he is willing to grant my freedom for one last mission, who am I to tell him otherwise?
Merchants shouted from shop windows at passing patrons, hawking their wares. “The best salted venison in the whole of Acquitaine,” a grizzled old man cried out. “Virgin white milk straight from my goat’s teats just this morning,” a pretty, young woman called. Quite a few customers gathered around her, Damien observed.
Children laughed as they raced through Acquitaine’s dusty streets, chasing a few stray ducks. They wove in and out of the legs of villagers as their newfound, feathered toys squawked and waddled into any safe place they could find. Two men haggled over the price of a small pot before the potter’s shop. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted to Damien, mixing with the perfumed scents of burning wax coming from the shop behind him.
Damien ignored all the commotion in the busy market, concentrating on the street leading into the center of the square between the tailor’s shop and the potter’s shop.
It had taken Damien two days of travel to get to Acquitaine, and then a mere day of earnest listening to the local gossip to find out all he needed to know about Lady Aurora’s habits. The owner of the Boar’s Inn certainly liked to hear himself talk. Damien never heard someone go so long without taking a breath between words in his whole life. It had been simple to discover Lady Aurora came into the village weekly to visit with her people.
Damien also heard many stories about Lady Aurora’s mother, Margaret. She had been a cruel lady, vain in her beauty and cold in her demeanor. It was told she had men killed on the spot for looking at her in any manner that displeased her. It was said she poisoned any woman who was more beautiful than she. It was whispered she set homes on fire if their owners did not pay their taxes exactly when she demanded them.
The serfs had not mourned when she died seven years ago.
As Damien learned more of Margaret’s dark moods and deviant behavior, he discovered Lady Aurora was not at all like her mother. Everyone he listened to spoke of Lady Aurora with admiration, with true love and devotion. Damien grunted softly at the memories of their praise. There was not one person he conversed with who said an unkind word about Lady Aurora. He found it very curious the daughter of the most hated woman within a hundred miles of the village was the most beloved by all the villagers. Surely, no woman was so faultless as to merit the endless adoration these serfs heaped on Lady Aurora. He almost wished he had time to find one person who disliked her. He mentally shrugged. No matter. He would do what Roke asked of him and then he would finally be free of his master.
He would bow to Warin Roke no longer. Ten years of servitude was enough.
Damien leaned back against the shop wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He had plenty of time to complete his mission. Four more days. But he knew he would need only one more afternoon.
He scanned his surroundings, instinctively looking for guards or any other threats that could hinder the successful completion of his task.
The sun shone down on the serfs making their way through the streets. A woman with a worn, sun-browned face clutched a basket filled with onions beneath an arm as she hurried through the street. She crashed into the shoulder of a merchant who suddenly stepped in front of her. She called out in exasperation and steadied the onions. Damien’s gaze continued to travel over the occupants of the square. No guards at all.
A tingling sensation prickled the base of his neck. He lifted his gaze to the road leading into the town from the castle. A guard wearing a red tunic with a white dove emblazoned on the front appeared, clearing the path, hollering for people to move out of the way. He used a tall stick to usher the people aside, but he had no need to use it. The people parted on their own, making a clear path. All their gazes turned toward the road in anticipation.
Damien stared down the road with curiosity. Was it Lady Aurora’s approach causing his breath to catch, his skin to prickle, or was it something else?
The merchants stopped their calls. A strange hush fell over the crowd for a moment. Time seemed to slow.
She was coming.
Instinctively, Damien’s hand fell to the dagger in his belt. But even the familiar feel of his weapon did not still the sudden unease filling him.
She emerged into the silence inconsequentially. Complete surprise washed over Damien. He expected a grand entrance. He expected magnanimous applause to erupt. He expected joyous shouts. But she needed none of those to herald her arrival. Her beauty was powerful enough to silence any sound. Her blond hair, touched with wisps of golden sun, hung in a long braid down her back. Her face was fair complexioned with high cheekbones, her lips bowed and full. Her eyes were lowered toward the ground, watching her step. When she lifted her gaze to look about, Damien’s breath caught in his throat. Blue eyes shone at him like the bright sky above. She was more than stunning. She was an angel.
She looked down at a beggar who held an old, feeble hand out to her, his gnarled fingers stained with mud. Outrage filled Damien that this dirty, decrepit man should accost her in such a manner. But the lady did not shy away from his filth. She did not turn her back on him. She smiled at him. Damien found himself wishing he were the beggar, wishing he were the recipient of such radiance. Then she bent forward, touched the beggar’s shoulder, and spoke earnestly to the old man.
Damien inched forward, ignoring the crush of people around him as he moved closer to this goddess. He could not hear her words, but the people around her smiled.
The beggar nodded his head enthusiastically at the regal lady and smiled a toothless grin.
Lady Aurora turned and moved leisurely into the square. Her blue velvet surcoat swished about her long legs. The lone guard walked before her, keeping the path clear.
One guard to protect her, Damien thought, disgusted. If he were her father, he would hire an army of men to trail her and keep her safe.
People called out to her now. She paused and spoke to many, giving them her undivided attention. What would she say to him if he called out to her? Did he care? No, he wouldn’t care what words she uttered. All he wanted was to see those luminescent eyes turn to gaze at him with the same undivided attention she so graciously offered everyone else.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a movement. A shadow. A slithering shape. He searched the crowd, the feeling of unease growing much stronger now, spreading across the nape of his neck and shoulders. His gaze darted through the throng, focusing on one villager and then another. A mother smiling down at her child. A farmer spe
aking with a short baker. A monk gazing at Lady Aurora.
And then, mixed in the crowd, Damien found him. He was a small man, dressed in a faded green tunic. He hunched slightly, moving slowly between people, being careful not to touch anyone, being careful not to draw attention to himself. But unlike the people who surrounded him, there was no serenity in his face, no adoration. Only dark purpose. The man focused on Lady Aurora with the intensity of a predator.
Damien recognized him immediately. He was one of Roke’s elite guards, a killer, and an assassin. A slave of Warin Roke just like him. Damien didn’t know his name, but he knew the face. And he knew the ugly gleam of determination in his eyes as he trapped his prey in his sights. What the devil is he doing here? Damien silently demanded as fierce anger blasted through him. What game is Roke playing?
Damien moved through the crowd, inching closer to him, not taking his stare away from the stalker. He bumped into a farmer half his size. The man grumbled something, but Damien moved on, ignoring him, concentrating on his target.
“M’lady!”
Damien heard the gruff call, but did not look up to see who it was. He didn’t dare take his gaze off the man, lest he lose him in the thick crowd of villagers. Damien watched the man’s reaction. He saw him hesitate, watched his small eyes shift from Aurora to somewhere off to the left where the other voice had originated.
For a moment, Damien thought the puny man would turn and leave. Is he here to make sure I complete my mission? His eyes slowly narrowed. No, that was not the reason he was here. He knew Warin Roke well, well enough to realize he would never send anyone to watch over him.
Something glinted in the little man’s hand.
Damien’s eyes widened in realization. The man isn’t here to follow me. He is here to steal my freedom! Damn you to hell, Roke.
The killer bent his legs and sprang forward, moving with a quickness his small stature belied. He moved straight for Lady Aurora, his dagger flashing in the fiery sunlight.
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