by Lara Adrian
Her voice trailed off into humiliated silence. In its wake, Draec chuckled. The soft mocking humor rumbled in the quiet that descended, and if it was possible, Ariana's cheeks flamed a deeper shade of red. "I see you've lost none of your charm with the ladies, my friend." He glanced over at Ariana. "Don't you know who you're with, demoiselle? Why, you've been in the company of none other than Braedon le Chasseur--The Hunter himself. He always gets what he's after."
"He's not after anything," Ariana said, coming to his defense even though her gaze held a trace of mounting suspicion. "He brought me to France because I begged him to help me."
"Helped you, has he? Yes, I can see that."
"You can't see anything. Before you arrived here, we were on our way to Rouen to deliver this satchel."
"Oh, I see. And did you know, dear lady, that you are some twelve hours away from Rouen? Twelve hours off, and heading directly for the coast. Toward Honfleur would be my guess. An odd path to take, for a man who's never been lost a day in his life."
Braedon could not look at Ariana in that moment. Seeing le Nantres' satisfied expression was condemning enough. He had turned them away from Rouen when they left the cavern. He'd been heading for the coast, planning to put Ariana on a boat for England to ensure her safety, whether she liked it or not. He had only meant to protect her, but now he felt her eyes fix on him in stunned mistrust.
Draec slanted him a cutting glance. "The map, Braedon. Where is it? Come now, you heard the young lady. She is counting on you to help her."
Braedon met his old friend's gaze and held it firm. Mouth twisting with the distaste of what he'd had to do, he replied simply, "I burned it."
"What!" Ariana's cry of outrage only underscored the cool reserve with which Draec absorbed the news. Her cry was cut short by the brutish hand that seized a handful of her hair to keep her from rushing forward in her shock.
"Unhand her," Braedon growled at the ox-like soldier, the boom of his voice carrying a savage warning. It was enough to give the man pause; a casual flick of Draec's gloved hand stayed him where he stood.
"You think you've won in this." Draec smiled, the glint of welcome challenge gleaming in his clear green eyes. "All you've done is delay the inevitable. We've already got Avosaar. The rest of the documents in that satchel will lead me to the remaining three stones soon enough." He shot a commanding look at the other knight. "Let the woman go, and gather up those papers."
With silent efficiency, the man did as instructed, then handed the hastily composed satchel to Draec. He took it with a quirked smile, slowly sheathing his dagger at his belt, his eyes on Braedon all the while.
"This isn't over, le Nantres," Braedon told him.
The mercenary grinned with same charm he'd always had, his gaze lighting with the humor of the devil himself. "Oh, I do hope not."
When he opened the door and started to take his leave, Ariana rushed forward. "Wait! You have the satchel now. What about my brother? You must tell me where he is! Tell me if he's alive!"
Draec hesitated, and gave a negligent shrug. "Why, your brother is in Rouen as you expected, Lady Ariana."
"Oh, thank heaven," she breathed, clasping her hands together and closing her eyes as though to savor even this slim charity of information.
"As for his health," Draec added, looking pointedly to Braedon, "his blood, when it spills, won't stain my hands."
* * *
A terrible silence befell the room as the door closed behind the man who now had Kenrick's satchel. Ariana could scarcely breathe. Her legs threatened to give way beneath her. Indeed, they must have, for the next thing she knew, Braedon was there beside her, his arm around her to hold her up, looking at her with an expression of concern.
The liar.
Betrayer.
"Don't touch me." She backed out of his embrace as though it burned her to feel his touch. In truth, it did. She felt scorched to her marrow, yet chilled all the same. Chilled to the core of her being for thinking he might have cared for her--that what they had shared that night might have meant something to him. None of it had meant a thing. How could she have been so foolish? How could she have trusted him--Braedon le Chasseur?
The Hunter.
His name chased through her head like the cruelest jest. Like a wolf toying with a hapless hare, he'd let her believe he would help her and Kenrick. He let her believe he might actually care for her. Mother Mary, but he'd been deceiving her even while he made love to her.
"Ariana, we need to talk."
He reached for her arm but she wrenched away from him and retreated out of his reach. "I have nothing to say to you. And I don't want to hear any of your lies." She backed farther away, as far as the little room would permit, inching toward the open door. "You weren't taking me to Rouen at all. You lied to me."
"I wanted to protect you. I still want to protect you--"
"Oh. I see. And what about Avosaar? Last night, when I mentioned the name to you, you said you'd never heard of it. You knew. You knew all the time that Avosaar was not a location. It's part of the Dragon Chalice--the gemstone cup you returned to Silas de Mortaine."
"What difference does it make? It would not have helped you save your brother. Nothing will, if de Mortaine wants him dead."
"You lied to me. You burned Kenrick's map, and you lied to me."
"Only because I wanted to keep you safe."
"At the cost of my brother's life?"
"If necessary, yes."
She let out a broken cry, hurting for the foolishness that made her want to forgive him, even for something as awful as the breach of trust that might yet be the death of her brother. Her mantle was draped on a peg on the wall; she reached for it with a hasty grab and held it close to her body like a shield. "I can't be with you anymore, Braedon. Stay away from me. Just...stay away."
He came toward her, offering her his hand, scowling when she could only stare at him in sickened despair. She felt as though she were living a hideous nightmare, trapped in a strangling web of fury and fear. For fear him she did. Not as she had so irrationally the day she'd first lain eyes on him, but deeper now, understanding just how ruthless--how truly dangerous--he could be.
"Jesu," he muttered, reaching out to her. "Ariana, don't. Don't look at me like that."
A sob wrenched out of her throat. "Like what--like you're a monster? A soulless beast, no different than that murderous creature we saw in Calais? If I stand here watching long enough, will you change shape before my very eyes, the same way he did?"
He shook his head, his gaze locked on hers. "I'm not the villain you think me. And I'm not going to become something other than what I am--a man. Someone who cares--"
"No," she whispered, cutting him off before he could feed her another lie. "I was wrong, Braedon. You've already become something else. You are treacherous. You've become a snake."
The hand that waited for her to take it now dropped slowly down to Braedon's side. He said nothing more, made no move to stop her as she backed toward the open door and into the hallway beyond. She gazed at him one last time, torn between heartbreak and anger and the cold, enormous void that seemed to open deep within her at the thought of never seeing him again. So foolish, even now, she chided herself, sick with how badly she wanted his excuses.
"You heard what that man said, Braedon. Kenrick will be killed for what you've done. His blood is on your hands now," she charged, nursing the anger that might well be all that would carry her away from there. "How could you? I never want to see you again!"
Choking back the cry that lodged in her throat, Ariana pivoted on her heel and fled. She ran down the corridor and into the public house. She needed to get away from Braedon and his terrible betrayal, to find someplace safe where she could think. Someplace where she could find help, and try to come up with a way to get to Kenrick, even without the damned satchel as his ransom.
Chapter 14
The old wooden cart rambled to a stop at the crest of a small rise. The jostling o
f the conveyance as it came to rest on the rutted winter road woke Ariana from a brief doze. Bones aching from the hours of travel in the cold, she sat up a little straighter on the hard bench she shared with four young children and their mother. As she moved, the woolen blanket that scantily covered the lot of them for the duration of the night's journey slid off her to bunch in her lap. The woman's husband, a common man who'd been charitable enough to let her accompany them, now pivoted in his seat up front. He gave a nod toward the misty distance just over the ledge.
"Here we are, demoiselle. Down there, the city of Rouen."
In the wide river valley below, shrouded in a haze of misty early morning fog, lay a tapestry of jagged, snow-kissed rooftops and the soaring needle-like spires of half a dozen churches and cathedrals.
Rouen.
At last, Ariana thought with a mix of relief and trepidation. She'd made it after all.
She had made it to the place where Kenrick was being held, but she could not help feeling a biting sense of misery to see the city spread so near before her. What good would it do to arrive here when she had already lost her brother's ransom to Kenrick's captors? She had nothing to bargain with now. Less than nothing, once Draec le Nantres let it be known that the map had been destroyed.
Her regret must have shown in her face. When she settled back onto the bench as the cart lurched forward once more to begin its descent down the road, the matron reached over and patted her hand reassuringly. "I pray your brother's health will recover soon, now that you are here to look after him," she said, reminding Ariana of the tale she'd given when she had literally run into the couple on her emotional flight from the tavern's public house.
Preferring to keep as close to the truth as possible, she had said only that she'd received word that her brother, away from home where he served the Knights Templar, was presently in dire straits, in need of care and ailing in Rouen. As she'd spun the tale that bought her escape from Braedon at the tavern, she had hoped the pilgrims would believe her. Now, with Rouen looming ever closer, its tall city gate rising up out of the fog like the dark, yawning mouth of a beast, Ariana worried that the stretch of fact she perpetrated was likely not at all far from the terrible truth.
"God will not abide him to suffer, ma petite," the woman said. "Especially not when your brother is doing the good work of the Lord."
Ariana nodded. She dearly hoped she was right. Short of divine intervention, she had no idea how she would manage to rescue Kenrick empty-handed. Perhaps it was naive to think she had a chance, but her alternatives were few and fleeting with every day that passed. She knew not where to turn, nor whom to trust--certainly not Braedon, she thought, swallowing past the harsh reminder that stabbed at her heart.
She was alone in this now, truly alone, and short of a miracle, she had no reason to believe she might succeed. In truth, she reflected, as the cart trundled into the city and past a glorious cathedral, perhaps divine intervention was precisely what she should seek.
* * *
Braedon's mood had not improved as the night wore on. He left the tavern soon after she did, taking his horse from the stables to follow her and the family who accompanied her. He rode along, keeping a fair distance, not needing to see her to know where she was, or where she was headed. More than once, as his mount sauntered a leisurely trail through the midnight countryside, Braedon considered simply giving the beast his spurs and riding out after Ariana, taking her off with him, forcing her to listen to him. But what could he say? Everything Draec had accused him of was true.
Ariana's contempt of him was understandable, especially after he'd seduced her. He could still see the hurt in her eyes, the stricken look of disbelief as she stared at him while he confessed to destroying her hopes of freeing her brother.
Kenrick will be killed for what you've done...I never want to see you again!
Her tearful accusation rang in his ears. She hated him, and rightly so. She was desperate--perhaps more desperate than the day he'd first laid eyes on her in London--but a fierce defiance sparked in her glittering gaze. She would not be defeated, no matter the obstacles tossed before her. Not Ariana. But what would she do? He hated to consider it. He knew her better than to expect her to give up and go home where she would be safe. She would only be all the more determined, all the more willing to risk her own safety to rescue her brother.
Some selfish, sane part of him urged him to wheel his mount around and head back for Calais. He could retrieve his cog and sail off like he'd planned, before Ariana of Clairmont had intruded on his life and dragged him into this mayhem. What did her owe her, after all?
He slowed his palfrey and looked back over his shoulder, back toward Calais, a simpler road by far. Mayhap he should take it. He felt certain all that awaited him in the other direction, toward Rouen, was disaster. Probably death. He wasn't a coward, but he didn't fancy himself a fool, either. He had narrowly escaped death eighteen months ago; he might not be so fortunate this time.
But then there was Ariana.
If danger awaited him in Rouen, then it awaited her, too. Perhaps some tenfold, particularly when she headed into it all alone. God's blood, but he couldn't let that happen. Fool or nay, he could not let her walk into her brother's same fate.
With a growled curse, Braedon rounded the horse back onto the road and spurred it into a gallop. Whatever Ariana was walking into, he meant to be there with her when she faced it.
* * *
The church was an unassuming place amid the soaring splendor of Rouen's many cathedrals. Squat and round, crafted of simple stone, it crouched at the end of the cobbled street like a tree stump amid a forest of tall, half-timbered houses, rising church towers, and intricate spires. Ariana walked toward it, doing her best to avoid the frost-edged puddles that soaked her boots and dampened the hem of her kirtle. She held the hood of her mantle down to help ward off the bite of the morning air, squinting through the flurry of snow that had begun to fall.
She was cold, miserably cold, but she knew the chill that permeated her had more to do with what lay ahead of her than it did the February weather. All her hopes centered on the rough little church at the end of the lane. She knew of nowhere else to turn now. Summoning her resolve and whispering a plea to the heavens, Ariana entered the gated perimeter of the churchyard and walked the dozen paces to the plain door of the building. She lifted the iron knocker with her gloved fingertips and rapped uncertainly.
For a long while, only silence greeted her. Were visitors permitted here? she wondered suddenly. In truth, she did not know. Nor did she know if the warrior monks secreted within the church would scorn the presence of a female at their door. She knew little of their code, after all. They might well turn her away, if they didn't ignore her arrival altogether.
But Ariana refused to be turned away, not when her brother could be being held somewhere not far from this very place. She reached for the knocker again and rapped harder this time, the staccato notes of her demand ringing out on the other side of the door. It opened a moment later, creaking inward and throwing a wedge of light into the incense-scented darkness within.
"Yes, yes?" A high-browed, youthful pair of round eyes came around the edge of the door, peering out at her from a head capped in close-shorn hair yet fully bearded in long, untrimmed whiskers. The young Templar cleric grunted in surprise, his inquisitive gaze widening before he quickly averted his eyes to look down at the floor. "Oh. Good morrow, then. Come to collect the alms, have you, d'amsel? You should know that Brother Etienne has already sent them on. Yes, yes. Good day, then."
With a humble nod of dismissal, he started to close the door on her. Ariana placed the flat of her hand against the iron-banded oak panel before it could shut in her face. "No--wait, please. I haven't come to collect anything. I am here because I need..." She hesitated, wondering how best to explain her strange situation. "Please. My brother is in danger. I--I don't know where to turn. I need help."
The young monk's gaze lifted, but on
ly slightly, as if it were forbidden to look upon a woman for more than a heartbeat. Perhaps it was, Ariana guessed, having no patience at the moment for arcane regulations. When the cleric murmured his apologies and withdrew even farther into the sanctuary of the church, she slipped her booted foot over the threshold and physically blocked the door from closing. "My brother is in grave danger, and I'm not leaving until I speak with someone. Please, hear me out. His name is Kenrick of Clairmont. He is one of your own--a Templar knight."
Like a sorcerer's key, those last few words held the power to gain her entrance. In a hushed voice, the monk bade her wait inside while he fetched his master. He was gone in a swirl of his long green robes, disappearing into a closed antechamber just off the torchlit entryway. Ariana stood there amid the quiet, hearing the monk's vague murmur in the other room, catching only brief pieces of what was being said: "female awaiting...most insistent...her brother...Templar, she says...some sort of trouble."
Silence hung in the air, thoughtful, measuring. Then, from within the chamber, the soft scrape of a heavy chair on the stone floor. The torch flames stirred as the door opened and an old man in long white robes came out to greet her. Kind-faced, spine bent with age, the Templar official shuffled over to Ariana, regarding her with the calm indulgence borne of his countless years. His underling hovered at his side, dark-eyed gaze darting to Ariana with a great deal more courage now, more open curiosity. She straightened, trying to ignore the monk's appreciative stare.
"That will be all, Brother Arnaud."
The young monk jolted out of his gaping and scurried off down the corridor without a word. Ariana watched him go, nearly expecting a similar dismissal from the old man herself, but then the wizened Templar official smiled and dipped his head in belated greeting. His wispy white hair was cropped close to his skull and thinning. It gleamed snowy white in the glow of the torch lamps. "My apologies, child. I fear our more recent novitiates often find it difficult to adapt to our strict code of conduct. Especially when it comes to those edicts concerning our interaction with the fair sex. I pray you took no offense."
