by Nicole Locke
‘He didn’t seem to like that I’m new,’ she answered. ‘But he didn’t berate you.’
He had to lie, at least somewhat. ‘The Steward left. His need for someone to manage is greater. Though I don’t have a family to support, I’m not born to nobility and need the position.’
Bied grasped the handle with both hands once again and ran her fingers along the smooth sides. ‘Do you intend to report me?’
His eyes went to her long fingers straying along the curved handle and locked on them. Try as he might, his body refused to have him look anywhere else. Not even to fully understand what she was saying. ‘You want to be reported.’
‘Certainly.’ She wrapped the handle in her fist and stroked up.
‘Do you need that ladle?’ he choked out.
‘No, why?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Because I don’t trust the direction my thoughts are going.’
Giving him an odd look, she presented it to him. ‘I’ll need it back, if you let me stay.’
He stared at the ladle in his hands, tracing along the handle where her fingers had been. It was warm still from her touch, but not nearly as warm as him, not nearly as hot as he needed them both to be. At that thought, the temporary easing in his breeches he’d felt when she handed him the ladle vanished.
‘You told me you didn’t need it,’ he said. Under no uncertain terms could he give the ladle to her again.
She looked curiously at him. ‘I wanted to explain myself first,’ she said. ‘And I could see there was doubt on your part, so it seemed easier to give you that.’
Barely holding back the growl, the need to tell her why he wanted it, wanted her, became almost too much. ‘Bied, there is more than doubt when it comes to you. There’s more of everything, truth be told.’
‘That doesn’t make sense. Again.’
No, it didn’t. ‘I am Usher and am in charge of the pantry and all that crosses the Great Hall. Ian of Warstone is not someone who would tolerate anyone tasting or...altering his ale.’ He stopped. ‘Did you smile?’
‘Lord Warstone doesn’t like me and you saw how I reacted to him, yet you didn’t say poison.’
Louve stilled. ‘What?’
‘You don’t believe I’m poisoning him.’
Two forceful steps towards her. ‘Keep silent. Just silent.’
For reasons Bied didn’t know, she did. Most likely because the look on Louve’s face... Sometimes he was angry, frustrated or wary. Sometimes she was certain he played at being meek and awkwardly humble.
But this low growled command—no. That sound, that look—made goose pimples scatter across her arms. She felt like a rabbit who finally and far too late spotted the fox.
‘What is it?’ she whispered.
A quick shake of his head. Another wait while the odd sounds of the night filtered through: a scampering of rodents, the hiss of cats, the crunch of soft rushes, the creaking of the floorboards. Nothing else.
But the staying still allowed other sensations to permeate her senses. Like the dank cold of the stones. The urgency of the cheese wheels. The sharp vinegar tang of old spilled wine. And this man in front of her who had his own scent, one—
‘Tell me it’s not true,’ he whispered harshly. ‘No games. No confusing word play.’
‘I can tell you I’m innocent, but wouldn’t that be something a liar would say?’
He dipped his chin. She loved and hated when he looked so directly at her like that. Even in this dim light from the flickering torch she’d brought, there was no mistaking the piercing blue.
‘Bied, I can’t protect you if—’
She started. ‘Protect me?’
A muttered curse.
When she waited, and he said nothing more, she gave in. ‘Fine. No, I’m not poi—
‘Don’t say the word.’
Strange man. Not simple at all, but sometimes, like now, she wished he were. Because what he was, most certainly, was complicated. He wanted no word plays, yet she wasn’t supposed to say a word. He wanted the reason she was here; however, she couldn’t say why she was here.
‘I was tasting the ale because I think it’s already...’ she waved her hand ‘...you know what.’
‘What?’
She put her hands on her hips. ‘The word you told me not to say.’
He took a step back, another. Immediately, she missed his warmth that she hadn’t realised was there. ‘You think the ale is already altered. Tell me.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m Usher.’ At the doubtful look she gave him, he continued, ‘And to keep my position, it might be useful to tell Lord Warstone.’
She didn’t entirely believe him. ‘Like me, I think you’ve got secrets and you’re too new to care about your position with Lord Warstone.’
At his suddenly alert expression, Bied averted her eyes.
‘What do we have in common?’ Louve said. ‘Secrets, or that we’re new?’
Why did she say that? She hadn’t drunk that much and, in truth, this ale didn’t seem any different than anything else she drank.
More than that. Why did she want to tell him? It couldn’t be something so simple as he had a secret, too. There was something odd about his behaviour and she had too many seasons not to know when a man was lying. But even with the secrets and the behaviour, he hadn’t immediately jumped to the conclusion she was poisoning the ale.
A typical usher would have questioned her. The Steward, despite her help, would have had the guards punish and then discard her outside the gates. Did he truly trust her, or did he have something to hide himself?
After tonight, she wanted to trust someone. Weeks being here and she knew the task was too great to do alone. She’d been tempted so many times to tell Tess and hadn’t. First because she didn’t know her, then she worried she’d embroil her friend in something she could get punished for as well.
But this man was different. He was an outsider, like her, and he was in a higher position. Moreover, there was something else about him...almost a quiet strength, a surety, underneath it all that called to her. Of course, she couldn’t entirely be certain her willingness to trust him hadn’t to do with the way his dimples flashed when he smiled, or was angry, or frowned. Like he did now.
‘Tell me,’ he said.
She arched a brow at him. ‘Because you’re an usher, or something else? If you want me to say anything, you tell me first.’
So many emotions crossed through those eyes of his, fleeting and gone. But when he remained silent, she couldn’t wait. ‘Will you tell me?’
‘You’re not...predictable,’ he said.
She wasn’t. Couldn’t be. Usually, she’d attempt to be deferential to those who fed and clothed her, certainly not tapping her feet with impatience. He glanced at her foot before he shook his head.
‘I have always worked for others. In the past, I have managed another’s estate.’
‘And?’ she prompted. ‘I can already guess from what you have done that you’ve done it before.’
‘You’re observant. Couldn’t your observations of my character be enough?’
She shook her head.
He gave a rough exhale. ‘You are correct in thinking Lord Warstone is approaching me differently.’
She waited. When he didn’t continue, she said, ‘You’re simply telling something else I observed.’
A quirk to his lips. ‘But the reason is...he is playing games with me.’
That terrified her. If Lord Warstone played games with this man, he’d play games with Margery. ‘Do you know him?’
‘I have never met him before.’
‘Then why would he—’
‘That’s enough.’
‘Because you want to keep your secrets?’ She noticed the sudden tension. She remembered the word he’d used before
. ‘That isn’t the reason, is it? You said you want to protect me and keep me safe. Me, who is a complete stranger. Even so, aren’t I already in trouble for being here when I’m not supposed to be? Or simply by being here in the cellars in the middle of the...almost morning? Nothing is safe here.’
He kept his gaze on her, nothing of his thoughts in his expression or any movement. ‘Your turn,’ he said. ‘You tell me you believe the ale to be altered. Tell me why you think that.’
‘There are a couple of reasons. The first was the day of your arrival.’
‘That was only yesterday. And in that little time you decided to be here?’ he said. ‘Do you not remember that only yesterday you were ill?’
‘I wouldn’t have played the game if I thought I’d lose,’ she said. ‘The amount was not unusual and Galen was also sick. But then at the feast with the lord and his...lady. She drank and smacked her lips afterwards. She then peered down into the goblet and swirled the contents about as if she were looking for something. That gave me the idea that the ale is...you know what...or at least something is terribly wrong with it.’
His brows rose. ‘You determined from a distance observing a woman licking her lips that the ale was wrong? Did she speak to you?’
This was getting into the territory she did not want to talk about. ‘No, but she’s beautiful. Beautiful people are discerning, aren’t they?’
When he didn’t answer, she asked, ‘Did you find her beautiful?’
She wanted to kick herself for asking when ultimately, she always knew the answer. But this was different because this man didn’t know they were related. No...that wasn’t the reason.
She wanted to know because Louve kept looking at her and making her feel something she shouldn’t. So she wanted to hear it from him and remind herself she shouldn’t be thinking of dimples, blue eyes and dark hair that fell across his eyes just so.
‘I know you can’t actually confess to finding another man’s wife or mistress comely,’ she said. ‘But surely you noticed the shade of her hair and eyes. Isn’t a woman that beautiful discerning? Look who she’s with—Ian of Warstone is certainly handsome and powerful.’
He examined her so long, she was certain two years had passed before he spoke.
‘Are you telling me you came to the cellar in the middle of the night to determine if the ale was altered?’ he said slowly. ‘You wished to examine that by yourself with no assistance as you drank the ale, even though you were ill before?’
Expecting him to talk of her sister, but feeling as though his question was a deception, she answered with the truth. ‘Yes.’
He went to hand her the ladle, but when she reached for it, he held it back. ‘What other misconceptions are you toiling under?’
They weren’t misconceptions, they were truths, and she had a mad thought to tell him so. Even though she had no idea who he was and a feeling that underneath everything he was good wasn’t enough to risk her sister.
With her sister well-guarded and Lord Warstone suspicious of her presence, she had few choices. Her slipping up the staircase and releasing a locked latch as she originally thought would be impossible in this fortress.
‘Lord Warstone wasn’t pleased with the food I prepared, because of your suggestions,’ she said.
‘Not happy with your presence,’ he added. ‘The food and service were fine.’
She snatched the ladle back. ‘I thought if I tested this, and it was altered, then I could stay.’
She had no intention of staying—she wanted to bargain for her sister. Ian of Warstone didn’t truly need Margery. Surely, he’d be so grateful for her saving his life that he’d do anything. Especially if she found who did it, which shouldn’t be difficult. There were only a few people who had access to the ale barrels. And if it wasn’t from the barrels, then in the ale house, or maybe in those ridiculous goblets she drank from.
His eyes narrowed. ‘You would risk your life so you could stay in an occupation you’ve held for two weeks?’
‘A difficult one, and I’m not from a noble family with wealth.’ She threw his own words back at him.
A beat of unerring silence before he said, ‘You’re quite faithful to him.’
‘To whom?’ She filled the ladle again and lifted it to her nose. This cold damp room was perfect to store wine, ale and the wheels of cheese that permeated the air with a rich pungency, but it masked the ale’s aroma.
‘Ian of Warstone,’ he said. ‘I’m assuming that’s why you’re testing the ale. Why else?’
‘I can spout as many questions as you. Why aren’t you stopping me from drinking this? Why aren’t you reporting me immediately? Obviously, you can as Usher. Shouldn’t you be protecting the supplies or throwing me outside the fortress gates for being somewhere I shouldn’t?’
‘What if you’re right?’
She ladled more and drank again. ‘That’s why you’re here, to see if I’m right?’
Did the flavour seem odd? No, but she’d been drinking this same ale for weeks. It could be a possibility that the poison was weak and she’d have to drink so much she’d be sick.
She’d know soon enough. ‘You were there in the Hall—he doesn’t want me here. I’m trying to prove my worth so I could have a roof when winter comes.’
‘He let you go after the meal,’ he said. ‘Being a servant would mean you telling him you think it’s altered, not drinking it yourself.’
He snatched the ladle away.
‘I think it’s the quantity that matters,’ she said.
‘Quantity?’ he said. ‘If you are right, it’ll affect someone immediately. That’s the point of it.’
‘What if it’s in tiny quantities from a person who doesn’t want to get caught? You said this is not what we’ve been drinking. It’s been watered down.’
‘Sometimes, I’m not certain who you are,’ he said.
‘We’re merely servants who need these positions so we’re not out on the streets,’ she said.
‘You are right,’ he said. ‘You can hold your ale and you were drinking before I came in.’
His look was all too knowing. As though he was unravelling some string and soon he’d have it all straight and it would be she who was revealed. She could hold her ale, but...the more time with him, the more of his voice she took in and that way he looked at her, the more she risked her sister.
‘I feel no effects,’ she said. ‘We should try another barrel.’
‘Where are the cooper tools?’
Nodding her head towards the door, she jammed the bung in, but it’d need a mallet.
‘What happens when that one is also unaltered?’ Louve struck the bung and moved on to the next cask.
She wouldn’t wait for his cooperation. They’d shared information, enough for her to know he wasn’t telling her everything. But she didn’t need to know everything about him to save her sister. If he helped her enough, she’d take it. The sooner she could rescue her sister the better.
‘There are over twenty barrels in this cellar. What if it’s not in those? What if it laced the goblets that only the lord and his mistress use?’
At the helpless sound that somehow escaped her throat, in her heart, she knew she’d made a mistake.
The few torches she’d lit were enough to see the room and more than enough to see surprise, then a wary comprehension, flit across his features.
‘Who are you trying to protect, Biedeluue?’ he said.
‘I’m not trying to—’
‘I haven’t known you long, but I know you well enough when it comes to this. This is far beyond trying to keep a roof over your head. You’re testing this ale. You’re putting your own life in danger for someone you care about.’
‘How could I care about anyone? I haven’t been here long.’
‘You care about the Cook. Inebriated, yet you were wa
ving your arms shouting about protection of the children. You told Tess to be quiet so she wouldn’t be punished.’
She moved to get past him, but he blocked her.
‘You didn’t give yourself away, not until I mentioned the goblets. It isn’t Lord Warstone you care for, it’s the woman.’
‘It’s Lord Warstone. I’m loyal to him, like you said.’
‘You didn’t ask me about him. You asked about her. There are only three people in this fortress who weren’t raised inside these walls or just outside. Who is she to you?’
He searched and searched, and she could turn away, but Bied knew it was too late. Still. She tossed the ladle on top of the barrel. ‘I’m tired and there’s nothing wrong with the ale. Since it is almost morning, I must begin in the kitchens.’
She pivoted to get around him and, for one brief moment, she thought he’d let her go, but just as she went past, his hand clasped hers.
His hand was warm, firm. She could have yanked it out of his grasp, but the easy possessiveness of his grip, the tips of his calloused fingers brushing against her inner wrist and something other than annoyance rippled through her.
Something strong enough to hold her still. Hold him still. Blue eyes riveted where they touched. A forced inhale through a clenched jaw. His hair cutting across the high bones of his cheek, pointing to the almost softness of his lower lip and casting shadows where his dimples would be.
He was close enough for her to scent wool, leather, and something like sunlight in forests. Something of...him. His lips stayed clenched; she felt her own part. At that moment he raised his eyes to hers, blinking as if it was she who stopped him from leaving the room.
‘Who are you?’ he said.
A sister. Always a caregiver, but at this moment she felt like his. ‘I told you.’
His gaze cleared. ‘Who is she?’
Tension stabbed through him, through her, and it jerked her from his spell. She wrenched her hand, but his fingers clamped hard.
‘No,’ he said, a firm shake to his head. ‘Deny it.’
‘She’s my sister,’ she said.
Chapter Ten
