He strode out of the antechamber, wove through the revelers, and loped down the forebuilding stairs. When he pushed open the door to the bailey, icy air and fat snowflakes swirled in from the darkness. The snow was falling heavily; he could barely see across to the kitchens and stables. He’d be a fool to try and reach the garden in such conditions.
As he made his way back up to the hall, Willow appeared at the top of the stairs. The wolfhound studied him, brown eyes catching the torchlight. When he brushed past, the dog fell in beside him. Willow must be lonely with Honoria gone from the hall.
Seeing Cornelia talking with Radley and her father, her face blotchy from crying, Tristan returned to the antechamber for her handkerchief. He might be furious with her, but he didn’t want her to lose her expensive hanky, and she looked like she could use it.
Willow, still at his side, sniffed the floor near one of the front table legs. A bit of food must have fallen off a platter at some point and the dog had found it.
Willow pawed at the rushes and gazed up at him.
Really gazed at him, as if to say, ‘Can you not see it?’
Amongst the churned up rushes was an object slightly smaller than Tristan’s thumbnail: a mistletoe berry.
Chapter Twelve
Honoria shoved open the door of her chamber and hurried inside. Releasing a pent-up sob, she slammed the wooden panel behind her and strode for the trestle table and the waiting jug of spiced wine. In her wildest imaginings, she’d never thought Christmas Eve would turn out so—
Her skin prickled in warning.
She wasn’t alone.
She abruptly halted. Barely a handful of paces away, a man in a hooded cloak rose from her open linen chest. He’d been rummaging through her possessions. A leather bag hung from a strap slung over his shoulder to hold whatever items he chose to steal. Indignation flared, but as he faced her, dread slid through her like a melting chunk of ice. He was the man from the market; the one with the scarred face.
Her pulse racing, she took a cautious step back. If she called for help, would anyone hear her? The noise from the hall would surely overwhelm the sound of her voice.
“Who are you?” she demanded. How had he gotten past the castle guards? If only there was an object close by that she could use as a weapon if needed, but the only things within reach were her father’s books, no longer neatly stacked as she’d left them.
The stranger raised his callused hands, palms up, and started toward her. “Milady—”
“Why are you in my chamber, going through my things?”
He continued to advance. “I can explain.”
Oh, he would, to Radley and his men-at-arms. Just a few more backward steps, and she’d yank the door open.
He lunged.
Shrieking, Honoria grabbed hold of the door handle, but his arm snaked around her waist, and he hauled her back against his body. His hand, smelling of the linen chest’s metal lock, clamped over her mouth. She struggled, kicked, and dug her nails into his hand, but then the tip of a dagger pressed against her neck.
She froze.
“I do not want to hurt you,” the man said, his words hot against the side of her face. “I will remove my hand, and you will not scream. Agreed?”
She would not agree. Given the slightest chance, she was definitely going to scream. The damsels in the old tales would not miss a chance to warn others of a dangerous intruder.
Who was this man, though? His manner of speaking bespoke a privileged upbringing—
His hand tightened on her face, and she drew in a sharp breath. “If you cry out, I will have no choice but to kill you. I do not want to take your life, but I will. Nod if you will heed my demands.”
What choice did she have? She didn’t want to die. When he lifted the knife slightly away from her skin, she nodded.
“A wise decision.” His hand dropped away from her face, but his arm locked like an iron band around her waist. “Now, tell me where you have hidden the book.”
He’d gone through her other tomes, so the only one he could mean was the book she’d bought in the market.
“You bought it at Wylebury days ago.”
She resisted the impulse to glance at the bed. Last night, when she’d found it impossible to sleep, she’d read the tome by candle and firelight; when at last her eyelids had grown heavy, she’d tucked the book under the pillows beside her. The servants, while making the bed, had folded the blankets so there was no clue that anything was hidden—as they were used to doing, since she often stowed books under her pillows.
“Why is that book so important?”
“Never mind. Where is—?”
A knock sounded on the door. “Honoria?”
Cornelia. Oh, God!
The man’s hand clamped over Honoria’s mouth again. “Quiet,” he whispered.
Remaining still, she fought the urge to bite his palm. If she acted rashly, Cornelia might be drawn into the situation. While Honoria was upset with the younger woman, she’d never forgive herself if Cornelia was injured or even killed.
Another knock. “I know you are in there,” Cornelia called. “I need to speak with you.”
The stranger muttered under his breath. He was clearly hoping that the younger woman would go away.
“All right. If you will not open the door…I will let myself in.”
Nay! Cornelia, nay!
The door swung inward. When Cornelia saw Honoria trapped in the stranger’s grip, she gasped.
“Scream, and I will slit this lady’s throat,” the stranger said. “Come in and shut the door. Now.”
Her face ashen, Cornelia hurried in and closed the panel. “Who are you? What are you—?”
“I want the book from the market. Where is it?”
Cornelia’s hand fluttered to her throat. “How would I know?”
The stranger growled. “If you are lying—”
“I am not.” She sniffed in disdain. “I have no interest in books.” While she spoke, her gaze met Honoria’s; a silent promise that she would do her best to summon help.
“Come here.”
Fear flickered in Cornelia’s eyes. “Why?”
“Do it, or I will kill—”
Visibly trembling, the younger woman walked closer. Honoria tried to catch Cornelia’s attention, to warn her to beware, but the man abruptly released her and pushed her, hard. She landed face down on the planks. As she scrambled to her feet, she saw that Cornelia was now the man’s captive, the dagger against her neck.
“Honoria,” the younger woman whispered in terror.
“Release her,” Honoria said, “and I will give you the tome. I promise.”
The stranger shook his head. “The book. I will not ask again.”
The man’s visage was so fearsome, so devoid of any trace of compassion, Honoria went straight to the bed and withdrew the tome from beneath the pillows. Crossing her arms over the book, she waited, granting him the illusion of control.
A hard smile curved the man’s lips. “Bring it to me.”
Honoria skirted the end of the bed, but then halted. “You will let Cornelia go.”
“I give the orders. Bring it—”
Honoria shifted her arms, as though to adjust her hold on the book. It tumbled from her grasp and fell on the floor by her feet. “Oh, how clumsy of me.”
The man shoved Cornelia aside and lunged for the tome.
Honoria kicked it under the trestle table. The book slid on the planks and with a thump, hit the wall.
“Run, Cornelia!”
“But, you—”
“Run!”
Cornelia bolted for the doorway, yanked it open, and raced out. “Help!” she screamed. “Someone, help!”
“That will cost you, milady,” the man snarled as he came out from under the table, still holding the knife. Shoving the book into his bag, he started toward her.
Honoria dashed for the doorway, but he pursued and caught her right arm. She screeched, writhed, but his
fingers didn’t relax their merciless grip. She clawed at the embrasure, trying to find a handhold, but he yanked her backward. With a pained breath, she slammed against him. The dagger again pressed against her skin.
“You will never leave this keep,” she said between clenched teeth.
His left arm around her, he forced her out into the passageway. “I will. You will ensure that I do.”
***
The handkerchief in his open palm like a peace offering, Tristan approached Radley and Guillaume, who had moved to the table of sweets. Cornelia was gone. A sinking feeling settled within Tristan as he neared the men, for he could only pray this conversation didn’t end with him out in the snow.
Radley was eating a mince pie. “Tris,” he said around a mouthful. “I was wondering where you had gone.”
Tristan held out the handkerchief to Guillaume, who frowned as he took it. “’Tis Cornelia’s,” Tristan said. “I realize, milord, that my private words to her were harsh—”
“They were,” Guillaume agreed.
“—and that I upset her greatly—”
“You did.”
He’d end up frozen in the snow tonight for certain, but Tristan would not retreat from what must be said. “She needed to understand—”
“—the foolishness of her behavior. I know.”
“Aye,” Tristan said slowly, “and—”
“Someone—I—should have said what you did much sooner.”
Astonishment whipped through Tristan. “Milord?”
Guillaume shook his head. “’Tis all my fault. After the accident, I…coddled her. I was afraid to be too strict with her, while she was obviously grieving. I wish now that I—”
Movement on the landing snared Tristan’s attention. Cornelia was standing at the rail, waving her arms. She was shouting; her words were drowned by the music.
“Milords.” Tristan pointed.
“God’s blood,” Guillaume said. “What is she—?”
“She needs help.” Radley ran toward the stairs.
“Help?” Guillaume asked. “Why?”
Cornelia glanced behind her, jumped as though startled, and raced for the staircase. As Tristan hurried after Radley, Honoria appeared on the landing—in the imprisoning grip of a man with a knife.
When the intruder looked down into the hall, torchlight illuminated his scarred face. Tristan recognized the man from the market.
Rage boiled inside Tristan. His instincts about the man had been right all along. He reached for his sword, but he’d left all of his weapons in his chamber. He hadn’t expected to need them on Christmas Eve.
He glanced at Guillaume, to ask if the older lord had a weapon, but Guillaume was elbowing his way toward the musicians, trying to catch their attention. The music faltered and then stopped.
Tristan reached the bottom of the stairs. Radley had already scaled them and, standing at the top, had put himself between frightened Cornelia and the man forcing Honoria along in front of him. Radley hadn’t drawn a weapon; he’d likely left his in his room, too.
Men-at-arms with drawn swords had gathered around the bottom of the staircase, awaiting orders.
“Out of my way,” the man said as he neared Radley.
Tristan scowled at the intruder’s arrogance. His tone suggested he was used to issuing orders and others immediately doing his bidding, which meant he must be a nobleman. No chivalrous lord of the realm, though, would hold a damsel hostage.
Honoria looked scared, but determined to survive her ordeal. Admiration for her coursed through Tristan, for she had stronger mettle than most ladies he knew.
“Let my sister go,” Radley said, his voice cold and even.
“She comes with me. Do not try to stop me from leaving this hall, or I will kill her.” The stranger shoved her back to a walk; she was now only a few paces from her brother.
“He has the book I bought,” Honoria choked out. “’Tis in his bag.”
His mind racing, Tristan climbed the lowest steps. “What does he want with the tome?” he called.
“I do not know,” she answered shakily.
Tristan vowed to get the book. The stranger wouldn’t have gone to such extreme measures on a snowy Christmas Eve, of all nights, unless there was something extremely damning in its pages.
“You will never reach the forebuilding,” Radley said. “Surrender.”
“Move, or I will slay her now.” The knife shifted higher, to rest near her throat. One nick, intentional or accidental, and her life was over.
Tristan would not let her die. If ’twas the last thing he ever did, he’d save her from this peril. He had a better chance of vanquishing her captor, though, once the man had descended to the hall.
“Mayhap we should heed him,” Tristan called up to Honoria’s brother. As Radley’s astounded gaze met Tristan’s, he stole a quick, sidelong glance at the men-at-arms. He could only hope Radley understood.
“I will not let him leave with my sister.” Radley’s tone was the perfect blend of desperation and fury.
“What choice do we have?” Tristan forced defeat into his voice. “He has outwitted us.”
Chapter Thirteen
Honoria stumbled along in the stranger’s hold, the garlicky stink of the man’s sweat surrounding her. Surely Tristan didn’t mean what he’d just said: that they should concede to this criminal’s demands? Indignation warred with her fear, for she didn’t want the stranger to triumph this day, especially if he intended to keep holding her hostage and take ownership of her book.
Knights always vanquished villains, did they not? So why weren’t Tristan or her brother trying to free her?
As she was forced past Radley, she met her brother’s stare. He was clearly worried, but there was also a glint of cunning in his eyes. Mayhap he and Tristan had a plan, after all.
The stranger maneuvered her down the steps. Moving with care, so she didn’t slip on her gown’s hem and get cut by the knife, she dared a glance across the hall that was utterly silent. Folk watched, their expressions fraught with concern.
Guillaume had his arms around her mother. A frantic-looking Cornelia stood beside them; thankfully she was safe.
Booted footfalls sounded behind her and the intruder: Radley was following them down the stairs. Knowing her brother was so near sent hope blooming inside her. She must be ready to run, to fight off this man, when she had the opportunity.
At the bottom of the stairs, Tristan waited. His face was a mask of carefully controlled anger. He looked frightening, powerful, and so very handsome.
Her father would have liked Tristan. Her eyes burned, for there was much she wanted to say to Tristan, to share with him, and she was going to say and do those things. The man with the scarred face wasn’t going to ruin her chance at true love.
When they reached the lower steps, Tristan, his mouth a grim line, stepped aside to let them pass. The men-at-arms also stepped back. Radley must have signaled for them to do so. She hardly dared to breathe, for the sense of expectation—of simmering violence about to erupt into chaos—hung heavily in the air.
Her shoes crunched on the dried rushes and herbs scattered on the hall floor. As the man forced her onward, Willow loped over from the hearth. Hackles up, the dog snarled. Honoria had never seen the hound in such a state, but then she’d never been in grave danger before.
“Call off the dog,” the stranger shouted, “or it dies.”
“Go, Willow,” she called.
Radley whistled. “Here, Willow.”
Snarling, the dog leaped for the man’s right arm.
The intruder lashed out with the dagger.
Honoria shoved him, hard.
With a strangled curse, the stranger staggered sideways, the wolfhound locked onto his arm. Kicking at the dog, the man tried to switch the dagger to his other hand.
Racing past Honoria, Tristan tackled the stranger. The two men fell to the floor, the dagger flashing as they fought for it. Honoria desperately hoped that Tr
istan wouldn’t be stabbed; he was at a disadvantage being injured from the boar hunt, and the man with the scarred face was strong.
Willow barked fiercely, while the men grunted and wrestled, shreds of dried rushes clinging to their clothes. Honoria, now at a safe distance with her mother, Guillaume, and Cornelia, called the dog to her side. Reluctantly, the hound obeyed.
Her brother and his men-at-arms closed in. “I want the intruder alive,” Radley ordered.
The man with the scarred face broke free from Tristan and lurched to his feet. The intruder had lost the knife. Honoria cried out in relief.
The stranger ran toward the forebuilding, but Radley and the guards swiftly encircled him, their swords pointed at his torso.
Glowering, the intruder halted and held up his hands in surrender.
The folk in the hall cheered and whistled.
Radley took the intruder’s bag and handed it to Tristan, before the guards pinned his hands behind his back and tied them with the leather cord Tristan had handed them—the cord that had held his pouch with Odelia’s lock of hair.
Tristan met and held Honoria’s gaze, and she smiled. He smiled back.
How grateful she was for his bravery. She couldn’t wait to thank him properly.
“Who are you?” Radley demanded, once the intruder was secured. “Why did you break into my keep and steal my sister’s book?”
The man sullenly averted his gaze.
“I can answer part of that question,” Guillaume said. “I believe he is John Putnam, the youngest of the four Putnam sons.”
***
Tristan stilled, his fingers curling around the pouch of hair. He could not have heard Guillaume correctly. The intruder’s last punch to the head, the one that had made Tristan’s ears ring, must have affected his hearing.
“Can you say that again?” Tristan asked, while he shoved the pouch under his belt for safekeeping.
“He is John Putnam, the youngest brother of your former fiancée.”
“Odelia’s brother?” Tristan hadn’t met all of her siblings; the two youngest had been in Scotland, on missions for the crown. Now that Guillaume had mentioned her name, though, Tristan did see a resemblance between Odelia and this man in the set of his eyes and shape of his mouth.
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