by C. K. Brooke
“Oh, face it, Bos,” sneered Mac, watching the pair of them with an air of bitter satisfaction. “You both have been hoodwinked by a pair of cons.”
“No,” Bos insisted.
“Your brother was right,” muttered Mac. “You are too loyal for your own good.”
Bos looked as though he might strike him.
A thought occurred to Dainy. She remembered seeing Selu place her gold beneath her mattress, and told the men so. They went into the woman’s chamber, where Bos lifted the mattress with ease. There on the bedframe sat the ten-pound bar, glittering up serenely at them.
Dainy exhaled.
“See?” said Bos, with an accusing look at Mac.
“All right, so we cannot be sure about Selu,” Mac conceded irately. “But this doesn’t change the fact that Cosmith has defiled the duchess.”
“I am not defiled,” Dainy snapped. She would no longer tolerate his humiliating her. Not on top of her loss of Jon, and of what she’d thought was the very real love they had shared.
As well, she would not be made to feel that she was now permanently damaged, simply because she had dared to love.
Bos frowned. “While the man’s shamelessness certainly infuriates me,” he sighed, “we did warn you, Eludaine, that this might happen.” He patted her shoulder. “Nevertheless, the duchess of Jordinia deserves better. Should I ever see Jon Cosmith again, I promise you, I shall hold him accountable.” He turned and began to walk away.
“Where are you going?” demanded Mac.
“To look for Selu,” answered Bos.
“You have deeply disappointed me, Dainy,” said Mac coldly, once the giant had reached the stairs.
Dainy glared at him. “How dare you? Have you any idea the agony I’m enduring this morning to discover that my love has betrayed me?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Mac tartly, “I do.”
He returned to his room and slammed the door.
Dainy looked around the empty hall, wondering where to go now. She couldn’t return to her chamber, not when everything there should remind her of Jon, the sweet and leathery scent of his skin still on her linens, echoes of their passion from the night before haunting the walls like a moaning ghost.
She descended the stairwell and went outside, emerging into the morning light. She’d thought the fresh air might soothe her, but all she felt was insulted that the sun should shine so brilliantly despite what had just befallen her.
BOS WOULD NOT BE SWAYED. He knew Selu wouldn’t have deserted him. He headed for the stables, where their borrowed steeds remained, and heaved a satisfied sigh. Selu hadn’t gone far, or else she’d have taken a horse.
He glanced around the rolling acreage. It was a large house; perhaps she was somewhere inside. But Bos then happened to notice what appeared to be a pair of wheel tracks jutting over the lawn.
He knelt and examined the grass, the way it bowed down, something having clearly ridden over it. Bos followed the path with his eyes. The tracks wove down the lawn and in the direction opposite the estate.
Bos frowned. Why would anyone ride their carriage over Gatspierre’s manicured lawn, when the man had a paved stone driveway in plain sight?
Unless they did not wish to be seen.
Bos flung open the stable door, releasing Spitfire and mounting him. “Get ye up, Spitfire,” he growled, shaking the reins and pressing his heels into the beast’s shimmering back. He urged the horse to a gallop as he followed the tracks, praying all the while that it would somehow lead to Selu.
PULLING UP BLADES OF GRASS, her fingers now stained green, Dainy didn’t turn when she heard someone approaching. She only prodded listlessly at the ground beneath her.
“There you are,” came a warm voice. Uncle Hessian was dressed that day in a plum-colored suit and traveling cloak. Without hesitation, he plunked down in the grass beside her, suit and all.
He watched as she continued to pull up grass, until he finally rested his hand over hers. “If you believed my lawn to be in need of trimming, dear girl,” he smiled, “you could’ve just said so.”
Dainy did not grin back. She felt as though her chest would fall open at any moment, spilling her heart onto the ground, and there it would lay forever.
“I sense something is the matter,” he observed. “Would you like to talk about it?”
She shook her head.
“Did you still wish to visit your vault today?” he asked discreetly.
Dainy pondered this. While she felt she’d rather trade the contents of every vault in the world for Jon’s love to have been true, perhaps she was in need of a diversion. Any distraction would be better than dwelling on the agony of her thoughts.
She met her uncle’s eyes and nodded.
He helped her to her feet, examined her over, and clucked his tongue. “Ah, but this will not do. Georgia?” he called to the servant tending his garden. “Have you anything decent for my niece to wear?”
“Hilde’s chapel frock might fit her,” suggested the gardener.
Dainy didn’t wish to return to her room, but the maids led her back, where they helped her into a modest pink dress. As they secured the white sash about her waist, Dainy shut her eyes against the sight of mussed linens on her bed, and waited patiently as they helped her into a pair of shoes.
“My lady,” greeted a breathless voice once she’d returned to the foyer. The rotund little man she’d met the previous day hurried to her side. “Your uncle awaits us. Come.” He cocked his auburn head, turning for the doors.
“What is your name?” Dainy asked him, wondering how many staff members her uncle employed.
“Forgive me. Maxos Maxeos the Third, Your Royal Highness, at your service. I am your uncle’s chief advisor.”
She followed him out to the circular drive, where there awaited a splendid red carriage pulled by two white horses. “And on what, exactly, do you advise my uncle?” she inquired, somewhat amused to imagine the small, mousy fellow giving counsel to her grandiose and elegant uncle.
Maxos Maxeos III pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “I was trained to advise him politically, actually.” He opened the carriage door for her. “But, seeing as he no longer holds an office, I namely oversee his investments.”
Dainy peered inside the carriage to find Uncle Hessian reclining in the leather seats.
“Ah, Dainy.” He patted the spot beside him invitingly. “Sit.”
She climbed in. She’d never ridden in a carriage like this one. It felt surprisingly high off the ground.
Once Maxos slid in at her other side, the driver flicked the reins, and the horses picked up their hooves. Trying not to think of Jon, she peered over her uncle’s shoulder and out his window, watching the hills slide past as they rode.
THE DUCHESS AND HER ESCORT lay bound at Damon DuBerre’s feet. The Head of Jordinian Intelligence urged his coach faster.
At last, DuBerre thought.
He had to finish them off someplace where they wouldn’t be traced. Alas, the carriage wheels would leave tracks. He’d have to take them on foot, lead them deep into a remote field or forest, and complete the job that should’ve been done fifteen years ago.
They’d not made it far outside of the village when DuBerre heard a set of hooves pursuing them. He glanced out the window. An enormous figure rode at full tilt atop a black steed.
DuBerre ordered his coach to hurry, although the horses were already galloping as fast they could. That was when DuBerre noticed the man on horseback peering down at him through the window.
“Excuse me.” The rider had a sonorous voice. “Tracks from Hessian Gatspierre’s stables have led me to your carriage.”
DuBerre’s jaw clenched. So he had, indeed, captured the former duchess. They had already noticed her missing, and sent out men to find her. Gatspierre was positively hell-bent
on having this girl.
“You are mistaken,” DuBerre told him. “I know of no such person.”
To his horror, the girl in his captivity emitted an earsplitting wail. Though muffled by the wool in her mouth, it was powerful enough to have carried to the rider’s ears. Furiously, DuBerre kicked her, but she only cried out again.
“What was that?” the rider demanded, his stallion adjacent to the carriage. Without warning, he jumped from the horse and onto DuBerre’s door. DuBerre tried to open the door to eject him, but this only allowed the giant to shove his way in. Gaze skirting about the interior of the carriage, even while DuBerre attempted to slam the door against his bulk, the giant spied the girl and her companion bound on the floor. He emitted an enraged snarl.
DuBerre’s coach swerved, trying to shake off their attacker, but to no avail. The carriage swayed nauseatingly, and the huge man clutched DuBerre by the throat, eyes ablaze with fury.
The carriage stopped, and the coach leapt down from his bench and scrambled in to help. DuBerre was slowly losing breath, the giant’s great hands encircling his neck. “Who are you?” the tremendous man boomed.
DuBerre could not respond for lack of oxygen. He watched as his coach came up behind his attacker. But the giant merely blocked him with a massive, outstretched hand. He gripped the coach by the cloak and hurled him to the other side of the road.
“No,” DuBerre choked.
But the giant raised his great fist, and that was the last DuBerre saw.
SELU’S HEART TRILLED A SYMPHONY. Finally, the rope at her wrists was unknotted, her gag pulled out and her blindfold removed. She gazed into the handsome, rugged face of Boslon Visigoth.
“I knew you hadn’t run off,” he told her gruffly, and kissed her on the mouth. He then turned to unbind the man beside her.
“Bos,” gasped Cosmith, once his gag had been extracted and his blindfold untied. Bos unfurled the rope at his wrists. Cosmith looked up at the unconscious man lying on the seat, and gave a start. “Damon DuBerre.” He frowned.
“Head of Jordinian Intelligence?” inquired Selu.
Cosmith nodded.
“But how do you recognize him?”
“I used to work for him.” Cosmith shuddered. “Let’s get out of here.”
They jumped out of the carriage, leaving DuBerre unconscious on the seat behind them. Spitfire remained by the knocked-out coach, and DuBerre’s horses snorted anxiously. Selu extracted her knife and cut them free. Grabbing one, she steered it over to Cosmith.
“Get on.” She mounted and gestured to the spot behind her. “We must tell Gatspierre what’s happened. The New Republic has gone too far.”
Bos remounted Spitfire, and Cosmith joined Selu atop DuBerre’s horse. They turned back, riding at breakneck speed.
Cosmith sighed, slumping his head onto Selu’s shoulder. “I thought we were goners, Selu. I truly thought I would never see Dainy again.”
She pursed her lips. “Cosmith.”
“Hmm?”
“Get off me.”
He straightened.
“When we arrive, you must speak to Eludaine at once,” Bos called over to him. “She believes you took the gold and abandoned her after….” He cleared his throat. “After last night.”
“Oh, no.” Cosmith held his hands to his face. “No, sweet Dainy….”
“Where is your gold, then?” Bos asked him suspiciously.
“He gave it to me,” replied Selu.
Bos eyed her strangely. “Why?”
“Because he did not want it.”
“After all this time, Cosmith, you no longer want any gold?”
“I have found something far more valuable than gold,” Cosmith replied.
Bos merely grunted. Selu smirked, for the impossible Jon Cosmith had finally been disarmed.
As soon as they returned, Cosmith jumped down from their stolen horse before it had come to a stop, and darted up the lawn. Selu guessed he would waste no time finding Dainy and setting things right.
Bos helped Selu down, and she embraced him. She smiled as his enormous hands brushed down the length of her hair. “The others thought you’d run away with Cosmith,” he informed her. “But I did not believe that, Seluna. Not for a moment.”
They broke apart all too soon, however, when Cosmith came storming out of the house, his cheeks ruddy. “She has gone!”
“Where?” said Bos.
“To the treasury, with her uncle!” Cosmith looked devastated. “His staff has just informed me!”
“So?” said Selu, unfazed. “She’ll be back. You can explain everything to her when she returns.”
But Cosmith pulled at his hair and ejected a strange growl. “You don’t understand. This cannot wait!” Selu had never seen him so agitated. “The duchess of Jordinia thinks I betrayed her! I can’t just let her go on believing that!”
“Jon,” said Bos firmly, trying to snap him out of it. “You’ve just been through an ordeal. You are distressed. Calm yourself.”
But Cosmith pushed past him and leapt atop Spitfire. “What kind of a man would just let her go?” He backed up the horse. “Where is this treasury? I must meet her there.”
“Why?” came an angry voice. “So after stealing her gold and her virtue, you can now steal from her vault, too?”
They looked up to see Macmillan. With both hands, he reached up and pushed Cosmith from the horse. Caught off-guard and already weakened from his episode with DuBerre, Cosmith toppled to the ground.
Selu yelped in alarm.
“The bloody hell, Macmillan?” demanded Cosmith, clutching his leg, but Macmillan aimed a kick at him. Cosmith rolled out of the way.
“Stay down, you foul, filthy dog!” the lad shouted. “I loved her! You knew I loved her. But you despoiled her anyway!”
Cosmith rose to his feet and charged up to Macmillan, their noses nearly touching. “She chose me!” he bellowed into the young man’s face. “Get over yourself, man! Dainy does not love you. She is in love with me.”
Macmillan’s chest heaved, and Selu suddenly pitied him as a look of hurt swept across his hazel eyes.
“Now,” announced Cosmith furiously, “I am going to find Dainy.” He glared round at them all, as if daring someone to object. He then winced as he tried—and failed—to remount Spitfire with the leg upon which he’d just fallen.
“I’m going with you,” said Macmillan.
Selu gaped at him in disbelief.
Cosmith turned, his face contorted. “Why?”
“To counter every word you tell her,” Macmillan replied, his voice shaking, “and ensure she does not fall for your lies again.”
Cosmith looked to Bos and Selu imploringly, but they stepped back. They would not involve themselves any further. This was Cosmith’s and Macmillan’s fight.
He turned back to Macmillan. “I am not lying,” he growled. “I love her.”
“You don’t deserve her,” Macmillan spat.
Cosmith finally mounted Spitfire. “What are you going to do, race me to the treasury?” he derided, steering the stallion down the drive.
“Not a bad idea, Cosmith.” And before Bos or Selu could stop him, Macmillan mounted DuBerre’s horse and took off behind the other man.
AT LAST.
Hessian Gatspierre was amazed that his plan had finally, actually worked. He’d feared the worst when the New Republic had gotten involved. But his party had successfully returned with Eludaine. That was all he cared about.
Sure, it had cost him fifty pounds of precious gold, but that was no matter. Not when something much grander was in store for him—specifically, in a vault which he could never have opened for himself without the blood of a living Ducelle.
An insurmountable thrill coursed through Gatspierre as he rode beside his niece to the treasury. It wasn’t long
before the carriage rolled up to a lone stone building, centuries old.
Graciously, ever careful to appear as kind and charming as an uncle ought, Gatspierre grinned at the girl, and helped her down from the stagecoach. Along with his advisor, they ascended the great stone steps.
An armed doorman inquired of their business there.
“Lady Eludaine Ducelle wishes to appraise her vault,” Gatspierre told him.
The doorman’s eyes widened, but his lips remained tight. With a great heave, he pulled open the door, allowing them entry.
The dank interior was like a cavern, with torches hanging from stone walls, and no windows. Gatspierre, Maxos and Dainy had to pass through several more personnel before approaching a desk, behind which a woman sat. Gatspierre quietly stated their purpose, and she looked up with interest.
“Do you have your key?” she wished to know.
“The vault in question is sealed by Littemuse Lock.”
The woman blinked. “Of course.” They watched as she rose and heaved open a great iron gate. She remained, pointing them up a narrow stairwell.
“Up we go, then,” Gatspierre murmured.
It had to be the steepest, darkest stairwell Gatspierre had ever climbed, and it wound strangely around the building. He was surprised how long it took just to reach the second floor.
Winded, they came to the landing in a vast hallway. There was but one dingy window at the end of the corridor, allowing in some faint sunlight, but not much. Lined on either side was a succession of arch-shaped doors that continued down the length of the hall.
The vaults.
“Two-three-two.” Gatspierre recalled the number his sister had given him more than fifteen years earlier. They inspected the numerals on the doors as rays of dusty light tunneled through the air, swirling eerily.
It was Maxos who spotted it first.
“Here.”
Gatspierre shivered with anticipation as they stopped before an unassuming door engraved with the numerals II-III-II. He stooped and examined the peculiar latch that had been built into it. It almost looked like an ordinary lock, except for a shiny, papery substance in the center. “Littemuse paper.” He fingered its waxy sheen. “How curious.”
