by Kris Kennedy
“I am here.”
And this was the maddest thing of all: how excitement coursed through her at the sound of his voice. At the assurance he was, in fact, here.
He stood a few feet away, loading packs on his horse.
Their eyes met. She opened her mouth, then shut it again and held her breath. What was there to say? What did he think of her now? What did she think of her?
She thought she was a woman who’d found a man who knew how to have an adventure.
But adventures, however thrilling they might be, were passing things. One could not live a life filled with them: it was not realistic. It was certainly not proper.
It was absolutely not possible.
But notwithstanding all the certainty and sureness, she watched Máel with bated breath, waiting. Hoping…
She did not even know what she was hoping for. But neither had she known last night, and Máel had shown her precisely what she aspired to.
So she waited now, hoping for something she did not understand.
He met her eye and tipped his head to the side with half-closed eyes. Then he blew out a breath and shook his head slowly.
She straightened. He was going to tell her something. Something about what had happened last night. Something about what it had not meant to him.
For a few beats of her heart, he said nothing.
But she knew what he was not saying.
That last night didn’t matter. That nothing mattered. That there was no hope for anything like what they’d experienced. That all was lost and defiled, even last night, and she felt quite furious, imagining all the things he was not going to say.
“Lass—”
“I was sure.”
He stopped. Her words were hard. Strong and direct. She’d never spoken in such a way before. So blunt. So forthright.
It felt quite wonderful.
Even if she was still furious at all the things he’d been not going to say.
She rose from the blankets, keeping one unevenly around her shoulders. His gaze dragged down her body with a focused male look of desire.
“I know what you would say,” she said. “It meant nothing. I am ransom. The world is dark and dying. You are awful. I am arrogant. My father is a worm. There is no hope for the English, for you will wreak your vengeance upon us—”
He reached her in three strides and hauled her up against him. Her words sputtered into silence. She waited to find out, yet again, how she had angered a man.
“It meant something,” he rasped.
The hoarse, harsh murmur filled her with hope. Unrealistic, improper, foolish hope, for there was no future between an outlaw and a lady.
He bent his head and parted her lips with the slowest, sweetest kiss. His lips almost floated from one side of her mouth to the other, depositing light kisses on her bottom lip, then her top. So soft, so gentle, they were barely whispers of a kiss.
“Last night meant something…” he said as his mouth moved over hers, “…last night. Not today.”
“No.”
“Trust me, Cassia. You do not want it to mean something today,” he murmured, still kissing her. And she clung to him, knowing he was right in the thing he had not said: there was no hope for them.
The things that mattered were all past tense. He would return her to her future and ride away.
Which was as it should be. She’d been made for something different.
The kiss ended eventually. All kisses must.
He stepped back, then reached out and tugged the blanket over her shoulders.
“Come, princess. Time to ride.”
Yes. Ride to his sword and her future, a future filled with silk-clad noblemen. There was no place for scruff-jawed warriors who knew how to have an adventure.
Máel guided Fury to the trail and followed it. Vigilance marked his ride: he was not worried about pursuit, for no one but bandits rode into such forests. He was alert to Cassia.
She sat before him, rocking in the saddle, at times humming a little. She’d tried to pin her hair up, but it had only half taken, and long tendrils of it tumbled down her back like a blonde river, swaying back and forth, catching on the fabric of her gown at the nip of her waist.
He stared at those curls until the track emerged from the trees.
“Oh,” she exclaimed softly, and pointed to the east.
A pale sunrise spilled over the land. Pink dusted the low horizon, then expanded upward. A tiny cloud above the land turned russet, then burst into glittering gold. Along the low hump of the earth, a hot, white band of light appeared, grew brighter, brighter yet, then the sun burst up in the sky, a pulsing, liquid gold orb.
She sighed in happiness, then gave a small, almost apologetic laugh and glanced over her shoulder.
“I know it is naught but a sunrise, yet…”
“You like beautiful things,” he said quietly.
She smiled. “I do.” Then she faced forward and, a moment later, began to sing.
Her voice was as clear as the dawn had been. Clear and golden, cascading like droplets of liquid sound.
Las! toz jors la desir,
Et ades voi ma mort,
Et si ne puis morir.
The song told the tale of a pure knight and unrequited love, and how the idiot then went on to die for the woman. But as she continued to sing, her voice rising and mixing with the bird song and the breezes and sun and blue sky, even he almost believed.
Jesus. She truly was noble.
She turned her head slightly, chin over her shoulder. “That was a tale a trouvère sang for me this past winter.” She paused. “It is better with a lute. You do not have a lute in any of your little packs, do you?”
“I lost that pack.”
Her ribs compressed on a silent laugh, then her gaze swung to his. “Did you like it, outlaw?”
“Sing another, princess.”
She flashed him a genuine smile, no guile or purpose behind it, simply pleasure, before facing forward again. “Very well. I have one that was sung by a Goliard cleric. There is drinking in it, so you will enjoy it.”
He smiled to himself.
“It is quite bawdy.”
“My lady,” he murmured.
She laughed.
And so, they rode, the sun rising while Cassia sang bawdy songs in Latin and French for him. He’d never felt the sun shine so brightly, as they moved unerring toward Rose Citadel, so he could get his sword and give her up forever.
Chapter 26
They slipped into the crowds surging through the baileys of Rose Citadel two hours after sunrise.
Getting through the main gates had been simple—everyone was let through in daytime—but getting into the castle itself, day or night, would be a different matter.
Cassia waited while Máel went out into the crowd, “gathering intelligence,” as he called it.
He’d mingled with the flocks shopping at the recently-erected merchant stalls Lord Yves’s had allowed to be installed for the tourney. The town market was the best place to get one’s needs met, but this miniature market could supply anything required on short notice: meat pasties; silver-eyed sewing needles; riding spurs; spicy peppercorns.
Cassia watched, the hood of his cloak tugged up over her head, as Máel spoke to various people, tending, she noticed with irritation, toward the most beautiful women.
He rejoined her and reported back.
“They say your father has been gone since last night. He gave out that he had sudden, urgent business requiring his attendance, and did not wish to leave his devoted daughter behind. That is the reason they think you—and he—are gone.”
“Which woman told you that?” she snapped. “The one wearing green or the one with the extremely high eyebrows?”
He looked surprised, then smiled. “Jealous, lass?”
“Jealous of what?” She turned away.
The crowds were dense and happy. Even at this early hour, more than a few were half-drunk, some on ale and some
simply addled by merriment. In the lists beyond, jousts were happening. She heard the clash of wood and excited cheers. She felt as though she was in a dream.
How was this the real world? How had this all been happening—the pennants, the music, the jousting, the drama of it all—how had this all been going on, while she was lost in an otherworld of moonlit forests and outlaw passion?
It seemed so much less real than Máel’s touch.
And no one cared that she’d been gone. Without her father to corral and correct her, no one quite cared one way or the other.
It was rather freeing.
“The question remains,” she said, “how do we get inside?”
“Only one way.” Their eyes met.
“Straight through the front door?” she asked unhappily.
He nodded. “They never expect you to do that.”
“Yes, there is a reason they don’t expect it,” she replied, her heart quaking. “Because it is reckless.”
“Recall, lass, you faced down a boar.”
She blew out a shaky laugh. “How are you so brave?” she asked weakly as they walked to the castle gates.
“I’m not brave. I’m reckless.”
“That does not help at all,” she scolded in a whisper.
She felt him smile.
But his hand, lightly touching the small of her back, not pushing her, not even guiding her, just…touching her, helped a great deal when they drew up at the front doors of Rose Citadel.
It was shockingly easy to get past the door wardens: a lady, any lady, was allowed through, as was any man at her side.
Cassia did not even have to announce who she was. She flashed her silks and her smile, and they waved her through.
Máel disapproved of the lax security, but very much approved of the way Cassia had smiled at the guards. They’d been transfixed.
Idiots.
He recalled how he had almost had his tent burned down around his ears because he’d been transfixed.
Idiot.
The guards had not even noticed that she was wearing a cloak on a summer day. Never wondered what she might be hiding beneath. Her smile was all that was required. She was noble. The world opened itself to people like her.
Inside, the great hall was bustling like a market square. People rushed everywhere. Servants carried candle nubs and buckets of water. Ladies laughed and held out sleeves that needed stitching. Knights tested their sword moves and called to squires to re-oil their armor.
She guided them through it all, keeping her head down, until a hand reached out and drew her to a stop.
“Lady Cassia!”
It was Sir Bennett, buckling on his armor. A red-faced young squire stood by his side, tilting sideways under the weight of the iron in his arms.
“Are you back so soon, my lady?”
“I— Yes.”
“At first, we thought you’d been abducted.”
She froze, then he laughed as if a gentle, amusing tale had been told.
“I jest. Your father guards you like you are his last treasure. Which you are. Until you are mine.”
He gave her a look that she presumed was meant to be provocative: eyes wide, brows up and wiggling.
She thought of Máel and his slow smile. His distrust of everything easy. His hands, his mouth, his mission.
Show me how you wish it done.
“But I thought you had gone with your father. Has he returned as well?” Bennett asked, turning to peer at the wide-open doors.
She assembled a smile on her face. “Not yet. I had to return to—”
“Because there were rumors.” Sir Bennett interrupted.
She stilled. “Rumors?
“Of an Irishman. Lord Yves is on the lookout.”
The pasted smile became brittle, so stiff she felt it would break in two. “Is he?” She did not dare turn to see precisely where Máel stood, but she hoped he was far, far back.
“Yes.” Sir Bennett cuffed his young squire on the back of the head when the boy moved too slowly, then turned to her. “We must keep you safe, my lady. You will be under my protection until your father returns.”
“Oh, I don’t think I shall require—”
“I insist.”
A presence coalesced beside her. Powerful, ruffianly… She looked up at Máel.
Sir Bennett did as well. He eyed Máel up and down with a cool, derisive glance. “And you are…?”
“My father’s man-at-arms,” she said swiftly, adopting a regal tone, for it kept her voice from shaking.
“Ah.” The information was enough to lose all Bennett’s interest—he cared nothing for commoners or anyone faintly resembling them. Instead, he reached for her hand.
“Come, lady, my joust begins in a trice. Watch me win. You shall be my honored guest.”
“Oh, no, I am sorry, I cannot—”
“I have bid you come.” His voice was harder, and the remote respect in his eyes turned to something far colder.
Máel didn’t move in a way that anyone would have noticed, but Cassia felt the rising energy of him at her back. He was preparing himself.
If he unleashed, they would be doomed.
She extracted her hand with a swift little twist. “Of course,” she said with a smile and bent head. “I must away momentarily, but I will surely be there to watch you win.”
She gave a curtsey, meant to mollify, for that is the way one had to deal with such men.
On balance, she preferred the outlaw to the knight.
Of course, there was no balance. Such choices were not in her control. But notwithstanding everything, she would get Máel his family’s sword.
She hurried away, Máel at her side, and guided them to the stairs. Up they went, around and around the curving passageway, moving faster on every step.
Lord Yves’s voice sounded from a distant landing, coming down the stairs.
“Hurry,” Máel murmured.
A delicate sweat formed on her neck and arms. They reached the landing where her room lay. Stepping out of the stairwell, they hurried to the door. She scrambled for the key, held in a pouch always tied to her girdle.
The key was gone.
The thin slick of sweat on her skin grew thicker. Her fingers dug inside. She heard people in the distance. Lord Yves’s voice grew louder. He was descending the stairs.
She ripped the pouch open, half panicked.
Máel stepped forward. “Give me a pin from your hair.”
She lifted a shaking hand and drew one out.
Leaning low, he thrust it into the lock. Wiggling it, he turned and gave a push. It sprang open.
They rushed inside. Cassia slammed the door shut and leaned against it, her palms on the wood.
“I would have killed him for you.”
She looked over at the sound of Máel’s voice. He stood beside her. Not propped against the door, not trying to bar the world from entering, not panicked, not scared. Just standing like a mountain, like some sovereign thing, redoubtable in the midst of all chaos.
“And then you’d have been killed yourself,” she retorted shakily. “And never got your sword.”
“That is not your concern.”
She stepped away from the door. “I wish for someone to have a home. And from what you have said, that is this sword.”
He stared at her a moment, then bent and touched his mouth to hers. She wanted nothing more than to disappear into this kiss, to run back to the forest with him and forget the world.
But the world would find her, and there was no hope except to do this one small deed, and thereby make the world a slightly better place.
The bright sunlight burning outside barely stretched a foot into the room. She moved into the slanted yellow light, toward her trunk.
“It is in this one,” she whispered, then stopped short.
The coffer was flung open.
Her clothes had been tossed out, as if someone had dug through the chest in a hurry, seeking something that lay wit
hin.
Only one other person had the key.
Understanding dawned in slow, painful degrees.
She denied what her heart told her. Rushing to the trunk, she knelt in front and began flinging aside the few remaining gowns, searching, but it was a lost cause. There was nothing underneath.
The sword was gone.
She slumped to the ground, her arms resting on the wooden edge of the coffer.
Máel’s boot scraped behind her. “It looks as though your father betrayed us both.” Fury was in his voice, but as always, it was controlled.
He was right. She’d been betrayed.
The sword had been here, ready to be handed over, but instead, her father had handed over Cassia.
She bent her head, crushed by the knowledge. How could she matter so little?
How could a sword matter so much?
She lifted her head an inch. A sword, however legendary it might be, could not matter so much, not unless it had the power to cast spells from the grave.
The realization was a seed. It took root and blossomed to a hard certainty in seconds.
Máel did not have something her father feared.
He knew something.
She slowly got to her feet. “Why is my father frightened of you?”
He didn’t reply.
She took a step closer. “What did my father do?”
Through the strange shadows of the room, sun bright and tourmaline black, he watched her, saying nothing.
Her next step took right to him. She stared up into his blue eyes, which just now were not so much unreadable as opaque. He would not let her in.
“What did he do?” she said again. “What did you do? What do you know?” She pushed on his chest. “What have you done?”
He took hold of her wrists and held them in the air. “Your father is a traitor, Cassia.”
She tore her hands free. “No.”
“Aye.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“I delivered messages between him and the rebels.”
She shook her head harder. “No. Whatever else my father is, he is loyal. Utterly loyal. He has always been loyal—”
“To you?”
She jerked away as if struck.
Sounds of revelry poured through the window. Laughter and happy shouts, lutes and fiddles, the cries of wine sellers.