Claire’s lips curved in a faint, hopeful smile. “People change. Mayhap if you could see him again, talk to him, just you and him…”
Talk? Like hell. Talking wouldn’t bring about his sire’s defeat. “I last saw my father when I was imprisoned months ago. Before that, I saw him at the battle at Waddesford Keep.”
“That battle. ’Twas the first time he had seen you since that day long ago?”
“Aye.” Tye would never forget the anticipation and anguish that had hounded him every moment of every day until he’d faced his sire at Waddesford Keep. Those same emotions lived within him now, only they had grown sharper, deeper, and far more painful.
“What happened at Waddesford Keep?”
He drew upon the intense hatred that flowed whenever he thought of his father. “I asked him to acknowledge me as his son. In front of witnesses, in front of his most trusted men and my mother, he refused.”
Claire sighed, her expression troubled. “Did he give a reason why?”
“He claimed there is no proof that I am his child. I have been told, though, one has only to look at him and me side by side to see the resemblance.”
“Still, you must surely understand his reluctance. He has only your mother’s word, as well as a similarity in looks between you two, and that is not much to convince anyone that—”
With a furious growl, Tye slammed down his goblet and rose.
Claire hurriedly set down her goblet and huddled back in the chair, her eyes enormous. Spilled liqueur dripped from the table with a steady pat-pat.
Rage burned like white-hot flame in his veins. He caught the wary stares of the mercenaries at the nearby tables and glowered at them until they averted their gazes.
“Tell me this, if you can,” he muttered, glaring at Claire. “If de Lanceau does not believe that I am his son, why did he try and save my life? Why bother?”
“Save your life?” Claire sounded astonished. “When?”
Tye flexed his hand, the one he’d used to cling to the side of the battlement. The memory of rough stone biting into his palm was as clear as if he were back at Waddesford Keep, in that dangerous, precarious moment. Fury and confusion whipped through him, and he faced the fire, its heat licking over him, as searing as his internal tempest.
“’Twas near the end of the battle,” he said roughly. “I had nowhere left to go, except down.”
“Down?”
“I fell over the edge of the battlement.” Again, he heard the shouts and clangs of fierce fighting, tasted death on the wind whipping around him. “At the last moment, I caught hold and hung there, with only air beneath my feet. The bailey was far below.”
“Mercy!”
“Aye. Mercy.” Tye said between his teeth. He wondered if he’d ever be able to forget that moment of struggle, so fleeting yet so damned haunting. “As I fought to hold on, de Lanceau reached down his hand. He told me to grab hold, and he would pull me up.”
“A kind gesture,” Claire said. Her admiration for de Lanceau warmed her voice.
“Was it kind?” Anguish tore through Tye. All would have been so much simpler if de Lanceau had knocked away Tye’s fingers gripping the stone, causing him to fall, or turned his back on Tye, withholding all compassion and leaving Tye to his fate. Instead, de Lanceau had knelt and offered his hand.
Why? Why?
Tye suddenly wanted to grab the jug of liqueur from the table and down it all at once. Drunken oblivion had to be better than this blistering pain.
“Of course ’twas kind,” Claire said. “Your sire didn’t have to offer you help.”
“True. However, there were also many witnesses. No doubt he wanted to appear chivalrous in front of his men, by offering me his aid.”
A disbelieving laugh broke from Claire. “He is a man of honor. He lives by the rules of chivalry. If you were his most bitter enemy, he would have offered the same.”
“Ah. So ’twas not a gesture of kindness, then,” Tye ground out. “’Twas a deception disguised as courtesy—”
“’Tis not what I—”
“—just as my mother said.”
Silence answered him, a quietude measured only by the crackle of the fire and the hushed conversation of the mercenaries across the hall. He turned his back to the flames.
“Tye—”
“Do not try to convince me my father acted out of any sense of compassion, for your own words have confirmed what I suspected. He did not offer to help me because of who I am, because I am his son. He did so because ’twas expected of him.”
“Please, Tye. Whatever the reason, he still tried to save you. That should count for something.”
“Should it?”
“Aye. When you see his lordship again, you must ask him about that moment. You should hear from his own lips why he wanted to save you.”
“I do not care to hear his reasoning,” Tye seethed, hauling a hand through his hair. Yet, a tiny part of his soul said he really did want to know. He did want to hear the truth. Indeed, he might ask—before he ran his sire through.
“You did not say what happened,” Claire said. “While you struggled to hold on, did you take de Lanceau’s hand?”
“I did not.”
“You fell?”
“I let go.”
She pressed her hand to her mouth. Horror and disbelief flickered across her features; the emotional torment inside him intensified.
“I let go,” he repeated on a growl, “because I made a choice. I refused to yield to my sire. I would not willingly surrender and become his prisoner, his pawn.”
“You are lucky to have survived such a fall,” she said, lowering her hand to her lap. “You could have been mortally wounded.”
“I was injured. I cracked the bones in my right leg. Regrettably, there was no hope of getting away, and my mother and I were taken captive. We were separated and imprisoned at different castles, but with Braden’s help, we escaped.”
“If I remember correctly, you saw Lord de Lanceau during your imprisonment.”
“Aye. Once.”
“Did you not have a chance then to discuss the fact you may be his son?”
Tye snorted. “He came to interrogate me about what happened at Waddesford Keep. When I would not cooperate, he left and never returned.”
She trailed a slender finger over her bottom lip. He had the overwhelming urge to stride to her, grab her hand, and nibble on her fingers, before he claimed her mouth. ’Twould be so easy, to take her lips, press her back in the chair, her body soft beneath him…
“You must understand that ’twas your sire’s duty to question you, as he would any man taken prisoner taken during a battle,” she said. “Regardless whether or not he is your father, his duty had to take priority.”
“As always,” Tye muttered.
“As it had to be,” she countered.
Tye chuckled, the sound harsh. She was so damned sure of de Lanceau’s honor; naught Tye said would change her opinion. The frustration and bitterness within him could no longer be restrained.
“I do not know why I bothered to share my thoughts with you,” he bit out.
“Why do you say that?”
“I should have known you would take my father’s side.” Tye grabbed his goblet from the table and drained the vessel.
Claire didn’t answer. When he banged down the goblet and looked at her, a rosy flush stained her cheekbones. Her blue eyes glittered.
“Why the glare, Kitten?” he taunted.
“I have tried to help you.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Admiration rippled through him, for she hadn’t broken his stare. Had the drink made her so brave? He rather liked when she showed her little claws.
“You, however, have made it impossible for me to help you,” she continued. “Your hatred is too deeply ingrained, and you are too stubborn to heed anyone but yourself.”
“That surprises you?” Tye smirked. “I should have known you would not understand. Y
ou, the cosseted, sheltered, well-bred young lady who has never faced a difficult moment in her entire life.”
Anguish flickered in her eyes, a pain that revealed she’d faced far greater turmoil than he’d imagined.
Regret weighed on his conscience. He hated that he’d caused her pain, even though he had every right to be angry. What, though, had happened to cause her such torment?
As though each action took immense self control, she picked up her sister’s letter, placed her hands on the arms of the chair, and pushed to standing.
When he met her gaze again, all trace of her vulnerability was gone. She stared back with defiance and resolve.
“I do not need to have lived your life, Tye, to empathize with your situation. I, too, have had terrible things happen. I know what ’tis like to live with anguish in my heart.”
“Anguish? Do you really think I care that de Lanceau doesn’t acknowledge me? I hate him. You hear me? Hate him!”
She turned away. “Good night, Tye.”
“Where do you think you are going?” he called as she started for the stairs. How dare she turn her back on him? He was lord here. He would tell her when she could leave the hall.
She didn’t reply, just continued walking toward the stairs, her gown drifting at her ankles. The mercenaries, watching from their table, muttered among themselves. Tye growled low in his throat, his fury and inner turmoil close to choking him. She’d not only disobeyed him, but she’d done so front of his hired men.
“I did not give you permission to leave,” Tye roared.
Not the slightest slowing of her strides.
“You.” He pointed to a mercenary. “Take the lady to her chamber.” He sure as hell didn’t trust himself to do it. Turning to the fire again, he cursed and hurled the goblet into the blaze, where it clanged against the back of the hearth and lay glinting amongst the flames.
Chapter Twenty
Claire struggled to hold back her tears. She held on until the door shut behind the mercenary, and then a sob wrenched from her lips. She set Johanna’s letter on the trestle table to read later. Hugging her arms across her bosom, tears streaming down her face, she walked to the middle of her chamber, her steps unsteady.
Mercy, but her head whirled. Her stomach hurt from the strain of disagreeing with Tye. Her emotions hadn’t been this sharply pitched in many weeks—the last time was when she’d learned of Lord Brackendale’s death—but then again, she didn’t usually drink so much wine, or such strong liqueur.
The intensity of Tye’s hatred… ’Twas frightening and agonizing to see. That he could despise the man who was likely his father to such a soul-deep extent was very, very sad. He loathed his sire because of wrongs committed in the past that might or might not be true, as Tye had only his mother’s word to go by.
Claire shuddered, remembering the gloating grin Veronique had cast her way before heading to the solar. That vile woman had only one interest: herself. Veronique had fed her own grievances against de Lanceau to Tye, year after year, until Tye’s bitterness had become as keen as her own.
Wiping at the wetness stinging her face, Claire turned to the trestle table. She wavered, but steadied herself by grabbing hold of the edge of the table. Once her head had quit reeling so much, she snatched up a linen wash cloth to dry her eyes. A mug containing a greenish-yellow drink sat beside the bowl of water the maid had left for her nightly bathing, and as fresh tears brimmed, Claire smiled. A soothing herbal infusion had often been her nightly ritual before Tye had taken control of the castle. How thoughtful of the maid to have managed to bring her an infusion tonight.
The mug was barely warm against Claire’s fingertips—the drink must have been made a while ago—but she brought it to her lips and sipped. The sweetness of honey swirled over her tongue, the flavor barely concealing the musty taste of the other ingredients. Frowning slightly, she sipped again. ’Twas not her usual infusion of chamomile, honey, and mint. But still, ’twas soothing.
She crossed to the window and opened the shutters. The frigid air soothed her hot face and she leaned into the embrasure while she gazed up at the star-sprinkled sky and drank her infusion. Mayhap the breeze would help to stop her head from spinning. ’Twas odd that she felt so giddy, but the liqueur she’d imbibed must have been more potent than she’d realized.
A man’s voice carried from somewhere out in the night, likely a mercenary talking to one of his friends while patrolling the battlements. Claire’s thoughts drifted to Tye. Was he still in the hall? He’d been angry, and yet, he’d seemed so alone.
How could Tye insist that she didn’t understand his torment? She understood it all too well, having lost her parents, Lord Brackendale, and her beloved Henry. Henry’s death especially had taught her the depths of pain.
With each of Tye’s harsh words about his sire, she’d wept inside for the little boy who’d been so callously rejected, and for the grown man who’d become so embittered. She’d wanted to go to him, wrap her arms around him, and hold him tight.
Foolish thoughts. Perilous thoughts. And yet, even now, she longed to do what she’d imagined.
Her eyes drifted closed, for she longed very, very much to be in his arms. The craving coiled inside her, tantalizing and unrelenting, causing heaviness in her breasts and between her thighs…
Her eyes snapped open. Such feelings were not wise. Not wise at all.
But of all wickedness, she burned for him. She ached to taste his lips upon hers; to feel his broad, hard body pressed against her; to savor his touch upon her bare skin. . .
Her hand trembled as she raised the mug and drank again. She stepped back from the window, readying to close the shutters, and the room careened around her.
Frantic to catch herself before she fell, she grabbed hold of the window ledge. Her pulse was pounding at a frantic pace. Sweat beaded on her brow. Goodness, but she felt odd.
Disquiet raced through her, even as she shivered in a brisk gust of wind. She’d been tipsy before. Granted, only once, but she didn’t recall having felt like this. Nay, the sluggishness of her thoughts, the dizzying heat racing through her, the feverish cravings taunting her… These were unusual.
Her fingers still gripping the ledge, she squinted down at the mug. The infusion. It also had been unusual.
Had she been drugged? Who would have dared to do such a thing, and why?
Anger burgeoned inside her. With careful, uneven steps, she made her way to the door and hammered on the panel.
“Settle down,” a guard groused from outside.
“I want to speak to Tye,” Claire called back.
“In the morning—”
“Now!” She hammered on the door again. Thud, thud, thud. “Did you hear me? Now!” Thud, Thud—
“Enough!” The man outside snapped. “Stop that noise.”
“Please,” Claire said. “I have to speak to him. ’Tis important.”
Tye sprawled in the chair pulled up to the hearth in the solar, a goblet of red wine dangling from his left hand. With his right hand, he stroked the cat—Patch, he recalled—lying in his lap. Tye had asked servants about the feline and had learned his name from one of the stable hands. Patch dozed, enjoying the attention; his loud purr was akin to the rattle of an old cart wheel.
His touch gentle, Tye shifted his hand to Patch’s head and then slid his palm down the cat’s silken back, being careful not to brush the bandaged leg. It had taken some coaxing, and juicy chunks of chicken Tye had brought from the kitchen, but Patch had granted him a measure of trust tonight. Curling up on Tye, though, had been Patch’s idea. The feline hadn’t been deterred by his wounded leg, and had managed to get comfortable within moments of leaping onto Tye’s lap.
A log in the fire popped loudly, and Patch startled, his eyes flaring wide—a look that, somehow, reminded Tye of Claire. With a steady hand, Tye soothed the feline. Patch’s purring resumed, and his eyes closed again.
If only matters were as simple with Claire.
While he scratched the back of the cat’s head, his fingers sinking into soft fur, Tye’s gaze shifted to the hearth. He vividly remembered how, in the great hall, the fire glow had brushed Claire’s curves and dips; he’d been almost drunk with desire for her.
Drunk. He sipped more wine. Aye, after the liqueur he’d consumed in the hall and what he’d imbibed in the solar, he might be a bit drunk now. However, that didn’t entirely explain the heaviness in his head, the merciless ache in his loins, the way he wanted her with a need that defied all common sense.
He should be angry with her, not lusting after her. She’d turned her back on him, dismissed him as though he were naught but a hot-headed simpleton. And still, he wanted to—
A knock sounded on the solar door. Patch jolted awake.
Scowling, Tye called, “What is it?”
“Lady Sevalliere, milord,” a mercenary called through the door. “She wants to speak with you.”
Annoyance whipped through Tye, and then, smug satisfaction. Had she realized her mistake in departing the hall as she’d done earlier? Mayhap she intended to apologize.
If not, she’d better have a good reason for disturbing him.
Cursing as he straightened and his head spun, he lifted Patch from his lap and set him back in his bed. With a grumpy meow, the feline settled on his blanket.
Tye brushed the creases from his tunic and strode to the door. After shaking his head to try to clear the fog from his mind, he yanked open the door, sent the mercenary back to his post, and headed to Claire’s chamber.
He knocked.
“Enter,” she said, without a moment’s delay.
He stepped inside. Claire stood by the window, one hand holding her hair up off her nape, as though to cool over-heated skin. Her face was pink, lightly misted with sweat, although the room was cold. He had a sudden, fierce yearning to know how the back of her neck tasted. When he pressed his lips to her nape, would her skin be like down? Would her skin taste sweet, like a ripe apple, or slightly salty?
Her expression turned wary, as if she was privy to his unruly thoughts. She dropped her tresses, and they tumbled in a wavy golden mass down her back. Then she squared her shoulders, although she seemed unsteady on her feet.
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