by Nicole Locke
Louve felt the floor drop, envisioned the time involved, the coin spent, the secret discussions and strategies wreck against the cellar walls. Felt his own heart pain in his chest from a wound she gave him. Then felt everything change with a few words.
‘Damn you.’ Yanking her wrist towards his chest, he catapulted her against him. Soft curves unwillingly given; he crushed his lips against hers. It wasn’t to taste, to seduce or discover, but to punish. To claim. To take possession on the secrets she held and shouldn’t have. They were his now.
Yet as he felt her softness, caught her breath, the punishment he meant to give her became his. As his body tightened, as his blood pulled and pounded, the claiming became hers. Her free hand laid against his chest, denying him the entirety of her body. The need for more becoming too much. The heat from her fingers not nearly enough before she gave a hard bite of her nails and shoved him away.
He let her go this time and she scrambled back. Her eyes darted behind him, noticing he stood in front of the only exit. She wasn’t going anywhere.
Seeming to know his thoughts, she held her wrist in her hand and rubbed. Her confession, the fact he’d injured her, sent him down a seething path he’d never been before. That of frustration and self-loathing. Pivoting around her, he went to an ale barrel, ripped on the seal until it popped and froth poured out.
‘What are you doing?’ she said.
‘Tasting this myself while you tell me everything.’
He liked that she stood there. Partly in surprise, partly because she was still fighting him. He liked that more than was good for either of them.
‘While you don’t tell me anything,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘Not fair, I know. But what you told me is far worse.’
‘How could my telling of family—’ She released her wrist. ‘Because Lord Warstone is playing a game with you.’
Her mind... When she was like this, he didn’t need perfect light to know how she felt, it didn’t matter if her eyes were...lavender. That was the colour threading throughout the blue. Her eyes had lavender like her sister’s. And her hair had the golden colours, but so many others. He liked that infinitely more. He liked her.
‘Why are you here for your sister?’ He drank.
‘It’s no concern of yours because we could be gone this very day. Aren’t you going to ask why I’m here to take her away?’
‘I saw her in the Hall, it doesn’t take much to know why you want to rescue her.’
She flexed her fingers at her side. Was it from her thoughts or because he hurt her? Those wrists, the grace of her fingers. The fact he could have crushed either... He wanted to cradle it, press his lips to soothe... Images of Ian slashing her sister’s palm turned his thoughts ugly.
‘I owe you,’ he said.
She waved her hand. ‘I don’t know you—I don’t need to be involved in your games. I have enough problems of my own.’
‘Don’t we all?’
She eyed the door behind him.
‘Try it,’ he goaded.
She crossed her arms, which threatened the last thread of the gown holding her in, and he was tempted to tug.
‘As if you could possibly stop me,’ she said, ‘you’re hunched—’
He straightened to his full height and cricked his neck.
‘That’s what I thought,’ she said.
He gave her that victory, but that would be the last. ‘Now tell me.’
‘No, there is nothing that is yours. My sister is my responsibility. She’s younger than me, gentle, and needs me. I can’t imagine how she’s surviving! I will get her out of here. Obviously, whatever games you play with Lord Warstone will only complicate it.’ Her eyes widened. ‘You didn’t pois—’
‘Don’t!’ he whispered harshly. They’d both hugged the walls and shadows to get here, but the fortress was well-guarded and nothing could be left to chance. ‘Do you honestly believe we’re two people alone in the cellars at this time of night? That there couldn’t be someone on the other side listening?’
In dawning horror, she surveyed the room and closed door. ‘Why did you follow me here?’
‘Because no good could come from you being here. What are you planning?’
‘Because I know that the ale is altered, I intend to use it to negotiate with Lord Warstone to release my sister.’
‘You’re clever, you have to know he’d want more than information.’ Louve cursed. ‘You intend to find the culprit and bring a prize for exchange.’
‘It would work—’
‘If you weren’t dealing with a madman. You can’t know he didn’t alter the ale himself to trap someone else in his games.’
‘Why would he harm himself for some game?’
She truly didn’t know the Warstones. ‘Was he smacking his own lips at the altered taste?’ At her expression he added, ‘Does he know you are related?’
‘You keep asking me questions. You keep telling me these matters, as though I can believe any of them,’ she said. ‘You kissed me...and who are you? You’re no...usher.’
He had kissed her and he felt the burn of it now. When she fell into his arms, he had not wanted to let her go. Now that he had had the barest taste of her, he only wanted more. ‘I am only Louve and you and your sister are in far over your heads. You can’t trust me, yet you must. I’m not the enemy. Ian’s the man you have to defeat.’
* * *
This man, this stranger, had kissed her. Her lips still felt the bruising press, her body the giving away against his hard length. She had curled her nails into him, wanting to explore where he only took before she broke them apart.
It was true, Ian of Warstone wasn’t who she was expecting. She knew from what Margery had told her that he wasn’t good. When Ian summoned her, when she saw his Hall for the first time...
For the fortnight she’d been here, the men had eaten in the Hall, but the behaviour wasn’t like she’d seen this night. It was always loud, messy, the dogs having free rein. But the giant warrior animatedly telling a story before the dais, those men in the corner, the fight in the other—it seemed they were amusing Lucifer himself.
‘I have to trust you...because why?’ she said.
‘Tell me why you’re here.’
‘Margery sent me a message. That’s how I knew she was in trouble.’ At his surprised look, she continued. ‘Writing became essential with my family when I had to look for work. We’re close. Margery was taught how to do sums, reading and writing. She’s far better at languages than any of us. She taught us with a stick and some dirt.’
Out of the slit she’d made in the hem of her chemise, she pulled out the tiny bit of precious parchment, watched his mouth purse before he handed it back to her.
‘Her penmanship is beautiful,’ he said.
Of all the things he could have said to convince her, that was it. ‘I don’t taste anything different with this ale, can we open the next one?’
He set the ladle down. ‘Your sister is unique looking.’
It had been years since they were together under the same roof, but the sting of a male asking about Margery was still familiar.
There was a time when she was hurt because she didn’t carry the beauty of her sister. But as she got older, she began to appreciate what she did have and pity Margery because hers came at a price.
‘You’re angry.’ He straightened, filled the ladle and took a taste. Sipped some more. ‘Is it because you’ve rescued your sister before?’
Grabbing the ladle, she took a sip, though she wasn’t concentrating on the taste. ‘Everyone notices her. I could never be angry about that. It’s not her fault.’
‘You’re not angry at her, but her admirers.’
‘We’ve all had to protect her.’ It seemed she had to protect her from Louve as well.
‘Ian might have not
iced her because she’s comely, but that’s not why he keeps her.’ Louve’s eyes strayed to the ladle gripped in her hands, his expression curiously pained.
Irritated at that look, she dipped the ladle in the barrel and swallowed several gulps. She thought Louve would be different. Foolish idea. A man who looked like him was used to women who looked like her sister.
‘Do you believe she’s beautiful?’ she said. The thought made her ill. Or...was it the thought?
His gaze darted to hers, his brows drawing in. ‘You said so, but—’
‘But?’ she repeated. Was he lost in reverie thinking about her sister’s eyes, her hair? She’d been a child when she’d last had this doubt about her appearance and quickly rid herself of it. This man was making her question herself. Something wasn’t right.
‘Margery’s beauty represents—’ Louve inhaled sharply, straightened his shoulders.
‘Are you feeling well?’ Bied said.
‘Though her beauty can’t compare to yours.’ Louve’s eyes darted to the barrel.
‘What?’
Louve rubbed his forehead. ‘We didn’t drink that much.’
‘It’s the same as last time.’ Bied tried to focus on Louve, on his words, but she must have heard it wrong. ‘This ale’s altered.’
Louve gave a long exhale, leaned against the wall. ‘We have to mark that barrel.’
If she lifted her arms, her body would revolt.
Bied had paled. Louve’s own skin felt flush and cold. They hadn’t had much of the last barrel, but apparently it didn’t take much.
They must get out of here. Soon. If either of them was sick, there was no pretending they weren’t there. The evidence would be too obvious.
He pushed off the wall, staggered, released the dagger at his waist. On the underside he made a long scrape so it would look natural.
The room spun when he straightened and he noticed the tap. ‘This barrel’s already been marked.’
‘What’s that sound?’ she said.
Sheathing the dagger, his movements were clumsy. Too much ale and that sound!
‘You...haven’t heard it before?’ he said. ‘That’s the herald. The gates are opening.’
‘The gates!’ she said, swallowing hard. ‘The gates haven’t opened since I’ve been here and it’s not yet morning. Who would travel at this time of year and in the middle of the night?’
It was almost morning, bitterly cold, and the person travelling would be someone who wanted to hide until they knew it was safe. Safe because they were among their kind. Their kin.
The horn played only a few notes, a singular familial tune for one family in particular. Unbelievable. Inconceivable and, absolutely, certainly, the worst that could happen.
The Warstone family had come for a visit. Despite everyone knowing this was merely a game, it must be played out.
He, as Usher, was duty bound to serve the family home and lord. Which meant he should already be at the gates, should already be shouting orders to servants. He should have already known they were coming so rooms were prepared. Simple duties and yet if not done as was customary, then a certainty that he was a fraud. Ian might know, but did anyone else?
To leave the cellars when everything between them wasn’t finalised wasn’t wise. She knew nothing, not truly, and that could cause further problems. He had to warn her somehow.
A wave of nausea hit him and Bied staggered. They needed to leave. Right now. To face a family who declared massacres and burned their own children all while his stomach threatened to empty its contents and his thoughts turned increasingly vague.
If the poison was meant to fell enemies, it had caught its prey: him.
Chapter Eleven
His stomach roiling, his thoughts full, Louve watched the procession out of the corner of his eye. Ian might know who he was, but in the game, the players played. And Louve intended to play the Usher until either he won, or a sword cut through his heart.
That eerie horn sound had stopped, but he swore it reverberated against the stone walls of the fortress, against the plumes of cold air lit by torches. Reynold had never allowed a display of his family crest. He had certainly never wanted the horn signal that heralded his family’s arrival. But one time, he’d whistled it for Louve.
Maybe it had been the storm slashing against the small hut they’d found shelter in, maybe it was the lateness of the evening or the amount of drink. But sitting before that fire, and between sips of the last flagon of ale, Reynold had whistled it over and over as if he couldn’t stop.
Louve had never seen his friend that way before. When the fire dimmed and their cups were emptied, Louve plucked the empty cup out of the warrior’s hand and set it down. He’d left Reynold in the giant chair, knowing he’d provoke him on the morrow. But that night, the song haunted Louve’s sleep and neither of them talked much the next day.
No, Louve hadn’t forgotten that horn’s unique signal and it had saved him and Bied as they left the cellar and rushed along the wall’s edges. The only people he knew to avoid were the Warstones themselves. The guards and servants were too embroiled in their own lives to worry about others.
They had to separate when they reached their quarters. Though he tried to warn her along the way, he hadn’t been certain she listened. No time to worry about it now, he had to prepare.
His room was large, luxurious by any servant’s standards, and the privacy it provided was welcomed right now. Eyes burning, he forced his stomach to empty in a bucket. He went to the basin, poured cold water and splashed it on his face. Fresh clothes would hide most of the night’s events, chewed mint would relieve the foul taste in his mouth, but the distractions in his head were a weakness he could ill afford.
He was tired. There were long days where travel was rough, the weather cruel, then there were days like this. He’d never had a day like this. And it wasn’t entirely caused by the Warstones or the intrigue, or someone trying to kill him.
But Biedeluue. What to do with her, how to protect her without compromising his position? If he ignored her and her situation, she’d be safe, or as safe as Ian allowed. He hadn’t liked that Bied was in this fortress, but had seemed to prefer to keep his mistress. For now, it was questionable whether Warstone knew they were sisters. They weren’t similar unless you scrutinised both. He knew which of them he preferred.
He needed to think of Balthus, of Reynold and the Jewell of Kings. He should ignore the woman who’d come to rescue her sister. Yet he had to help her. In this vast world, what did it mean if one person didn’t help another? Ian wouldn’t let go of Margery without some exchange and she was too heavily guarded to make an escape.
A negotiation was needed. While he still had breath in his body, he wouldn’t allow Bied to face Warstone. It was up to him.
Clothes straightened, he hurried down the hallway to one of the outside passageways. Ian would have heard the horn; he’d want to greet whatever family member deemed it necessary to arrive this early in the morning.
There were enough torches and sunlight peeking on the horizon to flood the courtyard. Enough illumination to cast shadows and count the members, to see the others who flaunted the Warstone golden crest.
Ian wore it. That was one. A thin tall woman, her grey hair plaited in an intricate coil on top of her head was another. Next to Ian’s mother was, undoubtedly, Ian’s father, a stout warrior who rode alongside her.
But the figure right behind them, riding a horse Louve had seen yesterday with the same carelessness that had become all too familiar over the last weeks that he’d ridden beside him—Balthus rode behind his parents as if he’d always belonged. If Ian didn’t kill him, Louve certainly intended to.
* * *
Bied hung her head over the nearest garderobe. They hadn’t been cleaned for a day, so the smell that wafted up helped heave her stomach’s contents down the narrow
hole. Her body shuddered, but once she knew she could stand, she did. Bracing one hand against a wall, she waited until she didn’t need the facility again.
Warstone’s family. Bied had only had a glimpse, but the wealth was staggering. Maybe thirty or fifty people, mostly guards all dressed in the same garb. Plain, but for a band of red silk on the bottom of tunics.
She’d always been fascinated by that red band. Thought it a useless bit of frippery that served no purpose. If one sat behind a table no one could see it. But she’d thought it was restricted to this strange household.
Louve’s role here was as Usher, but what was his other purpose? He said he was playing a game with Ian...but there was no hint of a friendship and he’d said it was dangerous for her and her sister to be here. If he hadn’t distracted her with his kiss, with his accusations, with his very presence, she would have realised nothing was revealed.
What did she know of him? Nothing. His accent belied his English heritage and he had the look about him, but he didn’t reveal where he came from. Had he a wife, parents or siblings?
As for his motives, he hadn’t discussed those either. No, it’d been her revealing everything. He knew she cared for people and loved her sister. That she learnt reading and writing by sticks and dirt. She’d become vulnerable to him. A stranger. She knew better than to believe men.
Her stomach pained her, but was tolerable. Her head pounded and her legs felt shaky, but she was infinitely stronger than she was a few moments before. Pushing off the wall, reminding herself to report a cleaning before—
‘What are you doing here?’ Tess proclaimed.
Tess! Bied slammed the garderobe door behind her. ‘Do you need to go in there?’
‘No,’ Tess said, ‘I was looking for you. You were in bed last night, but when I woke up to do the bread you were—’
‘Shh.’ Bied looked down the hall. It was empty, but she could hear the household greeting the visitors.
When they left the cellars, Louve had urgently whispered warnings. How she wasn’t to break the role they played, that he was nothing but an usher and Margery a mistress. To try not to speak, to nod and curtsy only. On and on he’d whispered instructions, hastily given protective words. She was wary of the visitors, worried over Margery, had barely heard a word he said, but why hadn’t she demanded answers?
