Dark Warrior (de Russe Legacy Book 9)

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Cort had a feeling that the entire ride to and from Lynn was going to be a challenge.

  In more ways than one.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The mist had lifted by the time they reached Lynn, at least for the most part. There were patches lingering over the fields, but it made for a scenic ride.

  Vulcan and Cort had their moments. Vulcan was very strong, and very stubborn, and he and Cort wrestled nearly the entire way to Lynn but as they drew closer to the town, the horse seemed to settle down admirably with a steady, heavy hand. All Cort knew was that he was exhausted by the time they reached Lynn, but there was no way he was going to admit it. He truly had no idea how young, relatively weak and skinny Damien had ridden the horse for as long as he had.

  The lad had hidden strength.

  At this hour, the large village of Lynn was already bustling. Dillon took them to one of the larger liveries in town where they dropped off the horses and the thirty men-at-arms who had come with them. As the men settled in for the wait and the blacksmith at the livery inspected Vulcan’s shoes per Dillon’s request, the five of them headed out into the city.

  Mostly, it was the men following the women because Dera and Arabella knew where they wanted to go. They headed towards the town center where people were going about their morning business. There were vendors of all sorts, including farmers selling their produce. Given the time of year, there was a good deal of fruits and vegetables to be sold, and there were several livestock merchants.

  Cort learned that every Tuesday, Lynn had its big market, and every Tuesday is when Dera and Arabella wanted to come to town. The women held hands as they pushed between the crowds, followed by three big knights as they headed to the merchant stall near the end of the marketplace.

  Tables were set out with piles of fabric on them. There were other tables with scarfs, and then one with more combs than Cort had ever seen. He spent a good deal of time in London and what he was seeing before him rivaled anything he’d seen there. The stall drew women to it like a moth to flame and there were already several women crowded into it by the time Dera and Arabella arrived.

  They headed straight for the merchant himself.

  “Lord Ender,” Arabella greeted. “What new and wonderful things do you have for us today?”

  Ender Uger was a big man with an impossibly long beard. He was dressed in exquisite robes, advertising his products, and he greeted Arabella and Dera as if they were his long-lost daughters. Careful not to touch them, however, as that was forbidden in his religion, he gestured to a table that was at the rear of the stall, but he waved his arms as if he were herding sheep.

  “This way, hanimlar,” he said amiably, using the term for “lady” in his language. “I am so happy to see you today. I have very special things my brother has sent all the way from Constantinople. I have saved them especially for you!”

  Dera and Arabella flocked to the table where Ender’s daughter was wearing several of the beautiful scarves from the table. The woman was about the same age as Dera and Arabella, with alabaster skin and dark green eyes. She was an exquisite beauty, a sweet smile on her lips, until she opened her mouth and displayed big, rotting teeth.

  In fact, Cort had been enjoying the view very much of the woman with the long, dark hair until she smiled. He couldn’t stop himself from wincing, looking to Brend and seeing that the man was silently far gone with laughter. They’d both been inspecting the beauty when they’d gotten a shock. Cort had to turn away so the young woman couldn’t catch a hint of his smile.

  “If she keeps her mouth shut, she is magnificent,” he muttered.

  Brend nodded. “I thought that the first time I saw her, too,” he said. “Ender says she is betrothed to a man in his country and is soon to return.”

  Cort lifted his eyebrows. “Pity,” he said. “If not for the teeth, she would make this town much more tolerable.”

  Brend wasn’t hard pressed to agree. “Indeed.”

  Making sure the smirk was off his face, Cort returned his attention to Dera and Arabella, now pouring over the jewelry that the merchant was displaying for them. As he turned around, he saw Dera admiring beautiful golden cross earrings that were inlaid with pieces of colored glass. He watched her for a moment, seeing the joy on her face. Everything about her seemed to glow.

  “Speaking of betrothal,” he said. “Why is your sister not already married? She is old enough. Almost past being old enough, in fact.”

  Brend shook his head. “I do not know,” he said. “I have been in England and removed from my family for many years, so I do not know why she remains unmarried. She has a mind of her own and my father respects that, I think. If she does not wish to marry a man, he is not going to force her.”

  “So she intends to remain a spinster all her life?”

  “I really do not know. But she’ll not find a husband in England.”

  Cort debated just how much to push the subject. Brend was so very English on the outside, but he was still concerned for the man’s Irish blood. He could deny it all he wanted, but the truth was that he was born in Ireland. Surely he had Irish sympathies. But Cort was more concerned about the sympathies of the Irish sister. He had to get her alone, eventually.

  He had an idea.

  “And it is a pity you’ll not find a wife in England, either,” he said after a moment. “Brend, you and I have been friends for years, have we not?”

  Brend eyed him, smiling. “As much as I am ashamed to admit it to others, we have been.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “With my life, Cort. Why do you ask?”

  Cort’s gaze moved to the two women excitedly looking over the jewelry. “Because I have seen the way Bella looks at you,” he said. “I deduced that something is going on between you two and Dillon confirmed it. Have no fear; your secret is safe with me but I cannot imagine the turmoil you have been going through. Truly, you have my pity. I just wanted you to know.”

  Brend stiffed ever-so-slightly, his gaze moving to Arabella as she admired a broach that Ender was showing her. The longer he looked at her, the more pained his expression became.

  “I suppose I’ve not been very good at keeping my composure when she comes near,” he said softly. “I try, but it is increasingly difficult.”

  Cort wasn’t unsympathetic. “Far be it from me to tell you how to conduct yourself, but the next person that catches on might not be so… understanding.”

  Brend nodded, his expression unusually serious. “One has to ask oneself if love is worth the risk,” he muttered. “I am still asking myself that, Cort. I have worked hard my entire life to become an elite knight. I hold a position of honor with the house of de Winter, something the firstborn men in my family have been holding for two hundred years. You cannot imagine what a burden that is. I do not want to be the one that fails in that task.”

  Cort grunted. “Well do I know that feeling,” he said. “I am the son of the Dark Knight, the man who turned the tides at the Battle of Bosworth in favor of Henry Tudor. That is an awesome and heavy cross to bear, and in me more than my other brothers, I suppose, because I am the firstborn son of my parents. My father had my brother Trenton with his first wife and my mother had my brother Dane with her first husband. After they married, I was their first son. I understand the fear of not wanting to be the son who fails his father.”

  Brend looked at him, feeling his kindred spirit. “I will be honest when I tell you that I do not know what to do,” he said. “Some days, I want to run away with Bella. Some days, I cannot even look at her and force myself to focus on my duties. It is enough to drive a man to drink.”

  “You haven’t started, have you?”

  Brend grinned. “Not heavily, anyway.”

  Cort laughed softly. “Do not start, not yet,” he said. “There has to be a way for you and Bella to be together and not suffer the consequences of it.”

  Brend’s jaw ticked faintly as he pondered the emotional situation. “If there is, I h
ave not come across it,” he said. “Cort, I am as English as you are, only I was born in Ireland. My heart and soul are English. But my blood is Irish. I am looked down upon, like I am inferior to the English simply because I was born at Mount Wrath. I am not inferior; I am a man, just like you are. I am as good, if not better, than most. Frankly, I find this whole thing infuriating. I am good enough to die for the House of de Winter, but I am not good enough to marry into it?”

  Cort put a hand on Brend’s shoulder because he was becoming agitated and he wanted to soothe the man before Dera and Arabella caught on. “Have you approached Denys?”

  Brend shook his head. “Why? He must follow the law and the law says that a woman of English birth cannot marry a man of Irish birth.”

  “Aye, but that law only applies in England.”

  Brend looked at him, frowning. “What do you mean?”

  Cort probably shouldn’t be making suggestions like this. Truth be told, he was doing it because he really did care for Brend, but also because he wanted to endear himself to the man to see if he would be willing to tell him more about Dera and her activities in Ireland. He was trying to deepen the relationship. Brend trusted him, that was true, but he wanted more.

  He wanted Brend to have little reservation when speaking to him about Dera.

  Perhaps it was a dirty trick, but Cort had a task to complete.

  “I mean that you could take her to Scotland and marry her,” he said quietly. “Or take her to France or Spain. De Winter has properties near Bordeaux, on the Garonne River. Mayhap you can marry her in France and remain there as a garrison commander for de Winter. If all else fails, my father’s family holds ancient properties in Flanders. I am sure my father would be open to your plight and mayhap helping you. He had quite a plight of his own with my mother, once.”

  Brend was actually listening. “I will admit I had thought of going to France but I’d not thought of asking anyone for help. I do not want my friends to be complicit in my actions.”

  Cort grinned. “So find an old English lord somewhere who is willing to adopt you,” he said. “If he legally adopts you, then you are English.”

  Brend’s eyebrows lifted. “Do you know of any?”

  Cort started to laugh, shaking his head. He slapped him on the arm. “I do not,” he said. “But if I hear anything, I will let you know. But I do not want to talk about you anymore. I want to talk about your sister.”

  “What about her?”

  Cort leaned into him. “I have heard rumor that she’s a warrior woman,” he said. “I will admit, she does not look like a warrior woman to me. Is it true?”

  Brend’s gaze moved to his sister, who was looking at fine silk scarves in brilliant colors. “My father seems to think that she is,” he said. “I told you that I believe de Winter brought her here as a hostage, but my father was more than willing to send her, which seems strange.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she would be a hostage to ensure that the House of MacRohan did not join the rebellion,” he said. “That would mean my father would be forced into compliance. But my father gave her over most willingly. Almost…”

  “Almost what?”

  “Almost as if he wanted to be rid of her.”

  “Get her out of Ireland?”

  Brend nodded reluctantly, having no idea that he was giving Cort the information he sought. It wasn’t as if Cort were going to betray the man, but for his own information, he wanted to know.

  Whether or not he told Henry about it was a different matter.

  “She looks harmless to me,” Cort said. “But still, I’d like to take her to Deverill along with Bella to see Gilliana. You know how protective my father is over her. She does not get out much.”

  Gilliana de Russe was a fragile flower, an absolutely beautiful young woman who had been born hard of hearing. She could hear nothing out of one ear and very little out of the other, which is why she’d never been sent away to foster. Gaston and Remington’s protective instincts were voracious when it came to their youngest, and the result was that she didn’t go very many places or meet very many people.

  “Hopefully, Denys will allow it,” Brend said. “You must ask him when we return to Narborough. And… mayhap I can ride escort.”

  “I will make a point of asking.”

  Brend smiled weakly, the familiar sadness swamping him when it came to Arabella. So close, but yet so far.

  “Brend,” Cort said after a moment. “What happens when Denys finds a husband for Bella? Have you thought of that? I only say that because I have two younger brothers who aren’t spoken for. It might plant a seed in Denys’ mind if Dera and Bella travel to Deverill and… well, I was just thinking out loud.”

  Brend looked at him pointedly. “First, I will kill the brother that Denys has chosen,” he said. “Then, Bella and I really will flee to Scotland or France, or wherever we have to because the House of de Russe will be in pursuit.”

  He meant it half-jest, half-not. Cort could see how tormented he was. “So it will take a betrothal to push you into doing what your heart dictates?” he asked.

  Brend lifted his big shoulders, unable to articulate what, exactly, he was feeling. There was so very much at stake, straddling two worlds as he was. Cort patted the man on the shoulder.

  “I did not mean to upset you,” he said. “In fact, let me take your sister out of the way and you can have some time with Bella. Go, now; pretend she is your lady and you are here to purchase something lovely for her.”

  Cort was finally making his move to get Dera alone. He’d interrogated Brend enough for one day. He walked away from the man, heading over to Dera as Brend summoned his courage to go to Arabella.

  “My lady,” Cort said as he moved in behind her. “There is an astonishingly good baker around the corner and I am rather famished. Would you honor me with your company?”

  Dera had been looking at a beautiful yellow scarf, but she turned to him in surprise when he spoke. “Me?”

  “You.”

  She appeared uncertain, turning to look at Arabella, who was in a huddle with Brend as they pretended to look at the scarves, too. Seeing that her brother and Arabella were occupied, Dera returned her attention to Cort.

  “Very well,” she said. “I accept.”

  He flashed her one of those devastating smiles, the ones that usually got him anything he wanted. Extending an elbow to her, he escorted her out of the stall and into the street beyond.

  It was a busy Market Tuesday in Lynn. The mists had lifted completely, revealing a bright day as Cort led Dera to the Street of the Bakers. The street was full of women going about their shopping, purchasing specialty bread that they would not perhaps bake at home, or purchasing sweets and other items. Some of them were even bringing their roasts and fowl, utilizing the big baker ovens to cook their food for a small fee.

  “Well?” Dera said as they strolled along. “Where is this miraculous place?”

  Cort pointed up ahead. “There,” he said. “The place with the brick arch. See it?”

  Dera nodded. “What’s so marvelous about it?”

  “It gives us something to do while your brother and Arabella spend time together. Alone.”

  Dera looked at him. “You know about that?”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Good. I was hoping I hadn’t just given your brother away.”

  Dera shook her head. “Nay,” she said. “I saw it when I first arrived at Narborough. It is very romantic, but… sad.”

  Cort didn’t reply to that. He didn’t want to delve into a potentially depressing subject when he very much wanted to make this little venture to the bake shop something fun and flirtatious. He was supposed to seduce the woman, after all.

  He’d better get on with it.

  “I’m sure all things will happen the way they should,” he said. “If it is true love, they will find a way. Now, may we speak on something happier? What is to your liking, my
lady? Are you hungry or would you just like some sweets?”

  Dera smiled at him, rather coyly. “Will you choose for me, my lord?”

  Cort grinned. “I may not choose something you like.”

  “Then again, you may.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Implicitly.”

  He snorted. “That may be your grave mistake,” he said. “I may choose eyeball pie and a coffin of brains.”

  She looked at him in horror, breaking into giggles. “If you ate it first, then I would follow suit.”

  “You would?”

  “Of course. Show me your bravery and I shall show you mine.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Are you challenging me?”

  She put her hand over her mouth, hiding her grin. “Mayhap.”

  Cort kept his eyes narrowed, but there was a smile on his lips and a mischievous one at that.

  The flirtation had begun.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  Dera kept her hand looped through his elbow possessively as he took her through the Street of the Bakers where it turned into another avenue. There were butchers here and as the street curved south, it had the smell of blood. In fact, it was running in the gutters, black and congealed. The sweet smells from the bakers so recently experienced were no longer so sweet on this part of the road.

  “And where are you taking me?” she asked. “I thought we were going to get bread and other delights.”

  He cast her a sidelong glance. “You challenged me,” he said. “Did you not think I would accept?”

  Dera was as stubborn as he was. “Then do your worst. If you eat it first, I shall also.”

  He bit his lip to keep from laughing because he was about to do something quite dastardly. They came to a stone stall that had a low-ceilinged room when first entered, but the back was open into a small yard. There were animals in back, living and dead, and as men butchered in the rear, two women were working in the room, stewing and cooking and packaging.