Georgette had obviously cared for Tye, otherwise she wouldn’t have bothered to teach him. “How long ago was this?” Claire asked. “Do you still keep in contact with her?”
His smile tinged with regret. “She died. She caught a cough that worsened and would not go away, no matter how much she spent on visits from the local healer and foul-smelling poultices. In her last days, I simply held her, lying next to her in the bed, while she shivered and coughed. She died in my arms.”
“I am sorry,” Claire whispered.
“So am I. I will not soon forget her.” He shook his head, as if to draw himself out of that sad moment. “Since her passing, I have not spent much time practicing my reading. ’Tis why I am still slow.”
“Did you read Johanna’s letter that arrived today?” Claire asked. She hadn’t seen it yet. Mayhap he intended to keep it, along with the others he’d confiscated, rather than give it to her.
“Aye.” He reached to his hip, lifted the edge of his tunic, and withdrew a rolled parchment tucked into the belt of his hose. He handed the letter to her.
Her fingers closed around the parchment, warmed by his body. The broken edge of the wax seal touched her palm. She shouldn’t be angry that he’d read it first. After all—
“I had to be sure the letter was not a ruse,” Tye answered, without a hint of apology. “Moreover, there might have been news in there of my father.”
She set the letter on her lap. “Was there?”
“Nay.”
“Then you read my personal correspondence for naught.”
“I disagree, Kitten. I learned about the new gowns your sister purchased from a shop in the nearby village, and the four pairs of shoes that she bought to go with them.”
Claire giggled. “She does like to shop.”
Tye rolled his eyes. “And go on and on about the color and design of her purchases.” As Claire’s laughter faded, he leaned forward, picked up the wine jug, and poured some of the dark red liquid into a goblet. He handed it to her.
“Thank you.” She wouldn’t drink much; she was lightheaded enough already. However, she’d linger as long as she could with Tye, for ’twas a welcome change from the solitude of her chamber. Through talking with him, she’d also glean fresh details about him to include in the journal.
She sipped from the goblet. The drink was not wine, as she’d expected, but a piquant, fruity liqueur.
“Good?” Tye asked, taking a sip as well.
“Delicious. What is it?”
“Blackberry liqueur. I found in the cellar.”
She stilled, the goblet halfway to her lips. Her stomach knotted. Silently scolding herself for her obvious shock, she lifted the vessel to her mouth and drank. “The storage room below the keep?” she asked, proud that her voice didn’t wobble.
Tye’s dark brows rose. “There is another?”
She laughed, more brightly she’d intended. “There is only the one. However, if Lord Brackendale had been able to convince her ladyship otherwise, there would have been several. He loved his liqueurs. He purchased most of them from a monastery a few leagues from here. The monks use the fruit grown in their gardens and orchards to make wines and liqueurs, which they sell at a stall in the local market. His lordship had amassed quite a collection.”
“Indeed, he had.”
After swallowing another sip, Claire glanced down into the goblet. As her innards heated with the potent drink, sadness tugged at her, for she missed his lordship: his boisterous laugh, his kindness, and his wry sense of humor. She couldn’t imagine him being very pleased that one of his prized and expensive liqueurs had been opened and enjoyed by a rogue who’d seized the castle.
Aware that Tye was watching her, she looked up, a little too fast. Her head whirled a moment before her vision cleared, but the knot in her belly remained. If he had been down to the cellar, he might have discovered the hidden door. She had to find out, and in a way that wouldn’t alert him to the fact that the room was more than a place to store drink.
Tightening her grip on the goblet’s stem, she asked, “What else did you find in the cellar?”
“Casks of ale. Barrels of wine.” He shrugged. “Plenty of cobwebs as well.”
He hadn’t mentioned the secret door. Had he found it, or not? Claire scrambled to think of a way to continue her questioning and not make him suspicious.
“Why are you so curious about the storage room?” Tye asked.
Oh, God. Forcing a careless shrug, she said, “No particular reason. I have only been down there once. There are still some chambers in the keep that I have not visited.”
“I have seen most of them.” His tone hardened, as though in warning. Was he telling her that he knew about the cellar door and that if she hoped to escape through it, that such a plan wouldn’t work?
Dizziness taunted her again. Whatever he was thinking, she must convince him otherwise. “A lord does need to know every chamber of his fortress. Likewise, he should know the history of his keep, all the way back to the day masons started building it.”
Reaching over, Tye picked up the wine jug. “I know the history of Wode.”
“You do?”
His lips thinned. “The parts that matter to me.”
A cry for caution sifted through her. And yet, she could not stop the words from tumbling from her mouth. “Those parts, surely, mean more when considered as parts of the whole.”
In the midst of pouring himself more liqueur, he paused. The wine goblet hovered, firelight glinting off the engraved silver surface.
“I see the history of this fortress as if ’tis a tapestry,” she said. “If some of the threads are missing, or if there are holes in the fabric, the tapestry is incomplete.”
He finished filling his goblet and offered more liqueur to her. She shook her head. He set the jug down, the tautness not leaving his features; his hand resting on the arm of his chair tightened into a fist.
“You speak of the history of this place as though every single year is significant,” he said.
“Exactly right. Each year has contributed to making this fortress what it is today.”
He sneered. “What matters to me—all that matters—is that Wode used to belong to my father. I conquered it. I won it through victory in battle. ’Tis mine now, and will remain mine. Do not believe there is more, Kitten, for there is not.”
Her arms crossed, Veronique leaned against the wall in the inky shadows just inside the forebuilding, out of view of the folk in the hall. She watched Tye and the beauty sitting with regal poise near him, her hair shining like the purest gold in the firelight and her skin as pale as fresh snow.
Envy uncoiled within Veronique like a waking viper. She examined Claire’s gown, noting every feminine curve and swell beneath the fine quality fabric. Once, years ago, Veronique’s figure had been that remarkable, her breasts high and firm, her waist small, her hips generous—quite different to her aging body now that sagged, ached, and required extraordinary care with lotions, herbal potions, and ghastly tonics that made her vomit and left her mouth burning with the taste of rotten apples. But her beauty, aging or not, was the one thing Veronique would never let go, regardless of the cost. Any cost.
Veronique’s mouth twisted as Tye smiled at Claire. Without doubt, he was wooing the little bitch, courting her with a civilized, indulgent drink by the fire, as if they had a lot in common, which they did not.
Tye was wise to have sent Braden to gather news of de Lanceau’s whereabouts; such information was crucial to their victory and winning the spoils they all deserved. In the meantime, though, Tye should be plotting, scheming, reveling in his anger and the revenge soon to be his—not seducing a virgin. Such pursuit could cause Tye to become careless and weak. Veronique simply wouldn’t allow it, not when she had invested so much, sacrificed so much, year after year to ensure that Tye would grow into the warrior to crush his sire.
Claire might shyly tilt her head and cast discreet glances at Tye’s muscled body,
but she would only look. She might secretly lust after him, but she’d not lie with him, not willingly. She’d not despoil her precious noble body, just as she’d not fornicate with the dumb louts who mucked out the stables.
A wicked laugh burgeoned within Veronique, for she could—and would—give Tye what he wanted. Tonight, he’d have his way with Claire. Then, instead of longing for her, he’d realize what he’d craved wasn’t worth all of the effort. ’Twas a lesson that would bring him back under Veronique’s control, focused once again upon the upcoming fight in which he’d destroy his father and claim all.
Veronique’s fingers slid into the hem of her gown’s sleeve. She lightly touched the dagger tucked there, as well as the small glass vial. The vial had worked its way close to the opening in her sleeve, and she made sure ’twas positioned where she wanted it before she strolled from the shadows.
With loose-hipped strides, Veronique walked to the hearth. In the glow of the fire, Tye’s expression hardened. He clearly didn’t like what Claire was saying. Smugness trailed through Veronique, for that anger was a good sign. She knew very well how a man’s rage could be coaxed, manipulated, and with relentless patience, transformed into heated passion that required a lusty coupling to assuage it. Years ago, she’d used Geoffrey’s desire for vengeance against Lord Arthur Brackendale to turn his fury into a fierce passion; the memory of that passion still had the power to make her womb clench and her breasts ache. Tonight, she’d turn Tye’s fury into a powerful, undeniable lust.
Claire saw her first. Her blue eyes widened.
Was that fear in Claire’s expression? She should be afraid.
Tye paused in the midst of what he was saying. “Mother.”
“Tye.” Veronique halted near the table. “You are enjoying a drink by the fire, I see.”
“We are. What are you about this evening?”
If he only knew. “Actually, I was hoping to find you.”
“Ah. And?”
Veronique’s attention shifted to Claire, sitting as straight as a fence post. Her face was a bit flushed, but then, sitting in that ridiculous way would make any woman uncomfortable. “One of the mercenaries is sharpening my knives for me. I want to be sure I am ready for battle when your father arrives. Would you like me to see that your knives are sharpened, too?”
He studied her a moment and then nodded. “A wise idea.”
“May I go into the solar and fetch your daggers? I assume they are still in your saddle bag, where you normally keep them?”
“Aye, you may go into the solar. And aye, the knives are there. The daggers are all that you may take from my chamber, though,” he said, his words clearly a warning. He softened his threat with a smile. “I am still mulling my strategy for the battle ahead, and since I know where I have put the items I need, they should remain in their places.”
In other words, Tye didn’t want her meddling with any of his possessions, including what he’d taken from Claire’s room. Damn him. He knew her too well, for those were exactly the items she’d love to borrow for a night and devour. They would no doubt be delightfully entertaining, considering what Veronique had read in Claire’s journal.
“I understand,” Veronique said, her tone polite despite her annoyance.
“Good.”
His brusque reply proved he wanted to appear fully in control of the conversation, likely to impress Claire. Defiance kicked at Veronique’s self-control, but she managed to keep her smile pleasant, her expression calm. Subtly shifting her fingers, she worked the vial out of her sleeve and into her palm.
“Your jug is almost empty,” she noted. “Is that the bottle there?” She motioned to the earthenware flask sitting on the floor by the right rear table leg.
Tye eased up in his chair. “I will—”
“Do not trouble yourself. Allow me.”
Tye looked about to protest. Refusing to let her smile slip, Veronique bent and drew the flask toward her. She swiftly pulled the stopper from the vial, poured in the liquid, and pushed the vial back into her sleeve, then rose to her feet with a stifled grunt of effort. She poured more of the crimson-colored drink into the jug resting on the table and then refilled both goblets.
“There,” she said, her task complete.
“Thank you, Mother.”
“I was glad to help.” Indeed, she was delighted, for her plan had been far easier to execute than she’d expected. Neither he nor Claire could have seen her meddle with the drink; the table blocked their view. “You are the lord of this fortress. You should not have to pour your own drink. Such a chore is beneath you now.” Catching Claire’s gaze, Veronique grinned.
Claire dropped her gaze.
You should be afraid to hold my stare, bitch. Just you wait.
“Now,” Veronique said, moving away, “I shall see to those knives.”
hapter Nineteen
Rubbing his thumb against the side of his goblet, Tye watched his mother climb the stairs. She was scheming. Of that, he was certain.
Whatever she was planning, he’d find out. She might believe she had free reign here at Wode, but with his victory over his father so near, the last thing he needed was for her to do something unexpected.
“Have you ever talked to her about Lord de Lanceau,” Claire asked, her voice cutting into his thoughts.
Tye wrested his gaze from his mother. “I have.”
“All that you know of him has come from her?”
“Most of it. The rest I gleaned from legends and hearsay. Why do you ask?”
“Is it possible…?” Claire hesitated, clearly choosing her words carefully. His gaze riveted to her mouth, for he ached with the desire to kiss her. She’d taste of liqueur, and cake, and a hundred other sweet temptations. “What I mean is, she obviously hates your sire.”
“We both do.”
“Could she…might she have lied to you about—?”
“Lied?” he growled.
Claire’s throat moved with a hard swallow, but she held his gaze and nodded.
“Lied about what?” The words broke from Tye’s lips like chips of ice. Most grown men would have immediately retreated from their questioning, but his stubborn little Kitten merely lifted her chin higher.
“Lied to you,” she ventured on, “that your sire…never wanted you. That he refused to accept you. You must admit, ’twas to her advantage—”
“He did refuse to accept me, in front of his own men.”
“I see.” She spoke so quietly, he almost didn’t hear her over the fire. In the shifting light, her skin looked dewy, soft. He longed to touch her cheek, to feel her skin against his, to make her body melt against him in an impassioned kiss. He craved the feel of her in his arms.
“When did that refusal happen?” she asked.
Dragging his wayward thoughts back to their conversation, he said, “I was but a young boy. My mother had arranged a meeting with my father, to present me to him and make him acknowledge me. De Lanceau arrived in the field with a small army, determined to arrest my mother.”
“Arrest her? There is more between your sire and Veronique than just a lord rejecting his former lover, then.”
Tye shrugged. “De Lanceau barely escaped being poisoned years ago by my mother when he was recovering from a grave injury caused by a crossbow bolt. However, that is not relevant to him acknowledging me as his son.”
“True. You can see, though, why he might be hesitant to believe her claims, especially one as important as you being his child.”
God’s bones, but she spoke so calmly, so rationally, as though she had every right to defend de Lanceau’s damnable actions.
“Whatever lay between the two of them, my sire hoped to finish it on the day of the meeting. He intended to kill my mother. When he saw me, he realized he must eliminate me as well.”
Claire sucked in a breath. “You cannot mean—”
Tye smiled coldly. “He wanted me dead.”
“Never! Lord de Lanceau is known to adore childre
n.”
“But not his own,” Tye sneered. “Not me, his bastard, born to the courtesan he cast aside.”
“Listen to yourself! Do you really believe he meant to murder you? An innocent boy? A helpless child?” Claire’s voice sharpened with revulsion.
“Why not? Then I would not grow up to be a threat to him or his well-respected family.”
Claire’s eyes glistened in the firelight. “Is that what your mother told you?”
“She did.”
“I thought so.”
The dismissal in Claire’s tone brought him forward on a surge of irritation, his arms braced on his knees. He cradled his goblet in his fingers as he said tightly, “I owe my mother my life.”
“Tye—”
“She saved me from certain death that day. She refused to hand me over to de Lanceau or to let him take me from her by force. My mother protected me, fled England to keep me safe, raised me, and ensured I was trained to defend myself. I owe her everything.”
“She did do all that you mentioned. But—”
“But? She made me who I am now. And now, I am ready to take what I am due.”
Claire shook her head and stared down at her drink. The irritation simmering within Tye burned hotter.
“My sire will not have the pleasure of murdering me. He will find I am a far stronger opponent than he ever expected. I will slay him, and that day, I will rejoice. Each day that I conquer another of his estates, I will celebrate, until I have all that belonged to him.”
Remorse touched Claire’s gaze. “Have you seen Lord de Lanceau since your mother first presented you to him? That day was so long ago.”
“Why do you ask?”
Romantic Legends Page 117
