“Next you will be telling me your heart is telling you to act so.”
He chuckled, the sound devoid of mirth. “I lost my heart ages ago. You made sure of that.”
“I did, and rightly so. No warrior of any merit relies on his emotions. He depends on his wits, fighting skills, and, when necessary, cold-blooded deceit.”
“Claire is hardly an opponent in the tournament lists or on the battlefield, Mother.”
“She is still an adversary.”
Shaking his head, he muttered, “Do not worry. I know very well how at odds she and I are in a great many matters.”
“I should hope so.” Veronique brushed a crease from her cloak sleeve. “’Tis the way it must be if we are to win this final battle against your sire and then seize all that was his. Our victory is what is important. I hardly need to remind you, do I?”
The sharpness of her words made Tye curl his gloved fingers against the rough stone. “Mother—”
“I would hate to think you held notions of any kind of lasting attachment to Claire. You do know better.”
How just like his mother to remind him of the reality of his position, to ensure he knew that a pure-blooded, cultured young woman like Claire was worthy of a far greater man than he could ever be.
For all that he had done in his life, Claire did deserve better.
Tye’s attention once again on the two women who were climbing to their feet, he said, “I need no reminders. Your efforts would be better spent elsewhere.”
Veronique frowned, causing a crease to form in the layer of fine powder dusting her brow. “Elsewhere?”
“Braden was to give me a full accounting of the weapons in the keep’s armory by this morning. He has not yet presented me with his list.”
Coyness glinted in his mother’s eyes, a look that told Tye exactly what had delayed Braden. “He has been very busy—”
“I expect that list by sundown.” When she gasped in outrage, Tye held her stare, refusing to back down. “Will you go and remind him, or must I?”
A choking rush of fury whipped through Veronique. What bloody nerve! What rudeness from her own son.
She swallowed the unpleasant burn of anger, even as her gaze warred with Tye’s. He didn’t flinch, didn’t glance away, or give the slightest indication that he was going to relent, not even when the breeze whipped hair into his eyes. In this battle of wills, they were an even match.
Pride, fierce and bittersweet, dimmed the acidic burn of her fury, before she forced herself to break his stare and look down at the mottled stone wall between them. Better that she was the one to yield. Better that she let him believe he was in full control, having all within the keep at his command, even her. If his own mother didn’t respect him as lord, no one else would, and without doubt, their confrontation was being witnessed by not only the two ladies, but others going about their work in the bailey. She had to play her part, no matter how much it galled her.
After a moment had passed—long enough for Tye to believe she’d acknowledged him as the victor—she raised her gaze. She’d wrestled the anger into submission, but still, she suffered an uncomfortable tightness in her chest. Lodged like a jagged rock against her breastbone, ’twas a sensation she’d rarely experienced, but, each time, it had been caused by Tye. Each time, it had happened after he’d dismissed her advice as though her opinions held no weight.
She was his mother. He owed her, more than he could ever hope to repay.
“Well?” Tye demanded.
Some of the pressure in her chest eased, for she enjoyed knowing she’d kept him waiting for a reply. “I will find Braden and ask about the list.”
“Good.”
“There is one other matter,” she said crisply.
“Aye?”
“Aye. Next time we speak, you will not use such a foul tone with me. I will not be spoken to in that way.”
Tye studied her and then the ladies who were now walking arm in arm in the garden.
“Well?” Veronique mimicked the tone he’d used when speaking to her moments ago and glared at him as she had when he was a boy, when she expected immediate compliance.
“Fine.”
Not “Yes, Mother.” Not “I am sorry for being rude, Mother.” Merely a curt and dismissive “Fine.”
Veronique fought a fresh surge of anguish. She strangled the emotion, killing it with the rage she’d nurtured for years and years and that she’d learned to draw upon at the slightest provocation.
Rage had kept her alive after Geoffrey had cast her aside and taken Elizabeth Brackendale to be his wife. Rage had sustained her through childbirth and raising Tye on her own in France, and rage would continue to sustain her, even after Tye slew his sire and Geoffrey was finally dead.
Rage, too, would give her the cunning she needed to ensure Tye did as she expected of him.
Refusing to meet her son’s stare again, refusing to say goodbye, she turned and started across the bailey. As she left the shadows of the fruit trees and entered full sunlight, she smiled, for she sensed Tye wrestling with surprise, guilt, and anger over the way she’d walked away without the courtesy of a single parting word.
She hoped he fought with his conscience for the rest of the day.
Her thoughts slipped back to the way he’d looked a short while ago, when he’d watched Claire. Before he’d gathered his composure, she’d caught an expression on his face she’d never seen before. Admiration? Respect? Affection, even?
Anguish welled again, but Veronique smashed it back down. No lady was going to stand in the way of Tye’s destiny, most certainly not a pretty virgin.
Veronique’s smile broadened. The day promised to be interesting indeed.
Chapter Sixteen
Claire walked beside Mary, following the raised stone wall of the herb beds peeking through the snow. In hushed tones, Claire said, “Remember to nod and smile as though I am telling you an amusing story.”
“All right.” Mary managed a grin. “Are you going to tell me terrible news?”
“Nay.”
“Thank goodness, because if that were so—”
“Listen, now,” Claire said, more sharply than she’d intended. “I am sorry. I do not mean to be impatient, but I do not know how much longer we have until Tye separates us again.”
In the sunlight filtering down through the fruit trees, Mary looked troubled, but she dipped her head and smiled. “Go on.”
“I may need your help. ’Twill depend whether I can get to the storage chambers myself or not.”
“The chambers beneath the keep?”
“Aye. Last night, Lady Brackendale was having nightmares, and Tye took me to her chamber to calm her. She told me of a secret passageway in the room that holds the wine and ale. ’Tis a way into the castle that de Lanceau will know from when he lived here as a child. I must somehow get to the cellars and unlock the door, so all is ready when his lordship arrives with his army to confront Tye.”
Mary frowned. “That sounds dangerous. If Tye finds out, or even worse, his mother… The way she treated Lady Brackendale in the hall—”
“I know,” Claire said, “but it may be the only way to free us all. ’Tis a risk the strong-willed damsels in our stories would take, if they were in our predicament.”
Mary laughed softly. “Thank goodness for strong-willed damsels.”
“Will you help me?”
“Of course. Whatever you need me to do, I shall do.” Her smile didn’t completely hide her grimace. “I shall be utterly terrified, my stomach twisted in knots, my knees banging together like broken shutters, but I shall think of our defiant damsels and do my best. And I promise not to faint this time. Not unless you need me to.”
Claire squeezed Mary’s arm. “Thank you. Now, help me think of a good reason to visit the cellars. One that Tye and his men will believe.”
“Hmm.” A pair of jays, flitting through the overhead boughs, suddenly swooped down over the garden beds ahead of them. “I sup
pose ’tis not enough to claim that Tye’s conquest of Wode has driven you to drink?”
Claire shook her head.
“Or that his kiss left such a foul taste in your mouth, you needed to rinse it out with a strong liqueur?”
Heat spread across Claire’s face. “Actually, when he kissed me—”
Mary came to an abrupt stop. “He did kiss you! I knew it. I just knew, from the way he has been staring at you.”
Claire caught both of Mary’s hands in hers. “Listen—”
“Did he force you? Did he try to take more than a kiss? Did he…ravish you? If he has dishonored you—”
“He has not.” Claire heard the crunch of approaching footfalls. “In truth, he has been far more chivalrous than I ever expected.”
Mary gaped. Questions glimmered in her eyes. She was clearly bursting to ask just how chivalrous Tye had been, to glean all of the tiniest details, but he’d drawn near.
With his nearness came a swift flare of longing and forbidden desire. Trying to keep control of her unruly emotions, Claire kept her expression cool and glanced in his direction, acknowledging him but not saying a word.
“’Tis enough of a walk for today,” he said.
“Tomorrow, then?” Claire dared to ask.
“We will see.”
“Thank you, though, for today,” Mary said. “’Twas a delightful surprise.”
For an instant the wariness left his features. He smiled, a flash of his even, white teeth, and warmth lit his gray eyes. He could seduce a woman with that smile. Caught in the full force of that roguish charm, Mary blushed scarlet.
Claire fought a sudden, unexpected sting of jealousy. How stupid to feel at all jealous. Tye meant naught to her, was naught to her. Once de Lanceau regained control of Wode, she’d never see Tye again.
“I am glad you enjoyed the walk.” He gestured toward the gate. “Now, you will return to the keep.”
A protest welled within Claire, for she’d much rather linger in the garden. Making a fuss now, though, might mean she’d be denied more walks. If she was confined to her chamber, there was no chance whatsoever of her finding a way down to the cellars and completing what needed to be done. She couldn’t ruin that chance; Lady Brackendale was depending upon her.
Claire nodded her assent, took Mary’s arm again, and started for the gate. Tye followed a few steps behind. Claire sensed his gaze upon her back.
Were you thinking about me undressing one of my lovers? My palms skimming over her gown. My fingers unfastening the ties down the side, one by one. My hands, drawing up her soft linen chemise—
“Claire?” Mary whispered. “Are you all right?”
Claire found she’d reached the gate. Her face hot, she lifted the latch and pushed through, pulling Mary along with her. In no way was Claire going to discuss the sinful thoughts taunting her. Certainly not with Tye in earshot.
The bailey ahead was more crowded than earlier in the day. Servants were hauling buckets of water from the well to take to the kitchens. A group of maidservants scrubbing clothes in steaming wooden tubs looked at Claire and Mary, but swiftly returned their attention to their tasks, as though afraid the mercenaries on guard might think they were not doing their chores.
A boy hurried from the kitchen doorway. His hair a tangled mess, his expression grim, he lugged a bucket wreathed in steam. He stared straight ahead to where he seemed to be going: the dungeon.
Mary tugged on Claire’s sleeve. “That boy. ’Tis Witt, Sutton’s grandson.”
Claire slowed and faced Tye. Clearly not expecting her to stop so suddenly, he almost barreled straight into her, before he halted, frowning.
“Milord, how is Sutton faring?” Claire asked.
“Not well. He has a fever.”
“Oh, the poor man,” Mary whispered.
“You must help him,” Claire said. “He cannot die.”
Tye’s eyes narrowed. “He is a prisoner, injured in battle. Some prisoners perish. ’Tis the way of things.”
Claire sucked in a sharp breath. He sounded so heartless, as though Sutton’s fate was not his concern. From all she’d discovered about Tye, he didn’t seem as cruel in his dealings with the castle folk as his mother seemed to be. “That may be one opinion on the matter,” she said evenly. “However, since you have declared yourself lord of this keep, every man, woman, and child here is now your responsibility, including wounded prisoners.”
“True, and I have not neglected the captives or my responsibility to Sutton. His wounds are being tended. His wife helps care for him, and Witt is at his bedside every day.”
“Are you saying no more can be done for Sutton? That he is receiving all of the care that his fever and wounds require?”
“Claire—”
“They are fair questions, my lord.”
Menace sparked in his eyes. “They are also very bold questions, Kitten. Mayhap you need a firm reminder that you, also, are a prisoner. My prisoner.” His gaze slid slowly down the front of her cloak.
“We should return to our chambers,” Mary said, pulling on Claire’s sleeve again.
“In a moment.” They were discussing the wellbeing of an honored warrior who had devoted years of his life to defending Wode. Her anxieties must not overrule such an important conversation. “May we see Sutton?”
“Why?”
“He is a good man. A friend.”
Tye’s expression darkened with suspicion.
“A visit from us might lift his spirits,” Claire insisted. “He may be worried about us. It might help him to see we are all right.”
“In his fevered state, I doubt he will recognize you. Moreover, do you really wish to see his injuries? They are not pleasant.”
Ignoring the whining protest of her belly, Claire said, “Let us see him.”
Tye’s gaze slid from her to a point beyond her shoulder. Someone or something else had claimed his attention.
“You will not visit Sutton today,” Tye said, summoning a mercenary who was standing nearby. “Take these women to the great hall. They may eat the midday meal there. If they give you any trouble, secure them in their chambers.” His gaze settled again on Claire. “If they give you any trouble, I want to be informed as soon as possible.”
Wode’s great hall echoed with the bawdy laughter and loud voices of mercenaries enjoying their meal. Maidservants wove between the tables, delivering jugs of ale and wine along with platters of bread and cheese. Dogs, waiting for stray bits of food, hovered near the benches where the men sat. Half of the tables were occupied, and the mercenary walking behind Claire and Mary ordered them over to a vacant table near the opposite wall. ’Twas a relief, to be separated from the raucous thugs, but the table was a fair distance from any way out of the hall.
“I will be watching you,” the mercenary said. He cast a warning glare at Claire, then Mary, before heading to a table close by, dropping down on the bench, dragging over a platter of food, and stuffing a slice of bread into his mouth.
Mary sighed as she settled on the bench opposite Claire. “That walk was far too short.”
Claire managed a smile. “At least we are getting to see each other.”
“True.” Mary’s eyes shone. “Now I also know you were kissed. By him, no less.”
Claire pulled off her gloves, taking her time, for she didn’t want to speak in front of the serving girl who was approaching their table. The girl slid a wooden board of sliced cheese and bread in front of them. A second maidservant set down a jug of wine and two mugs, dipped into a quick curtsy, and then rushed away.
Her arms resting on the table, Mary leaned forward. “No one else is near enough to hear now. So, what was it like?”
“Well—”
“Was it a disgusting, wet, slimy ordeal you forced yourself to endure? Or was it as wonderful as we wrote in our stories?”
’Twas even more wonderful than we described. Truth be told, ’twas even better than Henry’s perfect kiss. Claire fought the urge to gigg
le.
“Were his lips soft and gentle? Or were they rough with passion, hot with the villainous desire burning through him?”
Oh, God. “Mary—”
“If you deny me the details, Claire, I will be most upset.”
“I was not intending to deny you,” Claire insisted, reaching for a slice of bread and a wedge of cheese.
“I am glad to hear it.” Mary arched her brows. “Well?”
Claire bit off some bread and slowly chewed. “His kisses were—”
“Kisses. He kissed you more than once, then?”
Claire finished what was in her mouth. “Aye.”
“Let me guess. He pinned you against the wall so you were helpless to resist, then ravished your mouth. Once he’d kissed you to within a breath of fainting, he promised more wickedness if you did not bow down to him.”
A bite of cheese lodged halfway down Claire’s throat. She coughed, choked, and fumbled for the wine jug. With an impatient huff, Mary poured some of the crimson liquid into a mug and pushed it into Claire’s hands.
Claire downed some of the wine. The strong red made her eyes water.
“Well?” Mary demanded, biting into a piece of cheese. “Was I right?”
Blinking hard, Claire cleared the teary blur from her vision. Then, she took another sip. “He was a bit demanding in his attentions,” she said. “However, I cannot say that ravished is quite the right word to describe what he did to my lips.”
“Abused them?”
“Nay.”
“Conquered them?”
Claire frowned. “Not really.”
“What then? Wooed them?”
Shrugging, Claire said, “Wooed is the best word you have suggested so far.”
Mary blinked like a startled owl. “Goodness.”
“For a warrior of his ilk, I would say he has shown rather chivalrous restraint.”
Two loud heartbeats thudded in Claire’s ears, before Mary frowned. “Forgive me, but I find that very hard to believe, especially of a thug who has ruthlessly claimed Wode and who has likely been conquering women as well as castles all of his life.”
“I, too, find it hard to believe. And yet…” Claire shook her head, pulled some bread off the thick slice in her hand, and put the morsel in her mouth.
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