“I . . . see.” Juliana didn’t. Not at all. Surely Edouard wouldn’t kill someone just because she was a bastard child’s mother. There must be more to the situation than Veronique wished to divulge. When she had a chance, Juliana would ask Edouard about the older woman’s allegations.
“I know ’tis a lot for you to consider, especially when you are wounded. But—”
A knock sounded on the chamber door.
Veronique smiled. “Enter,” she called.
The door opened with a creak, letting in torchlight from the outside passageway. A slim, blond-haired woman, who looked about Juliana’s age, stepped in, carrying a wooden tray. Her waist-length hair, tied back in a loose braid, swayed against the back of her brown woolen gown as she shut the door behind her and headed toward Veronique.
“Azarel,” Veronique said, before glancing at Juliana. “The healer.”
For the briefest moment, Juliana caught the woman’s gaze. “Thank you.”
Azarel nodded, and then her gaze dropped to the floor. Either she was afraid of spilling what was on the tray, or she feared Veronique. As she came close, Juliana tried to make out the design of Azarel’s necklace. Not clay beads, but various kinds of dried mushrooms, strung onto twine. Several were the same color as the decorative hairpin in Azarel’s tresses.
The healer hesitated a few steps from the bed. The objects on the tray were clear to Juliana now: an earthenware mug, one large and one small covered pot, and a wooden spoon. A peculiar, earthy scent wafted; it reminded Juliana of crushed leaves and wet rocks.
“Did you prepare the potion as I asked?” Veronique demanded.
“A-aye, milady. I brought honey to add sweetness, if needed. I-I also finished the facial cream for you, as you commanded.”
“Hand it to me.” Veronique took the small pot from the healer and strode to the trestle table. “Set the tray on the coverlet, Azarel. Stay here and wait till Juliana has drunk the potion.”
Azarel moved to the bedside and, with a slight tremble to her hands, put the tray beside Juliana.
“What is this drink?” Juliana tried not to sound leery.
“’Tis a calming draught to lessen your pain.” Veronique set down the pot of cream. After opening up a cloth bag, she poured the bones inside and drew the drawstring. “Go on. Drink it.”
Juliana clasped her sweaty hands together. Truth be told, she’d rather endure the pain than ingest that concoction. “I will manage.”
“Please, Juliana, do not be difficult,” Veronique went on. “Not after Azarel toiled to make that drink for you. What would Edouard say if he knew you refused the healer’s care? He was so insistent that you be properly looked after.”
Edouard. Juliana’s heart constricted and she looked again at the brew. If it healed her wound, and helped revive her memories, she must drink it. She wanted to be well again, for him.
The potion lurked in the mug; the brownish liquid reminded Juliana of a brackish pond. She quickly lifted the mug to her lips and sipped. The liquid sluiced onto her tongue. It tasted the way it smelled: earthy and raw. Tipping her head back, she downed the rest and, after wiping her lips, set the vessel back on the tray.
“Well done,” Veronique murmured. “I expect you will feel better very soon.” Setting aside the bone bag, she smoothed her hands over her gown and started toward the bed.
An eerie tingle swept through Juliana. Was she imagining it, or were her fingers starting to feel numb? She flexed them. “What herbs are used in that brew?” Juliana gestured to Azarel’s mushrooms. “Did you use any of those in—?”
The shadows in the room were growing fuzzy. She blinked. The inkiness was starting to creep in upon her.
“Why . . ?” Juliana managed to say, before her tongue became . . . heavy, akin to a . . . small pillow in her mouth. Her mind, too . . . was sluggish. Stagnant . . .
“Take her other arm,” Veronique said, sounding far away.
Hands . . . upon her. Pressing . . . her onto the bed.
Juliana groaned. And then, the shadows rushed in upon her.
A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION
CHAPTER TWELVE
Veronique leaned over Juliana, lying on her side on the bed. The young woman slept deeply, eyelids still, jaw relaxed. A grin curved Veronique’s lips. Azarel had done exactly as asked.
But of course she would have. Azarel was a gentle soul. The threat of harm to Edouard and especially her friend Juliana—although Juliana, because of her memory loss, no longer recognized Azarel—was more than enough to convince the healer to make the pain potion a higher potency than normal.
“You may go,” Veronique said, not bothering to look at Azarel. “Take the tray.”
“Of course, milady.”
Veronique continued to hover, waiting until the chamber door closed. Then she exhaled a slow breath as she stretched out a gnarled hand and swept it down Juliana’s glossy tresses, drawing out strands to play over the coverlet. Years ago, when Veronique was younger and Geoffrey’s courtesan, she’d had hair that beautiful. Geoffrey had enjoyed running his fingers through it and for her to wear it loose and flowing.
Her jaw hardened on a stab of resentment as she studied Juliana’s face. Smooth, dewy skin. A delicate nose. Full mouth. Her gaze moved down Juliana’s slender neck to the swell of her firm breasts, then lower, to her belly and hips. The loose chemise didn’t conceal her beauty. No wonder Edouard desired her. Oh, aye, there was no doubt of it. She’d seen the yearning in his eyes, even though she’d heard he was betrothed to Juliana’s younger sister.
Tye, also, lusted for Juliana. This unexpected complication made her fate even more interesting. For two brothers who hated each other to want the same woman made for fascinating sport.
Tye, however, mustn’t lose his focus. Naught must interfere with his destiny to kill his sire and seize the de Lanceau empire. Edouard? Veronique smirked. Despite his noble breeding, he was still a man with carnal needs. If offered the right persuasion—a clean, beautiful, sweetly scented Juliana—he might not be able to resist her.
Imagine the dishonor that would befall his respected family, if he, the heir of Moydenshire’s lord and a soon-to-be-married man, ruined the sister of his betrothed, while being held captive. Even if Veronique ended up killing Edouard, she had ways to make sure that the scandal was well known.
How disappointed Geoffrey would be in Edouard. And the anguish the disgrace would cause the de Lanceau family? Wondrous!
Veronique trailed her fingertip down Juliana’s cheek. “If only you knew what lay ahead—”
“Mother.”
Veronique started. She whirled to squint at Tye, standing barely three steps away. She looked past him to the chamber door. Closed. That meant he’d entered and crossed the planks without her hearing. “When did you come in?” Veronique scowled. “Did you knock?”
Tye grinned. “As Azarel left, I stepped inside. You were so engrossed, I decided not to interrupt. We both know you do not like your concentration disturbed.”
True. The boy did have some sense, after all.
Walking to the bedside, Tye frowned. “Is she all right?”
Veronique smothered a smile. How quaint, that he was concerned. “She is sleeping.”
Tye snorted. “You drugged her.”
“To help with her healing.”
“Rather ironic that you are determined to save her, when days ago you wanted her dead.”
Veronique’s lips tightened at the derision in his tone. Did he believe he’d won the right to challenge her decisions? He hadn’t.
“As you well know, circumstances have changed since days ago,” she said. “We need her to survive, at least long enough to recall where Mayda stowed those jewels. I searched the solar myself earlier and could not find them. We do not have much coin left, you and I,” Veronique added. “I plan to sell the jewels left in Landon’s belongings, but with him dead, we need that money to pay the mercenaries to keep our position here secure.”
Ty
e nodded. “A wise strategy.”
“Once we have Mayda’s jewels, we can hire more mercenaries. You will need an army of warriors to fight at your side when you conquer your sire’s holdings. With Landon’s ring in our possession—”
“We will devise a plan for me to kill my father, so I can seize power in Moydenshire.”
“Exactly.” Veronique winked. “How well you learn.”
A tautness crept into Tye’s features. “Does that mean, then, we do not need Edouard alive? If we get the ring and lure Father into a trap . . .”
“Edouard cannot die yet.” Veronique plucked a fallen, red hair from her sleeve. “I want Geoffrey to suffer. I want him to know the life of his beloved heir is mine, to do with as I please. That Edouard is as worthless to me as you are to your father.” She giggled, barely able to hold back her delight. “I have already sent a missive to Branton Keep, detailing that Edouard is my hostage and Geoffrey must surrender all to us. He will be devastated.”
“Will he?” Tye didn’t look convinced. “Father’s spies will soon alert him we can be found at Waddesford, if they have not done so already. He will not negotiate. He will send his army to crush us.”
Veronique rolled her eyes, as if she spoke with a dim-witted child. “If so, our mercenaries will defend us. In truth, ’tis all the better if he comes here. We will kill Edouard while Geoffrey watches, helpless to stop us. You”—she patted Tye’s cheek—“will then cut down your sire.”
“I will still have the gold ring,” Tye said, clearly following the progression of her thoughts. “’Twill win me audiences with the loyal knights and lords who paid fealty to him, allowing me to murder them, too.” He paused, and his gaze slid to Juliana, still slumbering. “If all unfolds as planned.”
“Why would it not?” Veronique held his gaze, excitement seething inside her like a murky brew. “All that we need to succeed is within our grasp. I promise, you will have your long awaited chance to kill your father.”
Tye was silent.
She waited, ready to crush his hesitation if he didn’t seem convinced.
His lips curved into a dark smile. “When I slay my sire, he will see the loathing on my face.” Rage glinted in Tye’s eyes. “He will know how much I resented his cruel rejection of me years ago. By my sword, I will take my right to be a de Lanceau.”
“You will.”
Tye growled. “Tell me of the day he spurned me.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “I have told you often enough—”
“Tell me again. Now,” Tye demanded. His fisted hands shook.
Touching her face, Veronique hid an elated grin. For him to be this rankled proved he would, indeed, pursue the destiny she’d prepared him for since he was a squalling babe. “That day took place years ago, when you were a little boy,” she said, her thoughts slipping back to the past. “I wanted your father to know about you, but since I was not sure how he would react to the news, I arranged a meeting in a meadow where he could not launch a surprise assault. He arrived with armed men. He looked coldly upon me, holding you in my arms. Even when I told him you were his son, proof of the passion we had enjoyed in his bed at Branton Keep, he remained unmoved.”
Tye scowled.
“He did not believe me,” she went on, bitterness souring her tone. “He said another of my lovers was as likely to be your father.”
The fury in Tye’s gaze intensified. “Not once did he convey the slightest doubt.”
For a fleeting instant, he did, before he regained control of his emotions. “Nay,” she answered.
“Yet you are certain Geoffrey de Lanceau is my father.”
“I am. I was faithful to him. After he cast me aside, I did not take a lover for many days.” She pressed a gnarled hand to her bosom. “I tried to make him listen, Tye, but he accused me of attempting to manipulate him. He ordered me to put you down and surrender to him, to be punished for my past crimes.” She managed to bring tears to her eyes. “I sensed he meant to murder us both. Then he’d no longer have to explain us to his noble family or think about his responsibility to you.”
Tye cursed, a frightening sound. “I never imagined him a man to slaughter a child.”
In truth, your gallant father was concerned you might be harmed, a voice inside her answered. But you need not know that.
“I refused to heed him,” she said firmly.
Instead, Tye, I goaded him with promises you’d grow up to destroy him.
“I refused to put you down and lose you forever,” she insisted.
Why would I, when your body shielded me from his warriors’ weapons?
“Protecting your life was all that was important to me.”
Because, Tye, you are destined to succeed where I failed. You will kill Geoffrey de Lanceau and bring a new legacy to Moydenshire.
“I am surprised, Mother, that you were able to elude my father that day.”
She touched her son’s arm, feeling hard, corded muscles through the fabric of his sleeve. How keenly she felt the anger toward his father seething within him. Good. Just as she wanted.
“’Twas not easy to get away,” she said quietly, “but I had paid mercenaries to protect us. They fought your sire and his men while we escaped.”
I held the knife at your throat, Tye, and threatened to hurt you. That allowed us to get away.
“I thank you, Mother, for risking your life to save me. Without you”—Tye’s visage hardened with loathing—“I might not be alive. How I look forward to slaying my wretched father.”
She smiled. “Naught will stand in the way of our conquest of Moydenshire.”
Tye’s blazing gaze returned to the bed. “Naught, that is, but the lovely Juliana.”
The lovely Juliana, a voice inside her mocked. It didn’t matter if Tye admired her beauty. Juliana was but a means to their victory; once she’d helped them find the hidden jewels, Veronique would have her killed. Whether Tye agreed or not.
“What is to happen to Juliana now?” Tye asked. “Will she stay here in the solar?”
A wicked laugh broke from Veronique. “Your brother must be lonely by now. Take her to the tower. Mayhap he can help awaken her memories.”
***
His boots firmly planted into the pallet, Edouard yanked on the chain attached to his right wrist. With a metallic clink, the links jerked taut, jolting his shoulder and sending white-hot pain through the tendons of his arm. Ignoring the metal biting into his wrist, he glanced back down to the chain’s end, secured to an iron ring bolted into the wall; a little more grit floated down to the planks, but the bolts held firm.
He groaned, rubbed his throbbing shoulder, and let his arm fall to his side. How many times had he tried to free the chain? Ten? Fifteen? He’d thought—hoped—that he’d be able to loosen it from the aging stonework. Anger at his captivity and worry for Juliana had driven him to fight for that freedom. However, he’d made no progress. The day was passing, and unless he came up with another strategy, he’d still be a prisoner by nightfall.
Releasing a harsh sigh, he rubbed his sweaty face. He had to get free. He had to get Juliana and his men away from here and warn his father that his vilest enemies were in Moydenshire.
Ah, God, if only he knew how Juliana fared. Veronique had said she’d locate the healer for Juliana; he hoped she had. What if Juliana perished, and he never saw her again? He could not bear that, especially when he was responsible for bringing her to Waddesford.
Sweat dripped from his brow, stinging his eyes, and he squeezed them shut, giving in to the ache in his heart. Fight, Juliana. Live! I need you to live.
He eased himself down and pressed his back against the wall. He’d rest a short while, then tackle the chain again. Mayhap he could rip open the pallet—with his teeth, if need be—and see if there was aught in the straw filling he could use to wear the stone away from around the bolts.
As he dropped his hands into his lap, the metal around his wrists weighed upon him, a silent, physical taunt.
How he loathed being chained, enslaved to another’s will. Or so Veronique thought. He’d show her how much she’d underestimated the proud de Lanceau spirit.
Along with his fury, he tasted shame. He rammed his fingers into his hair, tightened his grip until he pulled at the roots. How he’d wanted to make his sire proud. He’d wanted so much to succeed in his mission, to prove himself to be worthy of the de Lanceau legacy and capable of one day taking on his father’s responsibilities.
Instead, he’d led his men into a trap. If Veronique and Tye succeeded in the poisoned scheme they were crafting with Edouard as their hostage, doubtless he and his father would be murdered. Moydenshire would be racked with chaos. Many innocent folk could die. How easy, then, for the king to bring in his armies, ally with Veronique and Tye in a false show of heroically restoring peace, and take control of the lands and riches Edouard’s father had worked hard to keep from the king’s influence.
A groan tore from Edouard’s throat. That terrible outcome would be his fault. His, for being taken prisoner and becoming a pawn to the treachery. He’d handed his sire’s enemies every advantage. Veronique had murdered Landon, and, fettered as Edouard was, he couldn’t do one wretched thing to fix the situation.
He could only pray that the man-at-arms he’d sent to Branton Keep, after they had found Juliana in the river, reached his sire. His father might send more warriors out to investigate.
However, it could take days for them to reach Waddesford, and they might well receive the same welcome at the castle as he and his companions.
He couldn’t wait days. His father, in this situation, wouldn’t have done so.
His sire would have fought to escape. So would he.
Shifting on the pallet, he ran his hands over it, studying each dip and bump beneath the covering. There must be a weak patch somewhere . . .
Male voices—belonging to the guards, Edouard guessed—sounded from beyond the door. Veronique likely had returned to taunt him further.
Edouard rose to a crouch and watched the doorway.
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