Paladin

by Sally Slater

  Sam found herself blushing. “You probably say that to all your . . . clients.” Sam hadn’t the faintest idea of how to talk to a courtesan; Leona was the first she’d ever met. She seemed nice enough, but Sam had a hard time getting past her choice of trade.

  Leona glared at her, and then glanced back at Tristan. “This one needs to learn how to accept a compliment.” She turned back to Sam. “And you aren’t a client. I’m doing this as a favor to Paladin Lyons.”

  “You are the best, Leo,” Tristan said, patting the courtesan’s knee affectionately. Sam wrinkled her nose.

  Leona placed her hands on her generous hips. “Don’t think very highly of me or mine, do you, Master Haywood?”

  Now Sam felt guilty. Leona had done nothing to deserve her censure. “It’s not that. It’s . . .” she floundered, searching for an excuse. “It’s all these cosmetics. Wearing makeup doesn’t seem very . . . masculine.”

  Leona seemed to accept that response and resumed applying various ointments and powders to Sam’s face. “You’d be surprised how many men use a little o’ this and that now and again.”

  “Really?” Sam asked, fascinated.

  Leona nodded. “Usually it’s to hide a love bite from the missus, but sometimes a man just wants to pretty himself up a bit.”

  Sam leaned forward and asked in a low voice. “Have you ever made up Tristan?”

  Leona gave a husky laugh. “Some men don’t need any help looking pretty.”

  “You’re talking about me,” Tristan declared. “I can tell.”

  “You are as vain as ever, Paladin Lyons,” Leona said. “It’s a good thing you’re handsome.”

  “A high compliment from the loveliest lady in Haywood,” Tristan said with a wink. Leona tittered into her hand. Sam fought not to roll her eyes.

  “Am I as handsome as Paladin Lyons yet?” Sam asked, interrupting their flirtation.

  Leona chuckled. “Just about.” She took a fine paintbrush and dipped it in a thick green paste. “Helps with the redness,” she explained when she saw Sam’s skeptical gaze. She pressed a horsetail brush into a white crystallized powder, and then mixed the substance into a small dish of rosewater. Carefully, she painted Sam’s skin, her touch quick and gentle.

  “All done,” Leona said finally. “Couldn’t do nothing about the swelling, but at least your face is all one color.”

  Sam turned to face the mirror, and turned her head this way and that. Leona had done wonders with the magic of cosmetics. Her skin was a uniform shade of beige, and Leona had even managed to hide her split lip. Her eyes were still two different sizes, her jaw line swollen and her nose unusually bulbous, but that was good—necessary—to fool her father. She looked uninjured, but best of all, she didn’t look like herself.

  “You’re a genius, Leona,” she said, hugging her impulsively. Leona seemed taken aback at first, but returned the hug after a moment’s hesitation.

  “You’re a strange one,” the courtesan told Sam. “Good luck with the duke.”

  She was going to need it.

  CHAPTER 15

  Waiting in the entrance hall of Castle Haywood, Sam was amazed by how little had changed since she’d run away. It hadn’t been that long, really—not even two months—yet she’d expected her home to show the signs of her absence. But the room looked as though time had frozen: at first glance, everything was the same, down to the wax-coated chandelier that was still missing two candles and the splotch of burgundy on the carpet where a guest had spilled his wine.

  “Have you been inside Castle Haywood before, Sam?” Tristan asked, intruding on her reverie.

  “Aye, once or twice,” she said vaguely, pretending to be fascinated with a nearby painting. She blinked in surprise as the painting came into focus. It was a watercolor of a lilac, one she’d painted herself five years ago. The duke must have moved it from her bedroom after she left. She swallowed down a lump that had formed at the back of her throat. Now was not the time to get sentimental.

  Sam felt a warm hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?” Braeden asked in a low voice.

  “I’m fine,” she said with more certainty than she felt, turning around to face him. She tried to smile, but smiling stretched the scabs on her lips, and her attempt became more of a grimace.

  “You still look like you, you know,” Braeden said, his expression unreadable beneath the low brim of his hat.

  “He won’t recognize me, I’m sure of it.” Her eyes darted back to the lilac watercolor. Why had the duke moved it there? If she didn’t know better, she would call it sentimental.

  “I’ve heard he’s clever, the Duke of Haywood,” Braeden said.

  “He is clever. Just not . . . observant.” She was counting on that. With a shake of her head, she tugged on Braeden’s sleeve. “Come on, Tristan’s going to think we’re conspiring against him if we keep to the corner like this.”

  Braeden grabbed her wrist before she could leave. “I can help you, if you’ll let me. If something happens.”

  Sam laughed mirthlessly. “If the duke recognizes me, it’s all over. Trust me on that.”

  “I can help,” Braeden insisted, his grip on her wrist tightening. “I can make him forget you’re even in the room.”

  Sam raised her free hand to touch Braeden’s shoulder, but stopped halfway when she caught Tristan watching them. “You’re a good friend, Braeden,” she said, letting her hand drop to her side.

  Two circles of red bloomed beneath his high cheekbones. “We’re friends?”

  “Aren’t we?”

  Braeden’s lips curved into a rare smile. “Friends,” he agreed.

  Sam felt something shift between them, but a new voice, once she hadn’t heard in months, interrupted her thoughts before she had the chance to think too deeply on it.

  “Paladin Lyons, Masters Braeden and Sam,” the voice called with an affected accent—the Lady Jocelyn Colton, her former governess. Now there was one person Sam hadn’t missed, and no doubt the feeling was mutual. Frankly, she was shocked Lady Colton had retained a position with the duke after her charge had run away. She had not been well-liked by any of the staff, and it was clear as day to anyone who paid attention that she was angling to be the duke’s next wife. Sam had always been entertained by the woman’s efforts to win over her father; the governess had yet to learn that the Duke of Ice didn’t give a whit about anyone. He wasn’t about to start with her.

  “His Grace will see you now. If you’ll follow me,” Lady Colton said with a curtsy. Sam flinched as her former governess’s eyes met hers, and for a horrible second, she thought the horrible woman had seen through the pounds of cosmetics and swollen features. But the governess stared far longer at Braeden than she did at Sam, and apart from the pinched disapproval of her mouth, she had no obvious reaction.

  As Sam followed Lady Colton, she felt the tangle of nerves at the pit of her stomach crawl up around her throat, threatening to strangle her. In mere moments, she would see the duke, her father, her only remaining parent. But would he see Sam of Haywood, Paladin trainee, or Lady Samantha?

  Lady Colton brought them to the great hall, and then, much to Sam’s relief, excused herself. She didn’t need the governess lurking when she came face to face with her father.

  The Duke of Haywood sat at the high table on a dais at the end of the great hall, sipping a goblet of wine. Though the vast room was full of courtiers, he sat alone. Most men of power liked to surround themselves with advisors and sycophants, but the duke preferred his privacy. He’d once told Sam the only judgment he could trust was his own.

  Tristan led them up to the dais, stopping just before the stone steps. “Your Grace,” Tristan said, bowing low. Sam almost dipped into a curtsy out of sheer habit, but managed a clumsy head bob. Braeden swept into a bow with much more aplomb.

  “Tristan, my boy, it has been far too long,” the duke said genially. Sam gawked at the familiarity—and warmth—in the duke’s greeting. Where was the Duke of Ice? In her
eighteen years, she couldn’t recall a time her father had spoken to her with such affection. “We have much to discuss, you and I. But first, bring your companions to the dais. I look forward to making your trainees’ acquaintance.”

  Reeling over her father’s change in demeanor, Sam’s feet stayed frozen to the ground. Tristan put a firm hand on the small of her back. “Introduce yourself to the duke, you idiot,” he hissed into her ear, giving her a shove.

  “S-sorry,” she stammered, stumbling up the steps to dais. She bowed till her nose nearly touched the ground. “Sam, Your Grace.”

  The duke chuckled. “Get up, lad. You do me too much honor.”

  She knew she couldn’t hide her face from him forever. Slowly, she straightened, meeting the yellow-green eyes that matched her own.

  Her body tensed as she waited for those intelligent eyes to fill with recognition, for the anger that coursed through him like a river to bubble up and crash down on her in waves. She waited for him to tell her she was ten kinds of foolish, that she had brought dishonor to him, and more importantly, to Haywood. She waited for him to reveal her as the woman that even heavy bruising, men’s garb, and years of training couldn’t hide. He would expose her as the most heinous of liars. The worst part was that all of it would be true.

  But the words never came.

  “Tristan tells me you are from Haywood,” the duke said.

  You could have knocked her over with a feather.

  “A-aye, Your Grace,” she stuttered, struggling to hide her shock. He hadn’t recognized her. Unbelievable.

  “Lord Hawkins’ son—I do not remember the Hawkins name. I thought I knew all the aristocracy.”

  “My father does not get out much, Your Grace,” she said, repeating the lie she told the High Commander. “He hasn’t been much for society since my mother passed.”

  The duke’s face softened. “I see,” he said. “Would that I could have done the same.”

  Sam stared at him. For a moment there, he sounded almost human.

  “Sam of Haywood, it is my pleasure,” the duke said formally. “May you bring honor to your family and to Haywood.”

  And with that, her introduction to the duke was over. Sam shuffled off the dais, and then watched stupidly as the duke greeted Braeden in kind.

  That was it? She’d dreaded this meeting all night, and he was done with her in mere minutes? A feeling suspiciously like rage boiled up inside her. He was her father, Gods damn it! Mentally, she scolded herself for her illogic. She should be celebrating; if he’d recognized her, everything she’d worked so hard for over the last few years would be over. But she just couldn’t countenance that he had stared directly into her eyes and saw nothing of his own daughter. She’d always questioned their relationship; here was the damning proof that she was nothing more to him than an afterthought.

  “Let’s eat, shall we?” the duke said after all the pleasantries had been exchanged. He gestured for Tristan to sit at the seat of honor beside him.

  She and Braeden were relegated to dine on the benches with the lesser nobles and knights, a novel experience for Sam. As Lady Samantha, she’d had a permanent place of residency by her father’s side on the dais. Even when he didn’t join his people for meals—which was more often than not—Sam would sit at the raised platform, eating by herself, or occasionally with the visiting lord or lady she was meant to entertain. It had been a lonely existence, being the daughter of a duke.

  Sam and Braeden sat shoulder-to-shoulder across from a young knight, who looked to be about Tristan’s age, and a portly noble Sam didn’t know. They nodded at Sam and Braeden, staring a little longer than necessary at Braeden. He yanked his hat down over his eyes self-consciously.

  Sam elbowed him gently. “Stop worrying. They know you have my fa—the duke’s approval.”

  Braeden pushed back the brim so he could look at her. “You were right. He didn’t recognize you.”

  Sam felt a sharp pang in her chest. “I know. I told you he wouldn’t.”

  He nudged her shoulder with his. “I’m sorry.”

  Her heart constricted. Somehow, Braeden had seen through her mask of indifference to her hurt. “Thank you,” she said, willing her voice not to shake. Stupid emotions.

  Her gaze wandered over to her father and Tristan at the dais. The duke gripped Tristan by the elbows, talking in low, intent tones. Every now and again, Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose like he tended to do whenever he was frustrated or upset. The mood between them had taken a sharp turn from their initial exchange.

  “What do you think Tristan’s talking about with the duke?” Sam asked. “They look so serious.”

  Braeden shrugged. “If it involves us, I’m sure he’ll tell us.”

  “Aren’t you at all curious?”

  “Not really, no.”

  She sighed. “You’re no fun.”

  “I just mind my own business.”

  “And I repeat, no fun.”

  Braeden glared at her. “Why don’t you ask him? Look, he’s headed over our way now.”

  Sure enough, Tristan strode towards them in long, angry steps. “On your feet. We’re leaving.” Without bothering to wait for them, he did a turnabout and marched out of the great hall. Braeden and Sam looked at each other and then hastily pushed back from their bench, running out after him.

  They found Tristan in the courtyard outside the castle keep, staring off into the distance. His handsome face looked haunted, his blue eyes bleak.

  “Tristan,” Sam asked softly, “Is everything okay?”

  “No,” Tristan said, after a long pause. “No, it’s not.”

  Sam didn’t know what to say. How did men comfort each other? Women hugged, they soothed, they cried—not that she’d ever been much good at any of those things either. Instead, she asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

  His face still turned away, he answered, “A woman of great importance to me is dead.”

  Sam felt her mouth go dry. “Who was she?”

  His clouded gaze met hers and then shifted away. “Lady Samantha, the daughter of the Duke of Haywood,” he said. “And if she were still alive, she would have been my bride.”

  CHAPTER 16

  If Sam were the sort of girl prone to fainting, she would have fainted right there on the spot. But as things currently stood, she wasn’t supposed to be a girl, so fainting wasn’t even an option.

  “You’re engaged? To her?” she got out. She simply couldn’t make sense of it. Since when was she engaged to be married? This was the first she’d ever heard of it. And why had the duke told Tristan she was dead? True, she’d left home without warning or a note, but that didn’t make her dead. Missing, perhaps, but not dead. Dead was so final.

  “Was engaged,” Tristan corrected. “She was the reason I first came to Haywood. The duke wanted to see if we would suit.”

  Her mind flashed back to that terrible day in the woods, when the demon had killed her mother, and then Tristan had showed up like a hero out of a fairytale. “The day you saved Lady Samantha. You were in Haywood because my f—because the duke wanted to discuss your betrothal?”

  Tristan nodded. “A lucky coincidence.” His eyes narrowed. “How do you know that tale?”

  She ducked her head. “Stories have wings, Tristan. Everyone in Haywood knows of your heroics that day.”

  Tristan waved his hand. “It was nothing.”

  “Was it?” she said between gritted teeth. It had been everything to her. And now the memory seemed sullied. It wasn’t fate that had led Paladin Lyons to her in the woods that day, but her father’s attempts to sell her off like chattel.

  He sighed and massaged his temples. “We would have been good together, she and I.”

  “Did you l-l-love her?” she stammered. Gods, she was going to be sick to her stomach.

  Tristan shot her an incredulous look. “I barely knew her. How could I possibly have loved her?”

  His straightforward answer knocked the air out o
f her. “Why do you care then?”

  Tristan scowled. “The woman was to be my wife. Have you no heart, man?”

  “Have you?” Sam wasn’t sure she could wrap her mind around the idea of Tristan with, well, feelings.

  Tristan looked down, dragging the toe of his boot across the ground. “I’ve been with the Paladins for a decade now, mostly on the road, and more often alone than not. My family is dead. Maybe I just want someone to come home to. Someone to mourn for me if I don’t come home.” He blew out a breath. “It’s silly, but I imagined Lady Samantha to be that person for me. I wanted her to be.”

  For a moment, Tristan looked so forlorn and vulnerable, Sam thought her heart would break. Guilt gnawed away at her insides. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” The words sounded hollow, even to her own ears.

  “No need to apologize. You couldn’t have done anything.”

  “Right,” she said weakly. Except it was all her fault, not that she could ever tell him that. “Did the duke say what happened to his daughter?”

  “No, he refused to talk about it.”

  “But I’m not—” She bit down on her tongue. “The duke—is he grieving?”

  Tristan glowered at her. “She was his only daughter. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” she said honestly. Her father had always been distant, even when her mother had been alive—too busy keeping the castle and duchy in order, she supposed. His daughter was a convenience; her existence ensured the continuity of his line. But she’d embarrassed him, his daughter who refused to follow the dictates of society, always with an errant smudge of dirt across her cheek and a sharp tongue that was more inappropriate than not. And he’d given her hand away without the courtesy of telling her. She couldn’t imagine him grieving, not for her. He’d used up all his grieving for her mother.

  But there was the watercolor painting. And despite the years of bad blood between them, that single painting made her hope.

  Braeden put a hand on her shoulder, and she blinked up at him in surprise. She’d almost forgotten he was there. “You lost someone, too,” he said into her ear. Oh Gods, that stupid lie she’d told him. Braeden thought she’d lost her half-sister. She gave him a quick, awkward smile.