Rich or poor, lord or serf, they each had that much in common. Love and loss. No one was immune to its bitter touch.
Anselm had lost as much as anyone, if not more. However, even deep in repose, his brothers’ face was nigh on impossible to read. Although he smiled often, Anselm seldom relaxed enough to let down his guard. Perhaps he never did.
Vadim frowned. Did anyone really know him, this man he called brother? But then, could the same not be said of them all? Who could say, with utter conviction, that they truly knew anyone?
Nonetheless, something was definitely off-kilter in Anselm’s world. Not their earlier quarrel—Vadim had already apologized for that. No, this was something else.
Since returning from the queen’s enclosure, Anselm’s feathers had seemed unusually ruffled. According to Vadim’s spies, except for the brief greeting he’d exchanged with other members of the royal family, Princess Miriam was the only person Anselm had properly conversed with.
Was she the reason for the cracks in Anselm’s, usually smooth, facade? Vadim sincerely hoped that he was wrong. After all, Princess Miriam was the king’s half-sister—royalty, no less. A woman far beyond the reach of Anselm or any other humble knight.
Surely he wouldn’t have aimed so high? Not deliberately.
On the night when the princess had upended a jug of wine over his head—so ruining his best tunic—Anselm had been absolutely livid. Although the two of them had danced together, later, their quarrel apparently set aside, Vadim had been quietly concerned. For, as he knew to his cost, Anselm had never been one to let go of a perfectly good grudge.
How was it then that he and the princess suddenly seemed on such… intimate terms? How had he known about Miriam’s pirate lover when the rest of them—family, palace guards and various chaperones alike—had not? Had the princess confided in him? Surely not. But what other explanation was there, unless he had gained his intelligence from another source?
At that moment, Anselm’s hand paused upon his whetstone. Slowly turning his head, he looked over to where Vadim stood half-concealed in the tent doorway and raised his chin in an unspoken salute.
Suddenly Vadim knew precisely where Anselm had obtained his information. Unless he was much mistaken, some of it had to have come via the gift of The Sight he had inherited from his paternal grandmother.
Vadim returned Anselm’s silent acknowledgment with a smile. So his gift had grown stronger, had it? It was fortunate then, that they were no longer on opposing sides. Life might prove extremely challenging with such an all-seeing enemy.
Clad only in her light shift, Miriam lay upon her bed in the tent she shared with her sister. She stared up at the gently flapping roof while she listened to the music coming from Lord Edgeway’s camp.
Whoever this musician was, the man was truly gifted. Such skills were worthy of anyone’s hall. A sigh of pleasure escaped her lips. Although she possessed a reasonable singing voice, Miriam’s modest talent was nothing when compared with Catherine’s ability for her sister sang like a sky lark, and with all the sweetness that her everyday character lacked.
If they ever did manage to shake off Fabien and his men, perhaps Catherine might be persuaded to accompany Lord Edgeway’s mystery musician. She’d always loved being at the center of an adoring audience, so convincing her to perform wouldn’t be too difficult.
Almost as if she had heard her name in Miriam’s thoughts, Catherine moaned in her sleep and rolled onto her side, the little cot creaking beneath her. By the dim glow of the oil lamp, Miriam saw a tiny smile upon her sister’s lips. What was she dreaming of… or of whom?
It was no secret that Catherine longed to make a good marriage. Indeed, for as long as Miriam could remember, her sister had often spoken of the day she would leave the guardianship of her brother and her sister-in-law to become mistress of her own home. A powerful husband and a brood of beautiful children were other essential ingredients in Catherine’s recipe for the perfect life.
As much as Miriam loved her family, she too dreamed of change. Not of marriage. Oh no. It was adventure she longed for, the chance to test her wings in some new place and maybe learn to fly. At one time she believed she’d found such a life with Fabien. Alas, the reality of the man did not quite tally up with the Fabien of her dreams.
She sighed, the music transporting her mood to one of slight melancholy. Why couldn’t real life be more like her dreams? Sometimes Miriam wished she’d been born a peasant instead of a princess. After so many years cloistered away in a palace, protected from the many evils of the world, Miriam was at the stage where she considered any change of scenery to be rather a good thing. While the road to the Norlands might not be the adventure she had envisaged, it was still an adventure.
Tiny wings of excitement fluttered inside her heart. The company wasn’t entirely unacceptable, either.
So far on the journey, Catherine and her friends had been mooning themselves silly over the handsome Lord Vadim and his noble knights. Miriam had to admit, with their good looks and gallant politeness, the Northmen were far more attractive than she’d expected them to be, a long way from the hairy, unwashed savages she had imagined.
Unwanted and uncalled for, an image of Sir Anselm slipped easily into her mind. With a huff of irritation, Miriam tried to force him away, but as she’d recently discovered, Anselm wasn’t an easy man to banish.
For all his many, many faults, Miriam couldn’t deny that almost from the moment of his arrival in Haldenberg, Sir Anselm had managed to stir something deep inside her—something not even Fabien had been able to reach, even on those rare occasions when he was being attentive.
If nothing else, Anselm’s timely arrival had served as a long-overdue bucket of cold water upon her inflamed senses, effectively dousing out the flames of passion Fabien had somehow managed to ignite. Now it felt like he’d never existed. Well, almost. She mustn’t forget that he and his band of cutthroats were still out there somewhere, hidden by the night, carefully plotting their revenge.
Closing her eyes, Miriam conjured up Anselm’s face. Surely it couldn’t hurt to indulge herself and think of him for a while.
What was it about him that always made her slightly breathless in his presence? With his golden hair, the color of sun-ripened corn, and those unusually changeable silver-gray eyes of his, Sir Anselm was not her usual type.
Not outwardly, although there was much to be admired in the lithe musculature of his tanned body—to say nothing of his many scars. Curiously, Miriam did not consider those silvery remnants of past pain as disfigurements, for they attracted rather than repelled her. Part of her longed to examine his old wounds, to trace their puckered outlines with her fingers while Anselm recounted the origin of each and every one to her. Those marks each had their own story to tell, an account of the life Anselm had lived in the days before they had met. How Miriam longed to hear him speak of them.
Turning onto her side, Miriam tried to ignore the heat pooling deep in the pit of her stomach. But the liquid fire only spread lower, making her grimace and squirm.
Far away in the distance, a desert dog howled. Was the musician’s song responsible for such a plaintive cry? Did the animal dream of a lost mate, or the love of a new one, perhaps? Miriam smiled at her own fancy. Doubtless the dog was just hungry and was signaling to the rest of his pack that he’d spotted food.
Miriam was rather hungry herself—for what, she could not tell. But food would have to suffice for now.
Cautiously, so as not to rouse Catherine, she crept from her bed, wincing at every creak and crack of the cot’s sturdy wooden frame. The heat of day still clung to the evening, so Miriam didn’t bother hunting for her wrap. Instead, she tiptoed barefoot out of the tent, being careful to give a wide berth to the two maidservants who lay snoring on a shared pallet by the door.
Just one final obstacle remained. The guards outside the tent.
> Hardly daring to breathe, Miriam slipped through the door flap. Then, as silently as possible, keeping her back close to, but not touching, the canvas, she slowly edged her way past the two sentries who sat at a low table outside, engaged in a game of counters. Unnoticed by either man, Miriam managed to slip by.
Still, the mystery musician played on.
A bright gibbous moon made the task of negotiating her way through the tangle of guide ropes a little less hazardous than it would have been in total darkness. Occasionally, Miriam heard the rumble of voices coming from inside the tents she passed, but she trod lightly so as not to alert anyone.
Carefully avoiding the posted sentries, she steered a course for the kitchen tent, hoping Cook might have found time to make up a batch of the lemon and honey cakes, of which Miriam was so fond, before turning in for the night. The mere thought of them made her mouth water. Perhaps she might finish her moonlit feast with a mug of milk to wash it down.
Stubbing her toe on an unseen rock, Miriam cursed beneath her breath and hopped up and down, nursing her injured foot. What was she doing, sneaking around in the dark when she might have commanded her maid to bring her a midnight snack? But, then, where was the fun in that?
Besides, her mission wasn’t solely based on an insatiable craving for lemon and honey cakes. The music was just as tempting. Lured by the sweet tune of a lute, her treacherous feet led her to very outskirts of Lord Vadim’s camp, so close that Miriam could see the colors of his standard—a white horse rearing in a grassy meadow, the careful stitching of silver, gold, and green shining in the fire light.
Of the earl himself, Miriam saw no sign, although she did recognize several of the men sitting beside the fire listening to a red-haired musician. Surely that was Lord Reynard’s son, wasn’t he? Fergal—Fergus?
Whatever his name was, he was good. Better than good, in fact. Imagine, all this time Miriam had considered him nothing more than a drunken philandering cad, but look at him now, playing and singing as if he’d been born to gladden the ears of the people around him.
The man sitting beside the minstrel leaned forward suddenly in order to pick something up from the ground. As he did so, the firelight sharply illuminated his handsome face.
Miriam gasped as her heart tripped and stumbled.
It was him. Anselm.
Oh, what was wrong with her? Only a few weeks ago her heart had been entirely consumed by dreams of Fabien. Now here she was losing her senses over someone else, a man who was practically a stranger. Miriam scowled, irritated by her own fickleness. What was wrong with her? Was she a woman or a bitch in heat?
Maybe it was time to settle down and bind herself to someone. Judging by how easily her heart transferred its allegiance, there would be little difficulty. Knowing her, she would be converted to her future husband’s cause in no time—whoever that future husband happened to be.
Steeling her resolve, Miriam elected to return to her tent, forfeiting her planned snack as penance for her weak behavior. But as she turned away, she couldn’t resist casting a final lingering look in Anselm’s direction. She liked how the firelight and shadows played about the angles of his face, reflecting upon the golden highlights in his hair.
As the music soared to its climax in an ending that was both tragic and sorrowful, Anselm’s expression slipped giving Miriam a glimpse of a secret sadness that dwelt within him. A moment later and it was gone.
Suddenly Anselm stiffened. Sharply turning his head, he peered into the distant blackness at the furthest border of their camp. At that moment, the moon dipped behind a cloud, plunging their world into darkness.
The desert dog howled again. It seemed much closer now. Miriam shivered, suddenly terribly afraid. Spinning about, she squinted blindly into the dark void behind her.
Fergus played on, but Anselm seemed to be no longer listening. Jaw tense, he sat up a little straighter, every muscle acutely alert. Tilting his head slightly to one side, he appeared to be listening for something. With all of her heart, Miriam wished she had the right to run over and sit beside Anselm at that cheerful campfire.
Lord Edgeway emerged from his tent. Half undressed, he hastily pulled a shirt over his head and went over to Fergus. Laying a hand upon his shoulder, Vadim bent down and spoke in his ear. Fergus’s fingers faltered, but he played on.
What was that? A warning?
The music was quieter now, and Fergus did not sing as he’d done before. Like the other men about the camp fire, he seemed suddenly watchful. Expectant.
At that moment, a high-pitched shriek shattered the peace of the night. Miriam gasped. That sounded like…
Catherine!
Chapter Twenty-Four
Without pausing to consider the consequences, Miriam turned and ran, blindly racing back in the direction she’d so recently come, stumbling over tent pegs and tripping over guide ropes in her haste to get to her sister.
From every direction, knights, squires, and servants came tumbling pell-mell out of their tents, calling to one another as they reached for their weapons.
“There you are, m’lady.” A young man she recognized as Anselm’s squire caught her sleeve, detaining her as she tried to hurry by. “What are you doing out here? You shouldn’t be alone. It’s not safe. Here, take my arm and I will escort you to—”
“No. My sister is in danger—”
“All the more reason why you ought to listen to Percy, Princess.”
It was him. Anselm. Striding out of the darkness like a golden avenging angel, he pushed his way through the confusion, with a blazing torch held aloft in one hand, his sword in the other.
“Forgive me, m’lord,” Percy said, suddenly terribly apologetic. “She gave me the slip,”.
What? So he’d set his squire to spy on her, had he? The sheer nerve of the man.
“Not to worry, lad. I should have known the princess would be as slippery as a barrel full of eels—”
“Oh, thank you very much!”
“—though far more comely,” he added with a brief smile that did nothing to soothe her racing heart.
“I don’t have time for this.” They were under attack, and it was all her fault. If she hadn’t been so foolish, none of this would be happening. With that, Miriam turned and ran. Anselm’s shout of warning came too late, lost within the deafening clashing of steel upon steel as a multitude of unseen foes erupted from the shadows.
Miriam might not always get along with Catherine, but she would not allow her sister to suffer for sins that were not her own.
Dolt. Buffoon. Idiot! Miriam scolded herself tirelessly as she ran, trying to drown out the cries of battle and death that filled the air. What had she been thinking?
Just then, the moon slipped out from behind her cloud, and suddenly there he was.
Fabien.
As handsome as the devil and just as ruthless. Miriam’s favorite dream and her worst nightmare, stepping into her path as though he’d expected to find her there.
“Hello, darlin’. Missed me?”
“N-Not at all,” she panted.
“Oh, don’t break my heart, angel.”
Her heart lurched when she noticed the sword in his hand, its sheen dulled black by blood. People had died this night, and all because of her.
Suddenly, an unseen assailant grabbed Miriam from behind and pulled a sour-smelling sack over her head and shoulders. She barely had time to scream before someone—he smelled like Fabien—picked her up, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of grain, and with just as little care.
“No time to explain, darlin’,” he yelled above the sound of battle. “Hodges? Do you have the other one?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Good, then let’s get out of here.”
“Archers, light it up!” Hodges cried. “Burn it all down!”
Miriam struggled and wriggle
d to get free, but it was no good. Fabien held her much too firmly. “Let me go, you fiend.”
He didn’t answer. He just ran.
Jolting Miriam most unpleasantly, Fabien negotiated a way through various skirmishes. He paused briefly, grunting with exertion as he locked swords with someone. But the fight was soon over. With an agonized cry, his opponent fell silent.
“Fabien, please let me go.” But Miriam’s tearful entreaties were in vain for her kidnapper kept on running. The acrid stench of burning penetrated through her hood along with the panicked screams of the horses. Combined with the shrieks of the wounded and the ominous crackle of flames, it made for a truly unholy cacophony.
The terrified horses must have broken free. Encouraged by the pirates’ cries, the animals bolted, their fast-moving hooves thundering over the hard-packed ground.
Squirming like a fish on a hook, Miriam attempted to unbalance her captor, but it was no good. Fabien was much too strong. She gave a yelp of pain as he slapped her rear with the flat of his sword.
“Be still, wench! Hey, Jackson. Take her.” Without ceremony, Fabien dropped her over the shoulder of one of his men. This fellow reeked even more than his captain—if such a thing were possible. She was almost relieved when a thick cloud of smoke broke through the sacking hood, so dulling the man’s foul stench, although it did make her cough and splutter.
“Hodges, move them out. Proctor, look lively, man. Give him a hand. Quickly now!”
It was then that Miriam heard her sister’s loud protestations of outrage.
“Leprous dog, unhand me at once! When my brother learns of this outrage, he will rend you limb from—”
“Be quiet, bitch,” Hodges snarled. “You wouldn’t look quite so pretty with a slit gizzard.”
“Scum. You would not dare.”
Oh, but he most definitely would.
“Catherine?” Miriam needed to distract her before she got herself hurt.
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