by Nicole Locke
Another sweep with her eyes, and she found herself taken aback by the opulence of the Great Hall. It had been too long since she’d dined here. When she’d had her freedom with Evrart she had simply wanted to be outside, in the gardens and beyond that. She knew of Ian’s wealth—the food and bedroom linens were testament to that—but the hall was overtly ostentatious. Kings should dine here—not small peasant villagers like herself. Still, Ian sat her on the dais, which made her terrified. It wasn’t her place—it wasn’t.
It was, however, Lord Warstone’s personal guard’s position.
Evrart stood a few steps behind Ian’s right shoulder. She couldn’t see him, but she felt his presence there. Felt his gaze on her head, on every movement she made. She wasn’t certain she could get food down though she was hungry.
‘I have an amusing story to tell you, my lord,’ Evrart said into the tense quiet.
Ian’s brows rose. Margery’s veins froze. She couldn’t see Evrart and warn him he was making a mistake. Why would he want to talk?
Her heart hurt, and he wanted to tell an amusing story? Their time together meant something to her. Meant...
Ian whispered to another guard, who quickly strode towards the kitchens. ‘Come, Evrart—entertain us.’
She could neither hear nor feel his heavy steps—not over the roaring in her ears and the thundering of her heart. She did, however, feel his gaze as he glanced at her, and then at Ian, and launched into the tale of the pigs escaping during training, which had Ian laughing.
Pained, Margery didn’t dare look at Evrart. Instead, she watched as a beautiful man walked unevenly towards the dais. Ian waved Evrart to the side as the man came closer. When he glanced at her, Margery swore his eyes widened in a way that was startled...and troubled. Why would this handsome man need to be worried?
She glanced at Ian, who had a predatory shine in his eyes which was frightening and completely confusing, given the content of his introductions.
Apparently, this man was the usher, and he and Ian talked of a new cook. As they bantered, the usher’s frown deepened, and Ian leaned forward in his chair. Nothing of what they said was alarming, but when she glanced behind them towards the kitchens she understood.
Because walking up the middle aisle, between all the tables and the sitting mercenaries, strode her sister Biedeluue. Her sister, who must have received her message and come to her rescue. Not her brothers...not even a neighbour with a hammer. Her sister—who was now most certainly as trapped as herself.
‘I don’t remember seeing you before,’ Ian said, easing back in his chair.
‘Is there anything of the meal that has displeased my lord?’ asked Biedeluue, but her eyes stayed on Margery.
Why wouldn’t she look away? She needed to look away. Ian noticed everything!
Margery picked up her goblet and took a drink. It was ale, and somewhat bitter. She tasted it again, set it down, and looked to see if anyone was pouring wine.
‘The food was adequate,’ Ian said. ‘In—’
‘The drink, perhaps,’ Bied interrupted.
What was she doing here? Her sister hated cooking, so why was she pretending to be a cook? She couldn’t possibly think she could rescue her... There was nothing her elder sister could do.
Margery felt ill...sick. The repercussions of this were beyond anything she could imagine.
‘The drink,’ Ian pronounced slowly, carefully, ‘was passable. Barely, and only because I allowed it.’
‘Any improvements, my lord, for the ale?’ Bied asked.
Why was Bied talking of ale? Margery felt Ian’s displeasure roll over her like some evil portent. His eyes were narrowed, his hand twitching. Was he reaching for his dining knife? She needed to take his attention away from her sister! But how?
‘You’re new.’ Ian leaned forward, his voice promising retribution. ‘And you’re asking many questions—which is something I do not, ever, tolerate. Who—?’
Margery grabbed his knife, pricked her finger, and cried out. All eyes went to her, and not to her sister. She felt pain in her finger, but relief in her heart, and was capable of taking her first true breath since Bied had entered the hall.
‘A cut, my dear?’ Ian asked.
His voice was all concern as he patted her hand, but his eyes... She knew those eyes well. Those were the pale eyes she had seen the day he had trapped her. This wasn’t the man who up in his rooms had spoken of rewarding loyalties. Whatever he was about to do wouldn’t be good, but as long as it was to her, and not to her sister, she’d take it.
Keeping her finger in her mouth and her eyes wide and innocent, she nodded.
‘Here, let me help ease your mind of that.’
Ian grabbed the fallen knife, grasped her wrist, and before Margery could react, he sliced across her palm. The sting made her ignore her sister’s outrage, but not Evrart’s heavy footsteps—as if he had forgotten himself, forgotten he’d said goodbye.
‘See? Now one cut is worse than the other. Isn’t that better?’ Ian carefully wrapped a linen around the hand he’d damaged.
She nodded, unable to take her eyes off this predator with pale eyes. This man who terrified her.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the usher order Bied away and she was able to take another breath. All would be well—
Ian called to her sister, who turned.
‘I expect to be fed better on the morrow,’ Ian said.
Margery tried to take her hand back so she could leap to her sister’s defence if needed, but Ian cradled it to his face. Outwardly, it looked as if he was soothing it, but she knew better. It was a warning he’d cut her again—or worse.
When he finally let go, she sat still, waiting for him to strike. Waiting through a conversation about food that wasn’t about food. Some undercurrent seethed between all the parties that she couldn’t comprehend. It wasn’t only between Bied and Ian, but with the new usher, now at their side as keys were exchanged.
Then her sister’s eyes went to hers again, and Margery’s stomach plummeted. Her sister was up to something—but what? Schemes? Games? She looked worried.
All the while she was aware of Ian at her side, Evrart just behind him...
Him she felt most of all. She wanted to know if his stepping forward when her hand had been slashed meant anything.
But all she could do, when the meal was finally over, was avoid looking his way.
Chapter Fourteen
The morning’s early mist settled heavily on Evrart and soaked through his tunic. It was a fitting discomfort for the relentless hell he was being forced into.
Seemingly, he was standing in the courtyard of the Warstone Fortress, conducting his duties in directing his guards and guarding Ian of Warstone, who stood to his left. In his thoughts and his heart, however, he was grabbing Margery, who was locked in the private chambers, and escaping.
What he wanted to do was grab Ian of Warstone’s hand and slice across it with a dull knife, then take the other hand and slice it as well. And if he got that opportunity, he wasn’t sure he’d stop there with his blade.
That bastard hadn’t touched Margery in all the weeks he’d had her. Not once—not in any overt way, not in any way. Then last night he’d dined in the Great Hall instead of in his chambers, and he had walked beside her as if presenting her.
For what—or whom?
Evrart wished he could curse, could rail and roar. Instead, he shifted, and even that seemingly innocuous movement had caught Ian’s attention, for he looked him over with one brow raised.
Damn. Lord Warstone had played a Warstone game last night, and it could have been for no one except for some new usher named Louve and a new cook named Biedeluue.
Two people hired by the steward after Evrart had left. Two people who had inexplicably held the interest of Ian.
No one who held his int
erest was safe.
Which meant they’d either crossed him in their duties as his servants, or they weren’t his servants at all. They were something else. But who were they? And what game did they play?
He knew they were suspicious. He’d been in Ian of Warstone’s employ long enough to know that things weren’t always as they appeared. So he had watched, he had been careful, and he’d noticed that neither of them had retired to their rooms last night.
His need to protect Margery had forced him to extend his search beyond what was safe for him. After all, a search of the grounds would take him far away from protecting Ian of Warstone—a duty he hadn’t failed in a decade.
But they hadn’t been in the fortress, nor in the courtyard, which meant they must have been in one of the buildings surrounding them.
Now he heard a familiar herald which chilled his blood. The herald announced that Lord Warstone’s unstable and scheming parents had arrived at Warstone Fortress for an unexpected visit.
He wanted to storm across the courtyard, to fight, to train. Not stand here for one more—
‘You seem restless this morning,’ Ian of Warstone said.
‘Perhaps your personal guard has grown tired of guarding you, my son, and desires to finally be where he belongs. By my side,’ Lady Warstone said, in that serene gentle voice.
Neither of them actually addressed him, and he knew better than to answer, despite the fact the Lady of Warstone stood in front of him, her hands clasped in front of her, was staring at him expectantly.
‘If he wished to be part of your guard, he would have already made the request—or more expediently earned my displeasure to be set free,’ Ian said.
If he’d earned Ian’s displeasure, being reprimanded wouldn’t have been a worry...losing a hand would have been more likely.
‘I am surprised Balthus has not asked for him.’
Balthus was Ian’s youngest brother, and had entered the gates with Ian’s parents. It was odd because the brothers, raised as enemies since birth, rarely kept each other’s company. And yet here they all were.
Another matter that made Evrart seethe for a way to free Margery.
‘Balthus wouldn’t dare ask for anything of mine,’ Ian said.
Lady Warstone huffed. ‘I would. Simply standing there, all silent and menacing, he’s magnificent... Think of what he’d be like at court. You don’t take him often enough; those soft nobles would fall all over themselves if you used him as he was truly meant to be used.’
Ian shrugged. ‘He’s got brothers—find them.’
‘They’re too far away to be convenient.’ She pouted.
Evrart was thrilled that Guiot and Yter had thwarted her schemes, but at the same time concerned to know that Lady Warstone not only knew of them, but had made enquiries. Which meant Lady Warstone or one of her mercenaries had visited his home.
‘Now you’ve made him nervous!’ Ian laughed. ‘Don’t concern yourself, my good warrior, your family is safe. My mother wouldn’t be so short-sighted as to lose your good measure.’
His opinion of the Warstones had been low the moment he had known they existed and couldn’t be any lower. He was already in hell.
His eyes searched the courtyard, looking for any overt manipulations as Ian and his mother slipped into conversation. He should listen, but couldn’t keep his mind on them.
Near the gates, the elder Lord Warstone must be telling quite a story to Ian’s guards and his own men. His gestures were large and the men were leaning forward, the younger ones with their mouths agape.
That, too, was most likely a tale he needed to hear. Information was essential for survival here. But he couldn’t stay at present, and he’d already met the guards of both homes. In good time, he’d direct them again in their duties. For now, his thoughts were with Margery’s precarious position.
In addition to the senior Warstones presence, there was already danger here. He needed to address the deeds of one suspicious usher, Louve, and a terrible cook named Biedeluue—because although he hadn’t caught them in any act, he had, when the Warstone gates had opened for Ian’s parents, seen them slink away from the ale house.
The ale house wasn’t built for a tryst—not with its cobwebs and dank dirt. No, the only reason they would have been there was to converse, to spy...to poison the ale?
He needed to discover their intentions. Soon. But he couldn’t while he stood dutifully by as Ian conversed with his mother, his father caused the guards to laugh, and Balthus was out of his sight.
None of these people were trustworthy. All of them were threats to Margery.
She’d hinted that she came from nothing, that before she’d met Ian, she hadn’t lived in a home that was safe. She had told him she knew what danger was, but he hadn’t listened. It didn’t matter. Her home might have been terrible, but nothing was like Warstone Fortress.
Here, they smiled and clucked about ‘convenience’ whilst they played with people’s lives. But at least Margery had him, and he meant to keep her safe.
Safe!
He needed to tell her to be careful, and never to go near Ian’s parents. To run away if the new usher, Louve, or the cook, Biedeluue, approached her.
But he couldn’t. Because he had a duty to stand quietly and look menacing. If he played his hand—if he hinted he was concerned about anyone other than Ian—Margery wouldn’t be safe.
‘No, no, I don’t want to go inside yet.’ Lady Warstone told Ian, gazing at her husband, who was still talking with the guards. ‘Let’s go to the garden, where we can sit privately. I have missed you much.’
‘I thought you only missed Balthus,’ Ian said.
‘That is one matter we need to discuss...where is he?’ she said.
‘I don’t know,’ Ian muttered. ‘The other...brother was last reported to be in France.’
‘He’s no longer your brother, but I do want to know where he is.’ She glanced at Evrart, licked her lips before her eyes returned to her son. ‘Do you have it?’
Ian paused so long, Evrart wondered if this was the time he needed to guard. If this was the end. Because the only way to defend one Warstone against another was with his life. He braced.
‘No,’ Ian said with finality. ‘Nothing is here that you want. Nothing.’
‘How...disappointing.’ She waved her hand towards Evrart. ‘You’re dismissed.’
‘Mother...’ Ian warned.
‘Oh, please,’ she scoffed. ‘What does it matter where he gets direction, as long as he follows it?’
Evrart stayed still. His life, his family, and now Margery depended on his obedience to Ian and Ian alone. Or at least the appearance of it.
Ian smiled. ‘Very, very good, Evrart. Proving again why I rewarded you. You’re free.’
Rewarded? He had received no reward. But he did know what he’d do with his freedom.
‘Thank you, my lord.’ He strode away before they could change their minds. He needed to get to Margery.
All was not well with Ian of Warstone, nor was it secure in the fortress. He knew Ian had as little trust of his parents as Evrart, and would never have normally dismissed him.
Evrart stormed across the courtyard.
And Margery... Margery!
He had not been able to see her last night. Had been barred from talking to her early this morning. How was her hand?
He swore his own hand pained him because he hadn’t done anything in the Great Hall. He had ceased reasoning he couldn’t have stopped it, that he couldn’t have known. However, he’d spent years with Ian of Warstone, and he knew what that man was capable of. He noted Ian’s hold on his knife changed, but had thought he’d throw it at that usher or the cook.
Ian had kept Margery a prisoner, but he’d never harmed her.
Were the usher and cook there to harm her?
He�
�d been gone for weeks, sent away by Ian, and he didn’t know these two. By all reports it was the steward who had employed them. The steward had been with the family long before Evrart had been hired, and his obsequious behaviour grated so he avoided the man as much as possible. But the steward wouldn’t have hired either of them without Ian’s approval.
A fact he could have asked the steward. However, while he had been away the steward had been sent away too, on a personal task to collect goblets—which was ridiculous and beneath the steward in every way. Almost more so than Ian sending his personal guard as he would a messenger.
All these changes were alarming.
Ian didn’t make changes because it wasn’t safe to do so. Anyone new was observed by Lord Warstone himself, and then scrutinised by his personal guard for months after that.
Were these two the true reason Ian had sent him away? Were these two being hired by the steward the reason that weasel had been banished as well?
Evrart didn’t know. He’d have to watch them—and not because he was guarding Ian. No, if these two were dangerous, it was his duty to protect Margery. As he should have done last night.
He’d felt that cut across his own palm! He’d barely held himself in check when it had occurred, and even less so when Ian had held her hand up to his cheek...like a lover who cared.
The sheer possessiveness he’d felt at that moment had unbalanced him. He’d wanted to roar, to lay waste to everything around her until she was in his arms again. And all the more because they had argued before she’d gone into that corridor with Ian, and she purposely avoided him. Why had he said such words to her about his mother and Peronelle when he’d had no time to tell her more?
She’d guessed he was here to protect his family, but from her reaction he hadn’t explained enough. He should have told her he was here for her, too, to keep her safe. But then, what did he know about her being here?
