“Aye?”
Claire swallowed. “At times, I sense he is struggling with himself. ’Tis as if he is waging some kind of private inner war. I sense he…wants more from his life than he currently has, something that is beyond his reach.” Distracted by a burst of raucous laughter from a table of mercenaries, she looked away. “I sound ridiculous.”
“Not entirely ridiculous.”
Claire chuckled. “Why, thank you.”
Mary laughed and poured herself some wine. “From what you have said, it seems as though you believe Tye has a conscience.”
“Mayhap he does.”
Mary thoughtfully sipped her drink. “Beware of thinking kindly of him, Claire. He does not feel guilty for capturing this keep and naming himself lord. Nor is he losing any sleep over the good men who were injured in the siege. You saw how he dismissed your questions about Sutton.”
“True. He does seem convinced he is owed the privilege of being ruler here.” Claire put another bit of bread into her mouth and chewed. “Yet, when he and I are alone—”
“Alone?” Mary went still, her hand clenching her goblet. “What else have you not told me?”
“By alone, I mean that he has come to my chamber to speak to me or, as happened this afternoon, to escort me to the gardens. In those moments, for the briefest time, I see a different man than what he is with his mercenaries. Acting as lord, he is commanding, distant, and cold. When he is with me, there is a warmth in his gaze, a lightness in his voice, even a humor in his words that I find charming. I cannot help wondering if that is the true man.”
“Mother Mary. From your lips, he sounds almost heroic.”
Shrill whistling and chortling erupted from the farthest table of mercenaries. They were teasing one of the maidservants, pulling on her waist-length braid to try and draw her into the lap of a burly thug, and Claire shuddered. “I would not go so far as to say heroic. Intriguing, for certain.”
“You are chronicling all of these musings, I trust, in the journal?”
“I am. I write whenever I know Tye is busy and not likely to walk in on me. ’Tis safest for all of us if he does not know about the journal.”
“I agree.” Mary’s gaze fell to her hands as she broke apart another chunk of cheese. “I dare not imagine what would happen if Veronique found it.”
Misgiving crawled through Claire. She rolled her shoulders, forcing the disquiet away. “I refuse to think about that happening. We must focus on other, more urgent matters.”
Mary nodded solemnly, clearly understanding Claire’s reference to the secret door in the storage room below. Claire stole a glance at the shadowed entrance to the small chamber adjoining the hall, which was used by the servants during feasts and other special occasions to pour out jugs of wine and ale; the doorway to the stairwell leading down to the lower level was in that chamber.
Challenging growls drew Claire’s attention to two mongrels fighting over a chunk of bread. Before the disagreement worsened, Witt, who was seated at the nearest table, snatched a crust off a platter and tossed the bread to the dogs. The larger animal jumped up and snatched the crust from the air and the mongrels went separate ways to devour their findings.
His head downcast, Witt returned to his meal. He was seated beside a plump, gray-haired serving woman who put her arm around his shoulder and gave him an affectionate squeeze. Her mouth moved as she spoke close to his ear, likely words of comfort.
A painful tightness closed around Claire’s heart. She hated to involve Witt in her plan, but he might be the one person who could make it succeed.
Pretending to smooth a wayward strand of her hair, Mary glanced over her shoulder. She spied Witt and then looked back at Claire. Softly, Mary said, “You are going to ask Witt to help us?”
“Aye.” Claire selected another piece of cheese. “With luck, he and I can slip away together and go to the storage room.”
“Wine is often used to cleanse wounds,” Mary said. “If you are questioned at any point, you can say the wine is needed to treat Sutton.”
“Good thinking.” Claire smiled and then added, “Our plan will not work, however, without you. I need you to provide a distraction.”
Mary paled. Then, clearly rallying her courage, she nodded. “What kind of distraction?”
“You are good at fainting.”
“I will do my best to outdo my faint in your chamber.”
“Perfect.” Claire studied the noisy table of mercenaries. The men’s teasing interest in the maidservant had become bolder, but she was thwarting them; she swatted away a leering thug who’d tried to kiss her on the mouth. “There are more than enough bawdy and groping men among Tye’s lackeys,” Claire said. “With the right persuasion, you could encourage at least one of them to mistreat you in a manner worthy of a dramatic swoon.”
Mary’s eyes lit with excitement. Then her face crumpled with concern.
Claire readied words of encouragement, just in case Mary needed more convincing. Without Mary, the plan was certain to fail. However, before Claire could speak, Veronique strolled out of the forebuilding, pushing back the hood of her cloak to reveal her austere, beautiful features. Her red hair gleamed.
A ripple of misgiving spread through Claire. She willed herself to stay calm and focused.
“You look unsettled. Who just entered the hall?” Mary asked.
“Veronique.” Claire forced a smile. “No need to worry. She cannot know what we were discussing.”
The older woman paused at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the second level. Her head tilted, and her gaze traveled over the folk at the tables until she found Claire. As their gazes locked, a freezing jolt raced through Claire, a sensation akin to plunging into an ice-covered river.
A taunting smile curved Veronique’s lips. She lifted her hand, smoothed the front of her cloak, and then started up the stairs, her languid strides suggesting she had no reason to hurry. Claire sensed though that the older woman’s carefree manner was an illusion. Veronique had a very definite place she meant to go and a very deliberate purpose in mind.
Claire fought a rush of foreboding. Whatever Veronique was going to do, it didn’t bode well for anyone at Wode.
Especially Claire.
Veronique closed the door of Claire’s chamber and leaned back against the panel. The mercenaries outside—ugly, stupid louts—would warn her if Claire was returning to her room. If they failed to tell her… Well, they’d been told what mutilations, inflicted on particular male parts, they would endure.
Eyes narrowing, Veronique studied the chamber. The room smelled of fresh air mingled with another essence. Not the perfume of roses, as she preferred. Not violets or lavender, either. The elusive scent reminded her of honey and was both alluring and sweet—a bit like the annoying young woman herself.
Afternoon sunshine washed in from the window, the shutters open to let in the day. Light played over the unpainted stone walls, the floorboards coated in fine dust, the bed that had been neatly made, either by Claire’s own hand or the servant who, judging by the blaze in the hearth, had delivered more firewood earlier and also set fresh pitchers of water and wine on the trestle table.
Veronique walked to the bed. The grass green silk coverlet was embroidered with gold flowers. So pretty. So pathetic for such a costly, sumptuous fabric to be wasted on a bed covering for a woman who wasn’t even the lady of the keep. Her lips curling into a sneer, Veronique dug her fingers into the bedding and yanked, sending the matching pillows flying onto the floor. The honeyed scent rose from the bed sheets, and her mouth flattened in disgust.
How she longed to draw the dagger hidden inside her sleeve, plunge it into the bed, and slash and destroy. That destruction, though, would be too obvious and too easily blamed upon her.
What she needed to accomplish now must be done with discretion, for when at last Tye was recognized by the King as the rightful ruler of Wode, Tye’s loyalty would be to her, his parent, as it should be—not the blue-eyed
beauty who lived in this chamber.
“You will never have Tye’s heart, Claire,” Veronique muttered. “I will make very sure of that.”
Dropping the coverlet, Veronique strode to the linen chest. She threw up the lid and examined the contents. What she sought might be here, or might take more careful searching of the room before she uncovered it. Either way, she would find it—an object that, when presented to Tye, would cause Claire’s utter mortification. What a deliciously satisfying instance that would be, to see Claire brought to her knees by embarrassment.
Veronique eased aside the layers of clothing, shoes, and other items. She frowned and dropped the lid of the chest. What she sought wasn’t inside. The items were personal, but not of an emotionally-charged nature.
Tapping her chin, Veronique studied the chamber again, for there must be something here. She moved down the room, studying the walls for broken mortar, the planks for any loose boards that might conceal a secret cavity beneath. She’d coupled with more than a few lords who kept their riches tucked under the floorboards.
Reaching the bedside again, she set her hands on her hips. Cursing under her breath, she tugged the bedding back into place then skirted the foot of the bed to pick up the pillows.
As she stooped, her gaze fell upon the edge of the bed frame. A thin lip ran along the frame’s edge, a wide enough area to form a narrow shelf. Her mouth curved into a knowing smile as she tossed the pillows on the coverlet and moved to the head of the bed. She reached between the bed frame and the wall, and her fingers brushed smooth leather.
She pulled the object out into the light. ’Twas a book, the first quarter of its pages filled with lines of black ink. The letters were neatly formed and executed with a distinctly feminine flair.
“Well, now.” Veronique opened to the early pages, the pungent scent of cured parchment rising to her nostrils while she read a few lines:
Tye broke into my chamber with his head held high, his strides unwavering, not the slightest trace of humility or remorse in his demeanor. He acted as though he had every right to claim Wode, but that cannot be, for this castle rightfully belongs to Lord de Lanceau. How, then, can Tye believe what he does?
I am cold inside with fear. I am terribly afraid, more so than I have ever been in my life, and not just for myself, but for Lady Brackendale, Mary, and all those I care about.
A gritty laugh welled in Veronique’s throat. How perfect. Yet, there might be sections that were even more revealing. She fingered pages aside and paused near the middle of the entries.
I cannot explain the sensations Tye roused within me. When he took me in his arms, kissed me with such skill and boldness, I was caught up in a wild and powerful storm. A great tempest of confusion, longing, and wonder swirled up inside me. I was frightened, and yet, my heart still soars when I think of that moment. I am ashamed of the way I feel, but I need more. Want more.
“Of course you want more.” Veronique turned to another page. “He has seduced more women than you can possibly imagine.”
I do not know how Tye really feels about me. Yet, his kiss was both demanding and surprisingly gentle. That confuses me all the more. How can such a bitter, ruthless rogue also be tender, especially toward a woman who is no more to him than a prisoner?
Forsooth, there are moments when it seems as if the steel around his heart, armor forged of hatred and ambition, falls away. In those moments, I wonder if I see the real Tye, a man who is far more than he seems at first.
Veronique’s jaw hardened.
A man with a compassionate soul.
“Nay. Nay!” Veronique slammed the tome closed. Tye was not compassionate. She’d raised him not to be, because his destiny was to destroy his sire.
Veronique glared at the journal. She should take it to Tye right now. She’d mock Claire’s words and praise his skills of seduction—with Claire there to witness all. What marvelous fun.
Veronique turned toward the chamber door. As she did so, another, even more tantalizing idea took shape in her thoughts. She trembled with excitement and the anticipation of a truly evil plan.
Laughing softly, she tucked the book back behind the bed and then strolled to the door. A few arrangements to make, and then, Claire would no longer be a threat.
Claire wouldn’t want to see Tye ever again.
Chapter Seventeen
Tye had just pulled open the door to the forebuilding when a shout sounded from the battlements. “Milord!”
The cry, carrying across the bailey, sounded urgent. Fine hairs prickled at the back of Tye’s neck. An immediate hush fell—as though everyone within earshot had paused to hear what was happening.
He turned to look up at the wall walk near the gatehouse, where the cry had originated. A mercenary with a crossbow waved his arm high in the air, determined to have Tye’s attention.
“What is it?” Tye yelled.
“A rider,” the mercenary called back. “He is approaching the gatehouse.”
Tye’s gloved hands closed into fists. Had his father learned of Tye’s capture of Wode? He hadn’t expected to face his sire just yet, but ’twas still possible de Lanceau could be arriving with an army in tow…
Tye ran across the slushy ground and headed for the gatehouse. Braden met Tye halfway.
“One man?” Tye asked as Braden fell into step beside him.
“Aye. According to the mercenaries, there are no others following him. There are no armies in sight, either, from any direction.”
Tye frowned. “He could be a messenger, then. Mayhap he was sent by my sire.”
“Or he could have no connection to your father at all.”
“We must find out the man’s purpose here, above all, if he is a spy.”
“What are your orders?” Braden asked.
“Tell him what we arranged previously: that Lady Brackendale is ill and that there is a deadly sickness running through the castle. This means no one is allowed in or out.”
Braden nodded and veered toward the outer stairs up to the battlements.
“Wait,” Tye called.
The older warrior hesitated and glanced back.
“I will question the man myself.”
Wariness crept into Braden’s expression. “Is that wise? If the rider was hired by your father to confirm you are here—”
“You will be close by, to signal the mercenaries to wound him. We will take him prisoner.”
A ruthless smile curved Braden’s mouth. “Agreed.”
Shoving strands of windblown hair from his face, Tye headed to the shadows of the gatehouse, his gaze on the rider now visible through the wood and iron slats of the portcullis. Tye stood watching as the young man with shoulder-length, light brown hair neared and halted his mount on the bank opposite, where the drawbridge, when lowered, would rest upon the ground.
Lather clung to the gray horse’s coat, indicating the rider had traveled some distance. Tye’s jaw hardened. If his father had sent this lackey, he would have ordered him to reach Wode as soon as possible.
“Good day,” the man called up to the men on the battlements. Then, clearly aware of Tye, his attention shifted to the portcullis. He squinted as though fighting the afternoon sunlight to try and better see who stood in the darkness behind the barrier.
“Good day,” Tye called back. The man’s shoulders were broad beneath his brown wool cloak. He wore a chain mail hauberk under his outer garment and a sword belted at his waist. He could be a knight, although he didn’t appear to be wearing spurs.
“All is well?” the rider asked. The horse snorted and sidestepped several paces, obviously sensing his master’s unease. “’Tis not usual to find the drawbridge up.”
“You visit often, then?” Tye asked, deliberately avoiding a direct answer to the man’s query.
“Often enough that I should not be asked such a question.” The rider’s frown deepened. “Who are you? I do not recognize your voice.”
“I am new,” Tye said easily. “I was hi
red from the village, along with a number of others, when Lord de Lanceau ordered his men-at-arms from Wode to ride with him, not several days ago.”
The young man considered the reply and then nodded.
“You will forgive me,” Tye added, “if I do not know who you are, or why you are here.”
“My name is Delwyn,” the rider said. “Delwyn de Lysonne. I am here for Lady Claire Sevalliere.”
Claire. An unpleasant tightness clenched Tye’s gut. She’d said her betrothed was dead, killed months ago. Was this lad an eager suitor, hoping to win her love? Hoping to claim her for his wife? He appeared of the right social rank, the right age, for that to be so. “What do you want with Claire?”
Tye’s words emerged as a growl, and Delwyn leaned back in his saddle, clearly surprised by the vehemence. “I have a letter for her, from her sister, Johanna. Were you not told to expect letters to be delivered?”
“Nay.”
“He is lying,” Braden muttered, walking up behind Tye.
Tye eyed the older warrior. “Claire does have a sister who sends letters. I have seen them myself.” Read a few of them, too.
Braden shrugged. “Let him talk a little longer, then.” He looked impatient, though, to give the order to have the man injured.
Returning his attention to the rider, Tye said, “The letter is your only purpose for visiting?”
“What other reason would there be?”
Braden hissed a breath.
What other reason, indeed, you bastard.
“Forgive me yet again,” Tye said, forcing calmness into his voice. The rage had risen so easily, but this was not a moment to make reckless mistakes. “I do not mean to offend, but we received word of cutthroats and thieves preying on folk within several leagues of Wode. We were ordered to be extra cautious of visitors at the gates.”
“’Tis wise to be wary, especially in these uncertain times,” Delwyn said. “Yet, even if I was a cutthroat or a thief—and I am not—I am one man, hardly a threat. If you have doubts about my honorable character, Claire will vouch for me.”
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