The Earl: Order of the Broken Blade: Book 4

by Mecca, Cecelia

  Conrad had known it then, and he knew it now.

  “You did not come to the hall.”

  An inconsequential thing, really, given all of the unsaid things that swam between them. But although Conrad was an earl, trained for years to become one, this woman made him feel like an untrained squire. A boy surprised to find the blood of one of the king’s most treasured advisors on the tip of his sword. A boy who cared more for the safety of a young woman he’d just met than for himself, or the fact that he was in very real danger of discovery, and reprisal, for what he had done.

  “I . . .”

  A sound in the passageway distracted her, but Conrad did not flinch. The source of it mattered not. He would not leave his position without answers.

  When she leaned forward to peer past him, Conrad caught the faint scent of roses. It struck him that this was, in fact, the closest he had ever been to her.

  “I would invite you inside—”

  He did not hesitate. Moving past her, careful not to touch her, Conrad entered the chamber, only to freeze as he took in their surroundings. He’d almost forgotten.

  He turned as the door scraped closed.

  “Is it me who startles you so?” she asked, her eyes wide.

  “Nay, ’tis this chamber.” He did not elaborate.

  “The Conrad I remember was not unsettled by anyone. Or anything.”

  How wrong she was.

  Cait lifted her chin. “This was hers, wasn’t it?” she asked.

  In one of the many missives they’d exchanged since the tournament, Conrad had admitted he’d avoided the chambers used by his parents after their death. The lord and lady’s chambers, the lord’s solar, the gardens.

  “How did you know?”

  She didn’t answer at first.

  “’Tis close to the great hall, and more ornate than one might expect for a guest.”

  Every time Cait opened her mouth to speak, he was reminded of the impropriety of this discussion. He imagined closing the distance between them, pulling the only woman he’d ever loved into his arms, and making her his.

  This very night.

  But Conrad had given up on that dream years earlier.

  When she’d abruptly stopped writing him.

  “Why, Cait?”

  Though he could reach her in two long strides, Conrad did not dare move. He needed her answer like he needed air. The not knowing had been so much worse than waiting for word from Dromsley.

  Her letters had brought him more joy than winning his first joust or being named Earl of Licheford. They had partially healed his broken soul when both of his parents had died within a sennight of each other. They had helped soothe his bitter, angry heart after the king turned his back on Conrad’s father—a man who’d always served the crown faithfully.

  As always, bile rose in his throat when he thought of King John’s response to his parents’ simple request. Would it have made a difference if he’d intervened? Terric tended to believe not, but then, they would never know. John had refused. His only consolation was that he’d seen his parents one last time before they’d succumbed to the illness that had spread through Licheford like fire through a field of straw.

  He had told Cait as much in a letter, and her response had done much to allay his anger.

  She sighed, grasping her hands in front of her. “There is much I wish to say.”

  Conrad waited. He wanted nothing more than that explanation, and now that she stood before him, ready to give it, his chest constricted with the anticipation.

  Cait. Here at Licheford.

  Did this mean . . .

  “After that day, hatred consumed Terric. It didn’t matter to him that the man who’d attempted to hurt me was dead. He hated him, and he blamed the king for choosing his companions so poorly. He blames John by association!”

  “I know it well. But that hardly explains why you stopped writing me.”

  “All that hatred changed him.”

  Her delicate shoulders rose and fell, the wood crackling behind them making Conrad well aware of their location—and what would happen should anyone find them here. Neither of them dared to move. To sit. To relax for even a moment.

  “He blamed himself, though I often reminded him that I was not harmed.”

  Conrad shook off the thought of that man on top of her, his hand under her gown. He’d kill him again, if given the chance.

  “So many times I tried to tell him. To explain the truth.”

  “Cait, do not say it.” He knew what was coming.

  “It was my fault. It was my idea to meet you along that river. You warned me it wasn’t safe, but I still insisted, and you were forced to kill that man because of me.”

  “You cannot still believe that.” But he could tell she did. Even before the words left his mouth, Conrad knew she did blame herself. She always had. It wrenched what was left of his heart in two. Although he knew it wouldn’t help, that Cait wouldn’t believe him if he told her it wasn’t her fault, something he’d told her many times, he couldn’t stay silent. “You did not ask to be attacked.”

  Cait was not even listening to him. “You warned me,” she continued, “said it was not safe.”

  He remained silent this time, gently shaking his head.

  “He changed after that day.”

  “And has become quite a man.” He didn’t dare say it, but he suspected Terric was better, stronger, because of what had happened.

  “Why did you stop writing to me?” he asked again.

  A knock at the door prevented Cait from answering.

  “Cait?”

  It was Terric’s wife.

  Another knock. “Cait, are you sleeping?”

  They locked eyes once more, and then Conrad moved to the door.

  “No!” she whispered fiercely, her tone frantic.

  But he would not hide. If she’d come to England after all this time, there was a reason for it. He would learn that reason, but first they would stop hiding that they had been important to each other. They’d done enough of that.

  “Conrad!”

  Conrad glanced at her over his shoulder, not bothering to mask his confusion and pain, then reached the door and pulled it open.

  “She is awake,” he said to Lady Roysa, her rounded eyes no less than what he would have expected. “I was just leaving.”

  “Conrad, wait.”

  He wanted to stay. Part of him was still desperate for answers.

  But the cynic inside him, born of pain and sorrow, insisted it did not matter. He wasn’t the same man who’d been beguiled by a young Scottish lady at the tournament. Who had longed to learn more. Who had fallen in love with that very lady through her letters.

  She was here, aye, but too much had passed between them.

  Chapter 6

  The members of the order had been locked away all morning, but they were no closer to an agreement about how to proceed than when all four men had arrived in Conrad’s south solar. All morning he and Terric had circled each other, a natural extension of the more private conversation they’d had prior to the meeting. When Terric had pulled him aside to ask about Cait, Conrad had answered him directly, his tone unequivocal.

  “’Tis your sister’s story to tell. When she does, I’ll gladly speak of it.”

  The fact that Terric had accepted his stance, though begrudgingly, told him Roysa had not informed her husband of Conrad’s late-night visit.

  They’d begun the meeting and soon reached this stalemate—Conrad believed one course of action was best, Terric and Lance disagreed.

  “We have the authority to communicate directly with the king,” Conrad said again.

  A midday meal had just been brought for them, but none had touched it. Terric, the most vocal opponent to his plan, stood from his seat and moved toward the tray.

  “We cannot wait. The others granted us the authority to act because they expect us to do so.” He picked up a piece of dried meat. “I refuse to wait any longer.”
<
br />   “The waiting,” Lance agreed, “is intolerable.”

  He, too, followed Terric to the tray of food, his blacksmith’s arms flexing as he reached for a chunk of bread. Lance was now the lord of Tuleen, but Conrad could still see the boy he’d been. Brooding but steady, trustworthy to the core.

  “I would not argue with you there.” He leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees. “We would need considerable support from within the city’s gates. Taking London would not be a simple matter.”

  Guy rolled his eyes. “You mean to say we cannot stroll into the city and demand all those loyal to King John lay their weapons at our feet?”

  Getting Guy to be serious apparently took more than a plot to overthrow the king. The man feared nothing. Although his friend’s comment annoyed him, he knew better than to say so. It would only give way to another jest.

  “We can try,” he said instead, shooting Guy a look that his friend cheerfully ignored. Although Conrad’s father had taught him to lead with nothing more than his eyes—such tactics didn’t work on the mercenary. “In fact, I very much like your idea. Let us do it exactly like that.”

  “Very good, then. As it feels like action we must take.”

  At first Conrad thought his friend continued to jest, but Guy’s tone gave him pause. He exchanged a glance with him to confirm it. This was more than a suggestion. The mercenary had a sense of things that could not be explained. Guy was telling him he had as much now. A fact Conrad would not ignore, no matter how unusual his premonitions may seem.

  “You both need to eat,” Terric said, popping another piece of meat into his mouth.

  Nodding, Conrad stood and approached the platter.

  “Roysa said your cook is a man,” Terric commented, reaching for a mug of ale.

  “Elizabeth died,” he said flatly. “The king’s evil.”

  Everyone in the room froze. They all gave him the same look, as if death from such an illness was particularly dreadful.

  Conrad despised pity.

  “But I thought . . . when?” Terric asked.

  “Just last summer.”

  He knew what Terric was going to say. He’d thought Conrad’s parents had been the last two to succumb to the illness that had claimed so many lives at Licheford.

  “No others seemed to be inflicted this time,” he said, refusing to think of his parents. “And thankfully, her wasting away was much more brief than the others.”

  Neither bloodletting nor purgatives did anything to improve her, or the other victims, and although one of the finest physicians in England had attended to her—to them—the treatment had been ineffective.

  With mumbled apologies, the men ate. Conrad was sorry to have soured the mood, but he would not hesitate to use it to his advantage. They needed to provide a united front.

  “The other barons have given us leave to act on their behalf. We move toward London.”

  The others were slow to respond. His tone brooked no argument, and none was given.

  Terric looked at him for a moment, then said, “We will need to send messages ahead to our allies within the city. Should we also shore up our foreign allegiances, specifically ties to France?”

  “We will not all go to London at once, but aye, I believe we should do both.”

  “Are you suggesting we split up? In different directions?” Terric asked.

  “I am,” he said. “We’ll cover more ground that way, and it’ll make it more difficult for his people to find us all.”

  Conrad could see Lance and Guy considering it.

  “Bishop Salerno must be informed at once,” Lance said, naming one of the key supporters of their cause. Without allies in the Church, they had no chance. Keeping the bishop informed was essential. “I will go to him.”

  “Noreham.” Guy grabbed his own mug of ale. “We will ready for London there and coordinate contact with those on the inside.”

  The possibility of taking the city, even though the king was not in residence, had been bandied about since the start of their rebellion. All twenty barons had agreed that seizing it would be the quickest path to gaining John’s agreement to sign the Charter of Liberties, which would essentially blunt his power. But they’d hoped they would not need to take such a risk.

  “I will take my men south, informing the others along the way as well as ensuring French support,” he agreed.

  “And I will bring my men all the way to the city walls. Send the message that we have the men necessary to take the city by force, if needed.” Terric raised his chin, defying any of them to disagree. It was a dangerous proposition, for the only reason a northern border lord would have to be in such a place with a contingent of men was as an open provocation against King John.

  The four men watched one another, each daring the others to voice a final concern. To stop the wheels of war they’d begun to turn.

  But none did.

  It was the logical next step, the path that needed to be taken.

  Chapter 7

  “Cait Kennaugh.”

  Her shoulders sagged at the sound of her brother’s voice behind her. Cait tried to smile but could tell from Roysa’s face her efforts failed. She’d been relieved when the men hadn’t joined them for the midday meal. It had felt like a welcome respite—which had now come to an end.

  “I would like to speak to my sister, if it pleases you.”

  That must have been for the benefit of Roysa, who’d followed Cait out of the great hall, trying to encourage her to go for a walk, a ride, something. What Roysa really wanted was an explanation, she knew. Now she’d have to give one to her brother instead. Roysa shot her a look that clearly indicated she’d stay if Cait wanted her to. Part of her wanted to accept the offer, but it would only be a temporary reprieve. Cait nodded slightly, and Roysa gave her one last look before walking away.

  It was time to confess.

  She’d thought about doing so many times. But she and Conrad had stopped corresponding, and it had no longer seemed so pressing.

  Until her mother had forced her to make a decision about Colin MacGregor. Marry him or else explain why not. He was the son of their closest ally and neighbor. A kind, handsome man any woman would be honored to take as a husband.

  But he was not Conrad.

  And so she’d fled.

  Leaving her mother a note of explanation, she’d followed Rory for as long as possible without being noticed. He’d tried to send her back, of course, but she’d refused, and he’d relented. And now she was here.

  “You wish to speak to me?” she said with a smile.

  Terric had a weakness for smiles. Always had, even as a child. Although hers seemed more effective than most, until Roysa of course.

  He pulled her into an alcove with nothing to recommend it. Just a curved stone wall, an arrowslit, and a semiprivate place to speak.

  “Your smile will not soften me.”

  Ah, but it would. Her brothers could intimidate her on the training field, where their raw strength was on display, but not here. Not in alcoves or drawing rooms.

  “I do love you for caring,” she said honestly. “And for protecting me, always.”

  Still grimacing, though not as deeply, Terric crossed his arms.

  Cait took a deep breath to steady herself. Sharing did not come naturally for her. Perhaps it had, at one time. Cait could not recall. But certainly it did not now.

  “It began quite by accident,” she said at last. “We sat together, you and I, breaking our fast, when Bailey was summoned.”

  Terric’s brows drew together. Apparently he hadn’t expected the discussion would turn to Bradon Moor’s longtime messenger.

  “You gave him a missive, for Conrad. I wanted to add a brief note, but Rory interrupted before I could ask you.”

  “As Rory does.” Finally, a smile from her brother.

  “So I didn’t ask you. I wrote my own note and gave it to Bailey.”

  Thankfully, her mother had thought learning to write was as va
luable as learning to read.

  “A note to Conrad,” Terric said to himself than to her.

  Another servant passed, this time with a tray of freshly baked bread. The kitchens must be located nearby. Cait had not seen much of the keep yet, aside from her chamber and the great hall.

  “Aye. To thank him for”—Terric winced—“helping me.”

  Her brother had likely thought she would say “saving me.” Even after all this time he had difficulty accepting that strangers, specifically Conrad, had come to her aid.

  Cait did not know which of the boys had seen her first or precisely how it had happened. One moment she was using every bit of strength she possessed to attempt to forestall the wretched man’s hand from running up her thigh, and the next Terric was attempting to push him off her. The man, much older and more powerful than her brother, had given him a backhand so powerful it had thrown him to the ground. Three others had rushed forward, one grabbing his hand, another with a sword raised.

  Cait brushed aside the memory. She’d become quite adept at doing so.

  “When he wrote back, I thought to tell you. But . . .”

  Terric’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, just as she’d known they would. This was why she’d kept their correspondence a secret for so long. She forced herself to finish her statement. “I did not.”

  Putting her face in her hands, Cait closed her eyes against her brother’s accusatory glare.

  A moment passed, and then she felt his large hand covering her small one. Her cheeks tingled, but Cait would not let herself cry. Not yet. There was still too much to tell.

  Uncovering her face, she took Terric’s hand and squeezed it.

  “His message contained nothing but a courtesy reply. And that may have been the end of our correspondence.”

  That he continued to hold her hand gave Cait the strength to continue, to say it all at once.

  “It was not. I responded, this time asking Bailey not to mention my addition to your missive. With each letter, the secret grew. Until I stopped writing. I pleaded with Conrad not to make mention of it.”