Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  I have been ordered to guard the prisoners in the dungeon.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Claire woke to a rustling sound. Lying on her side, the pillow soft against her cheek, she kept her eyes closed and savored the lazy warmth coursing through her. ’Twas a wickedly delicious sensation.

  Almost as wickedly delicious as what Tye had done to her last night.

  Hot-cold tingles danced over her skin. Sleeping together had been wonderful, too.

  She missed him lying next to her. She vaguely recalled him easing away from her during the night, the jostling of the mattress as he’d left the bed, but she’d quickly fallen asleep again.

  Another rustle came from across the chamber. The noise sounded like unfolding parchment.

  “Tye?” she murmured, her voice throaty from sleep, while she pushed tumbled hair from her face.

  “Tye,” Veronique mocked. “Bleating for him to fornicate with you again, are you?”

  Oh, God. A nasty chill raced through Claire. She sat up, hugging the sheets to her naked body.

  A smile curving her painted red lips, the older woman met Claire’s gaze. With her red hair pinned into a braided coil around her head, her embroidered crimson wool gown skimming her figure, Veronique looked polished and composed, as if she considered herself the lady of the keep. Her assessing stare traveled slowly, thoroughly, over Claire’s mussed hair and bare shoulders.

  Claire fought the urge to cringe, instead drawing strength from her anger. Not only was Veronique holding Henry’s letters, but she’d conspired for Claire to end up in Tye’s bed. Veronique had drugged them both, a ruthless act Claire would not forgive.

  Her fingers tightening on the bedding, Claire asked, “Where is Tye?”

  “He is off attending to his duties,” Veronique said. “There are matters far more important than you.”

  Claire tried to ignore the bite in the older woman’s words, but they were sharply spoken and stung like bits of chipped stone.

  Glaring at Veronique, Claire said, “You have no right to read those letters in your hand.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Nay, you do not. I did not give you permission—”

  “I did not ask for it,” the older woman leered. “Why should I, when I have no need of it?”

  Shock raced through Claire. “Tye gave you permission, then?”

  Veronique’s eyes glinted. “Not exactly. However, he is this castle’s lord, and he is also my son. Since I have helped him win what he is due, he will understand why I wish to know the contents of these letters, especially if there is information of use to us.”

  Information of use, as if Claire’s private correspondence was as inconsequential as a map or a list of goods to buy in the village market. Claire stifled a disgusted cry. Did Veronique have no compassion at all? No respect for another’s personal possessions?

  “I will tell Tye that you read my letters,” Claire said.

  “I care not.” Veronique tossed the parchments onto the table. “Tell him I have read them all. I have, you know. I came by earlier, to return Tye’s sharpened knives, only to find you fast asleep.”

  Oh, mercy. Nothing good would come of Veronique discovering Claire in Tye’s bed, even if the wretched woman had planned for it to happen.

  “What a surprise that was, to find you curled up under the bedding, so exhausted, you did not even stir when I walked in. I left the knives and took the letters back to my own chamber to read. Of course, it did not take much to guess what had happened between you and Tye last night.”

  “You put potion into the wine,” Claire muttered, “as well as my infusion.”

  Veronique’s eyes widened with mock innocence. “Did I?”

  “Aye. Tye recognized the potion’s scent.”

  “Clever boy.” The older woman grinned, an unpleasant twist of her mouth. “I should have known he would figure out what I had done.”

  “You drugged him too,” Claire continued, her words taut with fury. “You plotted for us to lie together, so in truth, ’twas no surprise to you at all to find me here.”

  Veronique’s hand fluttered in a dismissive wave. “Well—”

  “Tye was not pleased, either, that you had tricked him. ’Twas a foul deception you played upon us both.”

  For a fleeting moment, Veronique seemed astonished by Claire’s boldness. Then, her expression darkened with menace. “Beware, Lady Sevalliere. I am not the only one who has resorted to deception.”

  “I know not what you mean.”

  “Is that so?” Veronique picked up a leather-bound tome: the journal Claire had kept hidden in her chamber.

  “Recognize it?” Veronique drawled, opening the book with its spine pressed against her torso so the pages of writing in black ink were visible to Claire.

  Oh, God.

  “I found pages and pages about the siege, including detailed descriptions of the mercenaries who took part and the daily developments. There are also fascinating insights from you. What you wrote about Tye is, shall we say, highly entertaining and pathetically romantic?”

  Claire’s cheeks burned. She could simply perish from embarrassment. Humiliating her, though, was just what Veronique intended.

  “What did you say about Tye?” Veronique tapped her chin with a crooked finger. “I remember now. You said he was misguided, manipulated by me into committing terrible deeds.”

  Fine hairs prickled on Claire’s nape, for she had indeed written such words. Judging by the older woman’s punishing stare, she wanted to crush Claire emotionally, to beat her down until she collapsed into tears. That could only happen, though, if Claire allowed it. She’d rather die than yield in any way to this woman.

  Gathering her courage around her like a shield, Claire refused to let her stare waver. “’Tis true. I did write such words.”

  “Tsk, tsk. What dangerous sentiments for a hostage whose life may be at risk.” Veronique smiled in a manner that made Claire feel ill with foreboding.

  “’Tis what I believe,” Claire said, less defiantly than she’d hoped. “Neither you nor Tye nor anyone else told me that I was forbidden to write down my thoughts on what was happening at this keep.”

  With an irritated sniff, Veronique shut the journal. Crossing her arms, she held it against her bosom. “It does not matter whether you had permission to write such words or not. Tye will have this journal, and he will decide what to do with it.” She giggled. “And, what to do with you.”

  Claire’s knuckles whitened as her hold tightened on the bedding. She’d never intended for Tye to read her private writings about him. She’d been critical in some instances, sympathetic in others. Mayhap she could get hold of the journal and hide it again before he had a chance to read it?

  Even as her desperate mind clung to that thought, one of the solar doors opened. Tye walked in. He was fully dressed in a heavy gray tunic draping to his knees and black hose, with his sword belted at his waist. Stubble darkened his jaw.

  A flush warmed her as she recalled him half naked and gilded by fire glow, his bronzed skin gleaming while he dipped his head between her thighs. A dull ache spread through her, an ache she now recognized as sensual hunger.

  Veronique clapped her hands together. “We were just talking about you, Tye.”

  His gaze settled on Claire, and her pulse fluttered wildly. She smiled—she couldn’t help it after their night spent together—but the smile froze before it had fully formed on her lips.

  Something was wrong.

  Tye seemed uneasy, his feelings tightly guarded—far from the lighthearted lover she’d known last night.

  Why? What had happened while she slept? Fear snuffed the yearning inside her and left her chilled.

  Tye broke their gaze, his hands clenching at his sides. Restless fury flickered over his features as he shut the door and halted near Veronique. “Mother.”

  “Tye.” She patted his cheek.

  He stepped sideways, out of her reach. “What are you
doing here? The servants are not even awake yet.”

  “I returned your sharpened knives, as I promised.”

  Hands on his hips, he scowled.

  “Earlier,” Veronique went on, “I also borrowed Claire’s letters. I just returned them. What fascinating reading they were.”

  “God’s blood! I told you not to touch them. Why—?”

  “Why?” Veronique laughed, a harsh sound. “We have yet to win our battle against your sire. The letters might have contained details that would help us defeat him.”

  Claire stifled an indignant cry. Surely Tye wouldn’t accept that justification for what his mother had done.

  “Do not look so hostile, Tye.” Veronique held out Claire’s journal. “Did you know she has been keeping a written account of the takeover and all involved? There are fascinating sections about you.”

  Tye’s gaze slid to Claire. She sucked in a breath at the weight of his anguished stare; the vulnerability vanished on a blink, was replaced by fury. “Is this true?”

  There was no sense denying it. His mother held the proof in her hands. Claire nodded.

  Tye took the journal from his parent.

  “You did not know about this journal, then?” Veronique asked gleefully.

  “Not until now,” Tye said.

  Veronique clucked her tongue as if Claire had committed the gravest of crimes. “How deceitful, Claire, to keep secrets from the lord of the castle.”

  Claire choked down a shriek of frustration. “As I told you—”

  “Tye has secrets of his own, though,” Veronique went on, drowning out Claire’s words. “Dark secrets. Aye?”

  He looked haunted, unsettled right down to his very soul. “Mother.”

  “The last letter from Claire’s beloved Henry is especially enlightening.”

  Tye’s visage had turned so fearsome, Claire shuddered. “Enough!” he roared.

  Veronique smiled at Claire. “Did you know that Tye killed Henry?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “You killed Henry?” Claire’s words emerged on the barest breath of sound. She gaped at Tye, while horror washed through her in a flood of numbing shock. Her heart became a leaden weight struggling to beat in her breast.

  Tye’s face was a mask of outrage. His blazing gaze shifted to his mother before returning to her. “I did,” he finally said. He spoke without the faintest remorse.

  The coldness inside Claire settled into her bones. Tears stung her eyes. Unable to control her trembling, she turned her head to stare at the opposite wall and pressed a hand to her lips. Oh, God. Oh, merciful God. She had never expected to hear such a terrible admission from Tye. Yet, days ago, he’d told her he had escaped captivity in Branton Keep, where Henry had been working for de Lanceau.

  She should have pressed Tye for more information about his escape, gleaned as much detail as possible. Instead, she’d let the bastard seduce her.

  Through her weakness, she’d dishonored Henry.

  The fault was not entirely hers, though. By withholding the truth until now, Tye had dishonored her, each and every time he’d wooed her, and most of all last night.

  He had betrayed her in the worst possible way.

  Never would she forgive him for that. Never.

  She stared down at the coverlet on the bed. “How…?” The rest of her words failed her. Guilt and loathing surged, for she’d kissed the villain who had murdered Henry. She’d lain in the same bed as Tye and done so willingly. She’d let him caress her, pleasure her…

  Vomit scalded the back of her mouth. She forced it down.

  “Such a pitiful expression.” Veronique cackled. “She looks as though you just stabbed her in the heart.”

  “Be quiet,” Tye growled.

  Claire drew in a shuddered breath, barely holding back her sobs. She refused to cry in front of Veronique or Tye. Never would she allow herself to appear so defeated. Yet, the numbness inside her was melting into an agonizing pain.

  Forcing herself to meet Tye’s stare, she asked, “Why did you not tell me before?” She sounded as if she’d lost everything she’d loved; in many ways, she had.

  A glimmer of regret touched his eyes, but was gone in an instant. “I did not know he was the man I had killed. Not until I read your last letter from him a short while ago.”

  Was that the truth, or had Tye hoped Claire would never find out what he’d done?

  Fury boiled inside her. “I hate you, Tye. I hate you for all that you have done!”

  “Tsk, tsk,” Veronique clucked. She seemed delighted by the unfolding drama.

  “Leave her be,” Tye snapped at his mother. His attention again settled on Claire, and she averted her gaze, tears streaming down her face. “I never intended for you to find out in this way,” he said.

  A hollow laugh broke from Claire. “Did you intend to tell me at all?”

  He didn’t reply. ’Twas answer enough.

  Holding the bedding against her bosom, she leaned over and grabbed for her clothes, still lying on the coverlet. As she struggled to straighten the garments to put them on, Tye walked to the bedside. He set a gentle hand upon her bare shoulder.

  Claire recoiled. “Do not touch me!”

  “I was going to tell you,” he said quietly, his hand falling away. “Once I knew how.”

  His words held a raw pain that touched upon the wound inside her. He almost sounded kind—a new emotional challenge she couldn’t bear. Her mouth crumpled on a sob.

  He made a small, strangled sound. “You must believe me.”

  Why did he care whether she believed him or not? She didn’t want to care either, but she did. Her torment gouged deep.

  “Poor Claire, reduced to tears,” Veronique cooed, her tone undeniably gloating. “She has endured such a lot tonight.”

  Claire’s head reeled on a swift surge of anger and despair. Soothing oblivion hovered at the edges of her mind.

  As Tye growled a reply to Veronique, a buzzing noise rang in Claire’s ears. It grew louder and louder, like an insect readying to bite. The blackness beckoned.

  She closed her eyes, and the darkness rushed in and took her.

  His jaw taut, Tye stared at Claire collapsed on her side on the bed, her eyes shut, her hair spilling around her. Her body curled inward, as though she instinctively tried to protect her broken heart from further attack. A crushing ache spread through his chest for he’d never wanted to hurt her in such a way. He leaned over her, drew up the bedding that had fallen away, and covered her exposed breasts.

  His mother walked up behind him. “She fainted?”

  “Aye, thanks to you,” he ground out. Knowing his mother, she’d wanted to see Claire devastated by grief; his mother enjoyed such sport.

  “You blame me?” Veronique snorted. “I did not kill Henry.”

  “You did not have to tell her in such a careless manner, either.” Tye faced his parent, bitter words crowding up within him, his fury a wild, dangerous beast clawing up inside him to get free. She’d hurt Claire, his captivating, lovely, beautiful Kitten.

  Such fierce protectiveness roiled inside him. He struggled with the intensity of his feelings, while part of him admitted Claire would soon have found out about Henry anyway. He had intended to tell her. After reading the letter, and grappling with his conscience, he’d decided he must tell her the truth. Even though ’twould be difficult, ’twas the right thing to do. A matter, of all ironies, of honor.

  “Why are you so angry?” his mother asked.

  “Why not?” he snarled. “You disobeyed my orders regarding the letters. You—”

  “I was trying to help you,” she cut in. “Before you berate me for the potion in your drink, that was meant to help you as well.”

  He suppressed a stunned laugh. “Help me?”

  “Once you had taken her, she would no longer be such a temptation. Your lust slaked, you would be able to focus again on the challenge ahead: the reason why you conquered this fortress in the first place.”
Her eyes widened, softened with a plea. “Do not be upset. I want you to succeed. I am proud of the man, the leader, you have become. Surely you understand that I must do all that I can to ensure your victory? ’Tis a victory you deserve.”

  Tye shook his head. Damn her. His mother didn’t offer praise very often. When she did, it meant a great deal to him, as it did now.

  Rage still seethed inside him, though, warring with the pleasure of his mother’s words. He had a right to be furious. Claire wasn’t a strumpet for him to use and cast aside. Neither was he a dim-witted boy who needed a parent to assert firm control over his decisions and actions. “I am well aware of what I aim to achieve, Mother.”

  “Then all is settled.”

  “Nay, ’tis not. I appreciate your confidence in me. However, what you did to Claire was unjust.”

  “Unjust? Why, I—”

  “Do not drug me again. Do not tamper with Claire’s wine or infusions, either.”

  A disappointed gasp broke from his parent. “You…you feel sorry for her?”

  He looked back at Claire’s motionless form, and a sickening anguish filled his gut. He did feel sorry for her, and so much more. Indeed, more than he’d ever felt for any woman in his entire miserable life.

  “Tye, tell me the truth. Do you care for her?” His mother sounded merely curious, but he discerned a darker intent behind the question.

  He wouldn’t admit to caring. He’d never reveal that he wanted Claire to be his wife. He couldn’t, for her life could be in terrible and immediate danger. Forcing an indolent shrug, he said, “I made last night enjoyable for her, if ’tis what you are asking.”

  Glee lit his mother’s features.

  “What you planned, with the potion in the drink, came to pass,” he added, ensuring his parent learned what she wanted to know. “Claire will no longer be a distraction.”

  “Good.” His mother chuckled. “Was fornicating with her—?”

  “Do not ask me anymore about last eve.” He retrieved Claire’s chemise, as silken soft as her fair skin, and shook out the wrinkles. “Now, I must ask you to leave. There is much to do this day if I am soon to defeat my sire.”