by Barb Hendee
With his free hand, Heath pointed to a dagger on the belt of a Väränj guard. The guard drew it, and Heath turned back to the now terrified bartender.
“I am here in the company of Prince Damek,” Heath explained calmly.
“Prince Damek . . . ?”
“So you will understand that I have leave to do anything I wish,” Heath went on as if he’d not been interrupted. “If you have the two people I am seeking upstairs in your establishment, or if you know where they are, you’d better tell me now. If you don’t”—he pointed to the guard with the dagger—“I’ll have him begin cutting off your fingers, one by one, starting with the thumb on this hand.”
The man’s eyes went wide, and Amelie fought back a gasp. At the moment, Heath sounded just like Damek.
“Not here,” the bartender babbled. “They’re in the stable . . . a few blocks east. I own part of it, and I put ’em in a room in the back. But that soldier paid me well to keep quiet, and I’m no welcher. You understand . . . I didn’t know Prince Damek was lookin’ for him and the lady.”
Heath smiled again and let the man go. “Of course I understand, and I thank you for your trouble.” He turned on his heel and walked to the door.
With little choice, Amelie followed him and the Väränj guards back outside. Before reaching the horses, she caught his arm. “Heath, you wouldn’t really have cut that man’s fingers off?”
He stopped. “Cut his . . . good gods, no. I thought you knew I was bluffing. I’ve no idea what I’d have done if he hadn’t begun talking.”
Taking this in, Amelie couldn’t help laughing once. He was certainly unpredictable.
But then she grew serious. They had found Rochelle and Maddox, and she feared he’d not be so inhibited when it came to dealing with Maddox.
She was ready for anything.
“Let’s find that stable,” she said.
* * *
Riding in front of Damek and the Kimovesk guards, Céline and Anton located the stable on the east side of town with fair ease. Anton put a hand up and halted the small contingent about a block away.
The stable was huge, built of solid oak with glass in the high-set windows.
Céline was both on edge and miserable at the same time. She knew she had to be at her best here, gauging a rapidly changing situation and being at the ready to protect Rochelle, or possibly Maddox, depending on how all this played out. And yet, for once, her mind was not on the crisis. She’d been wallowing in self-pity on the ride here, mourning afresh for her lost father, and feeling angry at the lack of justice that had prevailed for so long in this province. Then . . . Anton had shown amazing kindness, followed it up by kissing her, and she’d let herself become lost in him, in the warmth and pleasure of his touch. She’d been startled and hurt when he pulled away.
Moments later, no matter how shattered she’d felt inside about so many things, she understood why he’d pulled away. Now she wished she could talk to him. She knew him well enough to know he’d be racked with guilt. In truth, it still hurt when she thought about him drawing away from her, but here, in enemy territory, they both needed to keep their wits about them. Getting lost in each other was a pitfall that could not be risked.
Even from a block away, Anton’s eyes moved up and down the large, well-maintained stable. The wide front doors were open.
“This town,” he said slowly, “appears rather prosperous.”
“You mean for a town under my control?” Damek returned. Anton said nothing, and then Damek confessed, “The mayor is a good friend of Father’s, a friend of old, and I’ve thought it wise to take a light hand here for now.”
Anton dismounted. “The front doors are open, so there is most likely someone on watch inside. I’ll check for the horses.”
Without waiting to be asked, Céline climbed down off Sable. Damek and Captain Kochè watched her join Anton.
“Try to be a little quicker this time,” Damek said dryly.
Anton started toward the stable and Céline followed. They didn’t speak as they walked, and Céline resigned herself that any further words—about themselves or each other—would have to wait.
A single hanging lantern just inside the wide stable doors provided some light. Various tack and harnesses hung on the walls, and two wagons were parked here up front. Céline followed Anton past two empty stalls, and then he paused in front of a third stall. Its door was open, and Céline peered in to see a youth of about sixteen years sleeping on a matt on the stall floor. He didn’t even stir. If his job was to guard the horses from thieves, he wasn’t much use.
Anton put his finger to his lips and then motioned Céline forward.
They walked quietly on, looking over stall doors, but they found no roan stallion or white mare in the front section of the stable. They reached a stout support wall with a doorway and passed through into the back half of the building. Here the only illumination was moonlight coming through the upper windows—along with any residual light from the lantern glowing through the door behind them.
Four stalls down, Céline peered over the top of the door to see a fine white mare with slender legs and a silky mane. “Anton.”
He looked in and then went to the next stall. “A big roan.”
For the next moment, they both stood there. They’d found the horses. That meant Heath’s speculations had been correct all along. Maddox and Rochelle were nearby . . . somewhere.
Movement sounded from the front of the stable and a young male voice called out, “Hallo? Is anyone there?”
Anton frowned. Down at the end of the row of stalls was a closed door. “Out the back,” he mouthed silently.
She followed him down the remaining stalls, but when he reached the door and tried to turn the latch, the door didn’t budge.
“It’s locked,” he whispered. “And I’d rather not alert anyone to our presence here yet.” Turning back, he put his shoulder to the door and was about to try to force it when it jerked open in his hand from the other side.
Captain Maddox stood there, his face awash in shock, holding a sword with the blade pointed toward the ceiling. He struck out, catching Anton in the face with the fist gripping the hilt. Céline couldn’t help gasping and rushing back out of the way. Somehow Anton hit the floor, rolled up almost directly beside her, and drew his own sword in the same motion. His mouth was bleeding.
Céline looked beyond Maddox into a small room behind him with a table that sported a glowing candle lantern. Rochelle stood by the table with her hand at her throat.
Maddox roared and rushed Anton. He was the larger man by far, but Anton stepped aside at the last second, and Maddox stumbled past where he’d been standing.
However, as Maddox brought his sword down at the same time, he almost hit Céline. She felt the air moving past her when the blade swung.
“Maddox, stop!” Anton shouted.
Rochelle ran out from the small room where they had been hiding, looking from Céline to Anton.
“The women are in close quarters here!” Anton rushed on. “Do you want us both swinging swords?”
Despite the desperation in his eyes, Maddox froze, glancing at Céline, and she knew Anton had made the correct appeal.
“Rochelle!”
Céline half whirled to see Heath standing about twenty paces down the row of stalls. Amelie and the Väränj guards were just behind him . . . and Damek and the Kimovesk guards were behind them.
“Heath!” Rochelle cried. “I knew you would find me.”
* * *
Amelie had been taken aback when she and Heath approached the stable . . . only to find Damek and his men waiting. Without asking why they were here, Heath explained they had reason to believe that Maddox had hidden Rochelle in a room at the back.
Heath led the way, and upon entering the front section of the stable, they had all heard Anton shouting for Maddox to “stop.”
Breaking into a jog, Heath hurried toward the back with Amelie right behind him . . . and there,
they found Anton and Maddox squared off with their swords drawn. Céline stood near a stall close to Anton.
Rochelle was just outside a small doorway in the back wall. “Heath!” she cried. “I knew you would find me.”
A few breaths of silence followed. Maddox’s expression was tortured and confused at the same time.
“Put down that blade!” Heath spat at him.
Rochelle was looking beyond Heath . . . behind Amelie to someone farther behind. Slowly, Damek came forward, moving down the right side of the stalls, slipping past the Väränj guards. His face expressed nothing. His eyes shifted from Maddox to Rochelle, but he offered no emotion at all.
“My lord!” Rochelle said, with a hint of fear. “He stole me from the castle. He forced me!”
“And how did he force you to charm one of my guards into opening the portcullis?” Damek asked.
Her breaths came fast. “He threatened me.”
“With what?”
As those words left Damek’s mouth, Heath whirled toward him in a rage. “How dare you treat her like this . . . after what she’s endured?” He pointed to Maddox. “I’ll execute him myself! He’s the one who has been trying to stop this wedding.”
“That’s not true,” Maddox said raggedly, lowering the point of his sword in defeat. “But I did force Rochelle to come with me. I tried to save her.”
Damek ignored Heath and continued to study Rochelle. Amelie had a bad feeling that Damek was most dangerous when he was calm like this.
“My lord,” Céline said, slipping past Anton and moving to Damek. “My sister can tell you without a doubt exactly what happened.”
Thankfully, Céline sounded like herself again. Something had woken her up.
“Please allow Amelie to read one of them, and then you’ll know the truth,” Céline went on.
Finally, Damek turned his eyes to her, letting them rest briefly on her face. He looked back first to Rochelle and then Maddox. “Have her read . . . him.”
He still sounded dangerous, but Céline had accomplished what the sisters had come here for. As of yet, no one had killed Maddox on the spot, and now Amelie had the chance to find out what had really happened. The tricky part here was that she and Céline had been charged with the task of making certain Damek’s marriage was completed. If Maddox turned out to be innocent . . . and Rochelle had run off with him, how in the world would Amelie be able to save him and the marriage?
Still, she had to learn the truth. She didn’t know Maddox well, but anyone deserved that much.
Walking forward through the small group of people ahead, she went straight to him. His eyes were filled with despair, and a trickle of sweat ran down his face.
“How did you find us?” he whispered in disbelief.
“Heath seemed to know what you would do,” she answered. “We followed him for the most part.”
“Heath?”
The shocked manner in which he repeated Heath’s name bothered Amelie. Was it so unthinkable that Heath should have a brain in his head? She looked past Maddox into the room. “Are there chairs in there? We should sit, but drop your sword out here.”
A flash of rebellion passed across his features. It was gone just as quickly as he looked over at Rochelle. In defeat, he dropped his sword and walked through the doorway. Amelie followed, finding herself in a narrow but fairly comfortable looking room with a bed, a table, chairs, and even a porcelain washbasin. Not bad for the back of a stable.
“Sit down,” she instructed. “I only need to touch your hand.”
“I know.”
Damek now stood in the doorway, watching them, and Amelie tried to shut him out. She grasped two of Maddox’s fingers and closed her eyes.
She felt for the spark of his spirit.
Although it was a terrible invasion, she knew she couldn’t go back as only an observer this time. She needed to see and feel the past as Maddox had felt it. Merely watching events as they had played out would not be enough.
The first jolt hit. Amelie fought to latch on to Maddox’s spirit, and when she had it, she forced it to mesh with her own. She could feel anxiety flooding his mind, but she didn’t let go. She struggled to see through Maddox’s eyes and feel what he had felt . . .
Until she was Maddox.
The second jolt hit.
The room around them vanished, and they were swept backward together through the gray and white mists.
Chapter Ten
Quillette Manor near Enêmûsk
One month in the past
Maddox had never known such joy.
Rochelle lay beneath him. Her slender, perfect body was naked, and her arms were around his neck. They were in the same small guest room they sometimes availed themselves of when they both could arrange an excuse to sneak away. Today, they’d made good use of the past hour, and he was nearly spent.
These stolen moments had become the center of his life. He’d had women over the years, and he’d cared deeply for some of them, but he’d never been in love.
He hadn’t even known what the word meant until now.
She ran her nose along his cheek, and he breathed in pleasure while moving his hand from her hip up her side to cup one of her small, rounded breasts.
“Rochelle,” he murmured.
Even after three weeks of this, he sometimes still couldn’t believe it. Every unmarried nobleman who walked into the manor made an offer for Rochelle, and yet she’d given herself to him, to a soldier with no title and no fortune . . . and twelve years older than her.
How could he be so lucky?
“We have to tell your parents soon,” he said. “This is beginning to feel dishonorable.”
“Does this feel dishonorable?” she asked playfully, brushing her fingers from his neck all the way down his back.
His whole body tingled, but he pulled away and rolled onto his side. “I mean it. We need to tell them and arrange for our marriage.”
Daylight came in through the window, glinting off her beautiful red-gold hair.
She sat up in bed, letting the covers fall so he could look at her. The sight never ceased to astonish him. His eyes moved from her narrow, rounded hips up to her fragile shoulders. Her white skin was flawless.
“Not yet, Maddox. I haven’t thought of a way to tell them yet . . . to explain. I fear if we choose the wrong time, I could be locked in my room, and you could be dismissed from service.”
“Your mother wouldn’t dismiss me.”
His place among the family was somewhat ambiguous. He’d basically been a “gift” from Prince Rodêk three years ago: a captain of the Äntes guard to oversee their manor. Although Maddox was in service to Lady Helena, and her brother, Lord Hamish, they treated him as a near equal in their daily lives, and he often ate in the dining room with them. He only played the part of bodyguard, standing at attention by the wall, when they had guests.
“She would dismiss you if we don’t choose our moment and our words correctly,” Rochelle said, “and I couldn’t bear that. Please, wait a little longer, and we’ll think of something. I cannot be the cause of anything that injures you.”
“But soon?” he pressed, picturing their wedding day in his mind.
“Soon.” She smiled and lay down, stretching her slender body. “Put your hands on me again.”
* * *
A week passed and they were able to meet two more times. Rochelle was only eighteen, and she knew nothing of the world. Maddox marveled that so young and innocent a girl could be so insatiable in bed. She could not seem to get enough of him.
He loved it.
He’d found the perfect woman.
Still, though, he had pressed her again to let him speak to her mother and uncle, but she so feared the prospect of his dismissal that she’d begged him to wait.
He knew he couldn’t wait much longer. He was trusted in this house, and the thought of some of the things he and Rochelle had done in back corners of the manor filled him with heat and guilt at the same
time.
Evening had fallen, and he was dressed for dinner, but when he walked into the dining room, he wondered if he’d forgotten a special occasion. There were elaborately arranged roses on the table, along with the good silver candelabras that Lady Helena used for company.
Yet only the family was present, already seated. Of course his gaze first went to Rochelle, who was resplendent, wearing a muslin dress of pale yellow. Her hair was loose and fell around her shoulders.
Sitting next to her was the eldest daughter in the family . . . Carlotta. She was as different from Rochelle as snow from fire. Physically, she took after her father’s side of the family, large-boned with sinewy hands. Though she was only in her mid-twenties, her coarse dark hair had begun going gray, and she wore it in a severe knot. Her nose was sharp, and her mouth was perpetually turned down at the corners. She wore dark gowns with high necks and long sleeves. Maddox had never heard a kind word come from her mouth.
Across the table from her sat Lizbeth, and his heart went out to the girl in a different way from how it beat for Rochelle. Poor Lizbeth. In the three years he’d lived here, he’d watched her grow from an awkward twelve-year-old to an awkward fifteen-year-old. She lacked any sort of grace. There were often red spots on her cheeks and forehead, and her hair forever seemed to be falling out of whatever attempt she’d made to pin it up or pull it back. Her dresses never quite fit her properly, and she was always fidgeting and pulling at her sleeves. But it was impossible for him not to feel a fondness for her. She was open and honest and had a good heart. She was kind to horses, and she loved to run and climb trees. Unfortunately, Lady Helena never failed to point out the girl’s faults, and Lizbeth had become self-conscious.
Maddox pitied her now, but he had a feeling that with time, she might grow into her own brand of beauty and perhaps take the world by storm.
Heath sat to the left of Lizbeth, and at the sight of him, Maddox’s pity increased. At eighteen, Heath was more like a child than a man, and he rarely spoke. He looked like a male copy of Rochelle, but on him, the effect was . . . unsettling.
