You have a right to loath him. He deceived you, another little voice inside her said. Have you forgotten?
Nay. She hadn’t and never would. Gathering her resolve, she forced the regret aside.
A scrabbling noise came from inside the tunnel. The light grew stronger again. Witt clambered out, his clothes coated with dust and cobwebs, his eyes huge.
“T-there is something in there,” he said, shuddering.
“Rats?”
He shuddered again. “I do not know. I did not see it, but it moved away from the range of the light.”
“The tunnel is clear, though?” Claire asked, taking the torch from him.
“As far as I saw. Please, milady, do not make me go back in there.”
’Twould be best if the whole tunnel were checked for blockages, but she knew they’d been lucky not to have been discovered yet. “We have done what we came to do.” She pushed the door closed, extinguished the reed and set it aside, then pulled the tapestry back into place. “Now, let us move these barrels so they are not so obviously out of order.”
They maneuvered the barrels to the front of the rows. Just as they finished moving the last one, shouts carried from down the corridor. Witt made a strangled sound and lunged for the dislodged flagstone. He tossed the key into the cavity and pushed the stone back into the floor.
The voices grew louder. “Find them!” Veronique snapped.
Oh, God. Oh, God!
“Milady!” the boy gasped. He frantically brushed the grime from his garments.
There was no way to run past Veronique and her men who’d be heavily armed. Rocks and a slingshot also were no match for trained mercenaries when there was no element of surprise.
Grabbing Witt’s arm, Claire pulled him toward the shelves of wine and liqueurs. “Play along,” she murmured.
Looking terrified, he nodded.
“Let me see,” she said thoughtfully, not caring to lower her voice. She picked up one of the earthenware jugs. “This one might work. Or—”
Veronique rushed into the cellar, four grim-faced mercenaries close behind. “There they are!” the older woman screeched.
Claire fought the thundering of her pulse. Feigning surprise, she glanced at Veronique. “Is something wrong?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed to glittering slits. “You know very well.”
Fear lashed through Claire, but she held Veronique’s accusing gaze and said calmly, “We were looking for wine to help heal Witt’s grandfather’s wounds.”
“Nay, you were not. Tell me what you were really doing.”
“As I said, Witt wanted wine to bathe his grandfather’s injuries. We did not think ’twould cause any trouble.”
Veronique’s stare was as cold as her disbelieving laugh. “You are lying.”
“Mayhap you—”
“Quiet,” the older woman ordered.
“Please. No harm has been done. Let us return to the hall—”
“Quiet!” Veronique slapped Claire hard across the face. Claire reeled back into the shelving, and the earthenware jug slipped from her grasp. The pottery shattered on the floor, splashing red wine on her gown and across the flagstones.
“Milady,” Witt cried. “Are you all right?”
Her hand pressed to her smarting cheek, Claire straightened. Never had she been hit before. Oh, how she wanted to scratch that conceited smile off Veronique’s face.
“You.” Veronique pointed at a mercenary. “Search this room. Find out what they were doing. The rest of you, take these prisoners to the hall. If either of them says a word, hit them. Hard.”
Two mercenaries crowded in and took hold of Claire’s arms. Witt shook as the third mercenary took his slingshot and bag of rocks, tossed them onto a shelf, and then grabbed him by the back of his tunic, but remained silent.
Claire and Witt were shoved out into the main corridor, where the mercenary from the armory stood, red welts on his forehead.
“The lad had a slingshot,” one of the thugs said from behind Claire.
“No wonder my head hurts like hellfire,” the mercenary from the armory said. His lips pulled back from his teeth as he took a step toward Witt.
Veronique intercepted the man and placed her left hand upon his chest. “A pity he was able to best you.” She smiled up at him.
Shame, tinged with fear, touched the thug’s features. “’Twill not happen again. I swear it.”
“You are right. ’Twill not.” Veronique raised her right hand, revealing a thin dagger, and plunged it into the man’s neck.
Witt screamed and cringed.
A frightened cry welled within Claire, but she forced it down. She didn’t dare risk Veronique’s wrath; she must do all she could to protect Witt. The mercenaries behind her shifted restlessly, as if shocked by the stabbing, but afraid to speak out.
Blood flowed down the wounded thug’s tunic. A gurgling noise broke from him. His eyes rolled back into his head and, after falling to his knees, he fell facedown onto the floor.
Veronique stepped over his twitching body and strode for the stairwell. “Bring them.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Kneel,” Veronique snarled.
Her breath gusting between her teeth, Claire was shoved down to her knees in the great hall, her wine-soaked gown pooling around her on the rushes. Witt was forced to kneel beside her.
The mercenaries stood close behind, watching, waiting for either of them to resist in any way. A cruel excitement hovered around the thugs. They seemed eager for a fight, and Claire forced herself to stay very still.
The hall, buzzing with noise moments ago, had fallen deathly silent. Claire felt the weight of many stares, from mercenaries and servants to the children who cowered behind their mothers’ skirts. Mary lay on her side on the floor, her eyes closed, near where she’d confronted the mercenary. The maidservants tending her had frozen where they crouched; their expressions filled with shock as they stared at Claire and Witt.
Intense worry swirled inside Claire. Was Mary all right? She desperately hoped her dear friend hadn’t come to harm.
Witt, also, must be saved from maltreatment. She’d drawn him into the plan. She’d do all she could to spare him from punishment.
“Find Tye,” Veronique said. “He was searching the upper level.”
One of the men behind Claire hurried away.
An awful, sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t want to face Tye. Yet, she must. In memory of Henry, she must.
Veronique strolled into Claire’s line of view. “Those of you in this hall,” she said, loudly enough for all to hear. “You will witness what happens to those who try and deceive us.”
Witt whimpered softly.
Claire yearned to slide her hand into his, to offer him comfort, but she didn’t dare tempt the mercenaries behind them.
The tense silence continued, each of her breaths more excruciating. Claire stared out at the fearful faces watching. The mercenaries in the hall had moved to stand at all four sides of the room, ready to act if ordered.
Oh, God. Oh, God.
Brisk footfalls echoed on the landing and then the stairs descending to the hall. Tye. She knew the exact moment he saw her, for awareness seared through her.
Fight, Claire. For Henry. For the gallant man you lost.
She stiffened her spine against the piercing weight of Tye’s stare and refused to let her proud posture slip. Despite her trembling, she stared straight ahead and counted his steps. Nine. Ten…
The crunch of rushes warned he’d reached the hall floor.
He crossed to her. Memories of lying naked in his bed taunted her. Shame and unwanted desire tormented her, and she bit down on her lip, waiting for him to halt in front of her. Instead, he kept walking and moved in behind her and Witt. The muscles in her shoulders and lower back tightened. Her entire body was pitched to an acute state of waiting.
She strained to hear his next movement. The faint creak of his leather boot
s reached her, just as his fingers caught a length of her hair and gently pulled it back over her shoulder. She flinched. Even worse, her flesh responded, recalling every tender touch of his fingers upon her and making her traitorous heart ache.
Mortification lanced through her, for she hadn’t meant to flinch. She should have been stronger than to instinctively react in that way. Yet, with the touch upon her hair, he’d shown her more than she’d ever expected: that he had a form of control over her, whether she wanted it or not.
“What were you doing in the cellar, Claire?” He spoke quietly, but with an authority that carried his voice through the hall. As he spoke, he resumed walking.
She bit down harder on her lip, welcoming the pain, drawing upon the rage that simmered in her breast. If she kept silent, she couldn’t condemn herself or Witt; neither would she cause the mercenaries or Veronique to harm the boy. Hadn’t Veronique ordered her to be quiet?
Tye came into her view and stopped in front of her. Her eyes were level with his groin, and she refused to stare at him or the sheathed sword secured to his belt. When Claire glanced at the onlookers, she saw Mary was sitting up, watching, her face ashen.
“I will ask you but once more, Claire. What were you doing in the cellar?”
She was on the verge of collapse, but she couldn’t fold now. She also couldn’t remain silent. She must save Witt. “Witt and I were getting wine, so he could bathe Sutton’s wounds.”
“A lie,” Veronique said.
“’Twas my idea, to go to the storage room,” Claire added, “not Witt’s. I take full responsibility.”
Tye’s garments whispered as his left hand caught her chin. Slowly, patiently, he exerted enough pressure that she was forced to look up at him. She refused to meet his stare, but then, he cursed. Fury blazed in his eyes as his fingers lightly brushed her cheek where Veronique had struck her.
“Who hit her?” His voice was a furious growl.
“I did,” Veronique said. “She refused my order to be quiet.”
“How unwise of you.”
“She was disrespectful. Lady or not, she has to obey those in command.”
“Now she is reluctant to speak.”
Veronique tsked. “Shall I convince her to talk? I can start cutting the boy—”
Gasps rippled through the onlookers in the hall.
“Leave the boy. Claire will tell me what I want to know.”
She shivered, hating that he’d feel her shaking. She’d rather bite off his fingers than offer one word that would lead him to the secret door. His touch, though, was warm, coaxing, wreaking havoc on her with the press of flesh upon flesh.
The sound of approaching footfalls reached Claire. She prayed ’twas not the mercenary returning from searching the cellar.
“What did you find?” Veronique demanded.
“A door. ’Tis hidden behind one of the tapestries.”
Claire closed her eyes. All that she and Witt had done had been for naught.
“Ah.” Veronique tittered. “This door. Where does it lead?”
“I did not investigate. I thought you would want to know right away.”
“’Tis unlocked?”
“Aye,” the mercenary said. “I would have locked it, but I could not find a key.”
“Claire likely knows the whereabouts of that key,” Veronique said. “Whether she will tell us or not…”
Tye’s hand fell away from Claire’s face, and she opened her eyes. How she wished she could simply vanish from the uncertain situation she faced now.
“Tell me about the door,” Tye demanded. “Where does it lead, Claire? Where is the key?”
She pressed her lips together. Stay strong.
But poor Witt—
“Do not tell him, milady!” Witt cried. “Do not.”
Her lips quivered.
“If you will not talk, Claire, you leave me no choice. Chain the boy in the dungeon,” Tye ordered, turning his back to her. Over the worried mutters of the servants, he said, “Take Lady Sevalliere to my solar.”
Tye stood on the windswept battlement, looking down at the dark bailey, where torches lit the shadowed forms of mercenaries keeping watch. More of his hired thugs walked the battlement opposite, their words to one another snatched by the wind and reaching Tye in unrecognizable fragments of sound. Beyond the fortress walls, he could see no more than inky black, the village beyond and the countryside smothered in the blanket of night. All seemed to be in order, but as he well knew, the darkness was good at concealing danger. Out there, somewhere, his father lurked.
The wind wailed past the stone merlons and slipped through the crenels to pull at his hair and garments. He caught his breath at the iciness, for he hadn’t stopped to put on his cloak. When the mercenaries had hauled Claire to her feet, he’d walked away, unwilling to give her a glimpse of the turmoil churning inside him, a ruthless pressure fueled by disappointment and anger. He curled his hands against the boiling fury that urged him to slam his fist into the stone wall, to hit it again and again and curse until his hand bled and his mouth was bone dry.
Months ago, he might have given in to the relief in those urges. Now, he resisted. He needed his hand to wield his sword. He needed his voice to command his men. So close to conquering his sire, he needed every resource he had. That did not make the agony inside him any easier, though.
Claire. He gave in to a rough groan. He’d hated to see her so terrified, and finding the swollen mark on her face had pitched his mercurial emotions to a lethal fervor. He should loathe her. She’d betrayed him, opened a secret door his father no doubt knew about in order to help his sire broach the keep. Yet, when Tye thought of what she’d done, admiration kindled within him. She was a warrior, his fierce little Kitten. Clever, too. He’d seen Mary collapsed on the floor and guessed that the shy friend had been coaxed into providing a distraction in the hall, while Claire accomplished her task below.
The night breeze tangled hair into his eyes and he shoved it back with cold fingers, remembering, of all things, how soft Claire’s hair had felt against his skin. He’d loved running his fingers through its silkiness, loved the scent of it against his face while he’d dozed with her lying in his arms. His heart constricted with a sensation he could remember feeling only a few instances before—and never this intensely.
What did it mean, this feeling? Why did every thought, every decision, seem more complicated, because of Claire? The thought of her despising him, never wanting to lie with him again, left him empty inside, for with her, he’d finally felt that he’d belonged.
“Tye?”
Hellfire. His every muscle tightened at his mother’s voice.
“You forgot your cloak.” She walked up beside him, enrobed in her heavy, fur-trimmed mantle. “Do you want to catch a chill?”
“I am not a child.” If she intended to scold him about how he’d handled the situation in the hall, he’d storm away.
Her gloved hand swept over his back in a caress, stirring up a snarl of conflicting emotions within him. “I am worried about you, ’tis all,” she said.
“Worried.” He practically bit out the word.
In the flickering light cast by a wall torch, she appeared shocked. “You are my son. ’Tis a mother’s right to worry about her child.”
He studied her, seeking a hint as to her purpose. Was she silently mocking him?
“Why are you so furious?” she asked, her expression now deceptively guileless.
“You hit Claire.”
“She betrayed you. She acted to undermine you—”
“—and I will deal with her in my own way. You should not have struck her.”
His mother snorted, a sound of indignation.
“With that very noticeable injury to her cheek, you have proven us to be impetuous and cruel,” he said, glaring at her. “I thought I had made it clear that none of the women were to be harmed, especially the ladies.”
His mother’s mouth pursed in disapproval, and th
en she shrugged. “The mark will heal.”
“In a couple of sennights. In the meantime, she wears proof for everyone in the castle to see that we are unprincipled ruffians.”
A wry smile curved his mother’s lips. “Well, we are.”
“We may appear to have control over this keep, but I vow there are many folk here who are still loyal to Lady Brackendale. Can you not see that Claire’s wound will garner support for her ladyship and bolster resentment for me?”
“You have armed men, indeed some of the best mercenaries in England, to quell any resistance.” His mother frowned. “Why are you so fixed on Claire’s injury? ’Tis a minor wound and not worth such concern.”
“Is it not? I may be a bastard-born knave, but I have never hit a woman, especially a highborn lady. I would not under any circumstance.”
“How bloody noble of you,” his mother sneered. “You may have forgotten, but Claire is a captive. She is the enemy in this takeover that will bring us victory over your sire. Compared to our end goal, she is insignificant.”
He struggled not to raise his voice. “Claire was not—”
“Claire,” his mother mocked. “Always Claire!”
He thought he heard anguish in her voice. “What do you mean by that?”
Anger glinted in his parent’s eyes. “Are you really so foolish as to ask me such a question?”
He glowered. “I am no fool.”
“You are with her.”
Tye’s rage flared. “Beware, Mother.”
“I will not! She threatens all. I tried to help you by using the potion. Yet, you still—”
“You are overly bold,” he growled, baring his teeth.
“And you are a disappointment.”
The words were akin to a brutal slap. Tye’s eyes burned, for even worse than the fury roused by those words was the angst. What a rotten thing for her to say. He’d always done what she’d asked, worked hard to become the man she’d wanted him to be. Now he was a disappointment to her?
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