Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2)

by Heather Frost

Clare froze. That voice . . . It was twisted with rage, but wholly familiar. She knew it as well as her own. She just couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t understand it.

  “Eliot?” she gasped. The raw emotion drove away her practiced tone, changing it from Serene’s voice to her own.

  The arms around her stiffened. “Clare?”

  Her pulse thudded in every part of her, too hard and too fast. Confusion flooded her. Nothing about this moment made sense. Eliot was the one holding her. He wasn’t a prisoner.

  He was one of them.

  Eliot spun her, his fingers digging into her upper arms with so much pressure she winced. His gaze raked her face in the moonlight, his eyes widening as he saw past the dress, the crown, the makeup.

  Beside them, the guard had been subdued—but he was alive.

  “Eliot?” one of the rebels snapped. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s not her,” he breathed, shock behind each word. “She’s not the princess. She’s . . . my sister.” His hold on her tightened, and she grimaced as he shook her. “What are you doing?” he demanded. “What—?”

  “Release her!” Bennick’s hard voice cut through the night, and chaos exploded.

  The rebels tore past Clare and Eliot, rushing the path to engage the soldiers. Clare tried to twist free of Eliot’s grip, but he held her too tightly.

  He cursed as he dragged her away from the mansion, the fight—and Bennick.

  She stumbled, struggling to pull free. “Eliot, stop!”

  He only hauled her forward, plunging them deeper into the maze of the garden. “We have to get out,” he snapped. “Now. What were you thinking? Coming out here, dressed like her?”

  “I was trying to save you!”

  He rounded on her, his eyes blazing. “You shouldn’t have risked your life for hers.”

  She glared, her heart slamming against her ribs. “You were never in danger. You’re one of them. A rebel.” Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked quickly, wishing she could see his shadowed face more clearly. She wanted to truly see him—to know this was really him.

  The fracturing in her heart told her it was. “Those messages,” she rasped. “The man who grabbed me in Tarvin and told me you were being tortured—it was all a lie.”

  He grit his teeth. “You weren’t supposed to be in any danger.”

  Emotion clawed her throat. “You used me.”

  “We have to keep moving.” Eliot said, his voice hard.

  Her lungs were so tight she could barely breathe. “Why would you do this? Why would you become one of them?”

  “Newlan killed our father,” Eliot growled. “And losing him killed our mother. The royals destroyed our lives, just like they’ve destroyed so many others. And now they want to make an alliance with the enemy? We can’t let this continue. It has to end. They have to end.”

  They rounded another hedge, the sounds of the fight drifting further away.

  Eliot glanced at her, and even in the filtered moonlight she could see his hard face as it twisted. “You look just like her. Fates, you even sounded like her. This wasn’t your first time pretending to be her, was it?”

  Clare said nothing, only glared.

  He ground his jaw. “You’re a decoy. Not a maid. You’ve been her double all this time.” His fury rippled through the darkness between them, burning her skin. “Fates rot them all. They dress you up like her, parade you around in front of everyone—and that fates-blasted Markam. He kisses you, then dangles you in front of killers? That’s sick, Clare. Once I get you out of here, I’ll rip his throat out.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.” Clare yanked against her brother’s strangling hold, but when Eliot barely slowed, she changed tactics. She made a fist with her free hand and plunged it into his gut.

  Her brother grunted from the blow, obviously not expecting it, but he recovered quickly and dodged her second hit, then jerked her forward. Fire sparked in her wrist, and in the span of a pained breath, her back was pressed to his front, his arm banded around her, once more pinning her arms to her sides.

  His breath was hot against her ear. “I will knock you out and carry you over my shoulder if I have to, but you’re coming with me.”

  Gravel crunched behind them and Eliot spun to watch a shadow run up to them. It was a young man, and he looked vaguely familiar. “What are you doing?” he hissed at Eliot. “You can’t bring her with us. They’ll come after her!”

  Eliot tensed against her back. “I’m not leaving her.”

  The man shoved a hand through his hair, and Clare suddenly knew him: Eliot’s best friend, Michael. “Fine,” he exhaled sharply. “Bring her. But we have to move. Now.”

  Clare stiffened. “I’m not going—”

  Eliot’s sweaty palm clamped over Clare’s mouth, his fingers clenched so tightly her jaw ached. She tried to scream, but his hand smothered all sound. “I’m doing this for you,” he grunted, his arm flexing more securely around her.

  Michael led the way and Eliot followed, dragging Clare to the back garden gate. The half-moon cast a dim light on the open gate, and the body of a guard stretched out on the ground before it. Blood pooled under his head and around his middle.

  Nausea rose inside her and she trembled in her brother’s arms. Eliot may not have been the one to kill that guard, but even if he hadn’t delivered the killing blow, he had been involved in his death.

  Her brother truly was capable of things she had never imagined.

  “Stop!”

  The shout came from behind them and relief punched through Clare at Bennick’s voice. She would not have been able to face his death. Especially not when his blood would have been on her hands.

  Eliot and Michael whirled, Michael’s sword leaving its sheath with a dull ring.

  Bennick stood several paces away. His sword was lifted, every inch of him rigid as his eyes sliced over her. His eyes narrowed on Eliot. “Release her.”

  Eliot’s arms flexed around her, keeping her secure. “Stay back, Markam.”

  “You’ve lost,” Bennick said, his voice menacingly level. “Release her. Now.”

  “You might be willing to watch her die,” he sneered, “but I’m not.”

  Bennick’s eyes narrowed. “You’re the one who nearly got her killed tonight.” He shifted a step forward. “Let her go. You’re hurting her.”

  “Stay back!” Eliot snapped, his hold clenching.

  Clare sucked in a pained breath and Bennick halted, his face shifting into a snarl. “Let her go or I’ll kill you.”

  “I’m fine!” Clare gasped. “Bennick, please, don’t hurt him!”

  He wasn’t even looking at her. He was focused solely on her brother.

  “She’s coming with me,” Eliot said, edging back a step. “You’re going to get her killed if she stays with you.”

  A growl lived in Bennick’s throat. “She doesn’t want to go with you.”

  “She’s not thinking clearly.”

  “And you are?” His glacial eyes narrowed, and even Clare shivered. “Do you really think there’s anywhere you can go that I won’t find you?”

  Michael looked to Bennick, his sword angled protectively in front of him. “If you let us walk away, we’ll leave her.”

  “Done,” Bennick vowed, no deliberation, his sword still held at the ready.

  Her brother’s hold only tightened. “No.”

  Michael shot him a look, his voice low. “We can’t win this. We need to go, before more soldiers come.”

  There was a horrible, frozen moment. Then her brother’s hold loosened until only one arm trembled around her. “I’m sorry,” he breathed.

  She twisted free and looked up at his shadowed face, feeling gutted and angry and hurt as she took a step back. “So am I.”

  Eliot’s throat bobbed, his eyes pained.

  “Clare.” Bennick’s voice was taut behind her.

  She turned away from her brother, blinking quickly to push back the tears that stung her eyes.
r />   Bennick stepped forward, lowering his sword as he extended a hand, relief finally surfacing in his stormy gaze.

  Foliage snapped and a second later, white-hot pain pierced her right side, jerking her entire body. Her hands flashed to the source of the pain—

  A dagger was sticking out of her.

  She sucked in a shocked breath, the agony so intense her knees buckled.

  Bennick roared.

  Chapter 20

  Bennick

  Bennick dropped his sword so he could catch Clare with both hands. His body shook as she fell against him and he crashed to his knees. He was vaguely aware of Clare’s brother springing for the shadowed figure who had pushed through the cover of bushes to fling the knife at Clare.

  He bit back a curse as he lowered her to the ground, his insides clenching.

  Clare cried out as he moved her, her stiff body arching. He froze, but he hadn’t hurt her—the bloody knife was now in her hand.

  She’d ripped it out.

  “No.” Bennick clutched the bleeding wound with both hands. The knife had hit just above her right hip, and though he wasn’t sure if it had hit anything vital, she was losing blood far too quickly now that the knife was no longer plugging the wound. His fingers were already slick with it.

  Clare hissed when he increased the pressure of his hold. She dropped the small knife and clutched his wrist, her nails digging into his skin as she gasped for breath. Panic flared in her tear-filled eyes and pain twisted her beautiful face.

  “You’re all right,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’re going to be fine.”

  He tensed when Eliot Slaton dropped to his knees on the other side of Clare. “How bad?” her brother gasped.

  “I need something to stem the blood.”

  Slaton tore off his jacket and Bennick snatched it from him, balling it up and pushing it against her side.

  She gasped, her entire body shuddering.

  Bennick’s jaw locked.

  Slaton breathed hard beside him, blood on his hands. Bennick assumed the rebel who had hurt Clare was no longer breathing.

  “Is it lethal?” Slaton asked.

  “She won’t die.” It was a promise, because Bennick refused to lose her. He set bloody fingers against the side of her neck. Her skin was cool, her pulse erratic.

  Of course it was. She was bleeding out.

  “Eliot.” The man with the sword—who Bennick guessed was Michael Byers—stepped closer, urgency in his voice. “We have to go.”

  Bennick’s concentration was fully on Clare. He didn’t care if the rebels left or died. He brushed dark strands of hair from her pale face with his free hand, his heart beating as fast as hers. Her eyes would not focus and her eyelashes kept fluttering, as if keeping her eyes open was a struggle. “Stay with me,” he breathed, his insides compressing. “Clare, stay with me.”

  “She needs a physician,” Slaton said. “I’ll stay with her, and you—”

  Bennick’s head cranked up, his eyes locking on Slaton. “I’m not leaving her with you.”

  His eyes narrowed. “She needs help. They’ll listen to you—”

  “Clare!” Vera screamed.

  Venn’s hand stopped her from darting forward, his sword leveled at Slaton, his eyes on Michael. “Bennick?” he asked, his voice hard.

  The order rose to his tongue. It would be so easy to order their deaths, or at least their arrest. They were rebels. They had attempted to kill the princess. They had used Clare—hurt her. But as much as Bennick wanted to kill Slaton for what he’d done to his sister . . . it would hurt her. And he had made a promise to let them go.

  Tension sang through every nerve, but in the end, his focus needed to be on Clare and nothing else. “They’re leaving,” he said to Venn.

  Slaton glared. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Every muscle in Bennick’s body throbbed with the need to hurt the man across from him. Clare’s blood soaked his hands, her dress, the ground. His voice was dark and rough. “You are seconds away from a death sentence, Slaton. Get out of my sight. Now.”

  Clare’s breathing hitched. Bennick had not even realized she was still aware of them. “Eliot,” she whispered weakly. “Please go.”

  Her brother’s face crumpled. “Clare, I . . .” In the end, no other words came out.

  Michael grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. He pulled Slaton away and the two men vanished through the gate.

  Venn still held his sword, his body tight. “Should you really have let them go?”

  A voice of warning screamed in Bennick’s head, but his words came out on a whisper. “I don’t know.”

  Venn released Vera and she dropped beside Bennick, a cry strangling in her throat as she viewed Clare.

  Bennick tightened his hold on Slaton’s jacket, pressing it deeply against Clare’s bleeding side. He pushed vengeance, regret, denial, panic, and fear from his mind as he looked to Venn. They’d wasted too much time already. “Find the nearest physician. One was probably invited to the ball. We’ll be in the library.” It was the nearest room he could think of, with glass doors leading right into the garden.

  Venn bolted to obey.

  Vera stared at Bennick, her hand on Clare’s forehead. “Should we really move her?”

  “She’s losing blood too quickly. If the physician has to come all the way out here, it could be too late.” He jerked his chin toward Clare’s side. “Hold the wound. Apply as much pressure as you can.”

  Vera’s hands shook, but she did as Bennick said. “Will she be all right?”

  “Yes.”

  He would make her all right.

  Bennick scooped Clare into his arms and rose. She gasped, her body going rigid against him. His breath locked in his chest and he tried to gentle his hold. “It’s all right. I’ve got you. You’re going to be fine.”

  Vera moved with him, keeping Slaton’s jacket pressed against Clare’s side.

  Clare’s soft moans of pain stabbed him, but he didn’t slow his pace. His goal was the manor, his focus on keeping his gait steady, his steps quick. He monitored every pained breath Clare sucked in, each strained exhale.

  When he had been working to calm the mob and Venn had come to him, saying Clare needed him, anxiety had sliced through him. He’d left Wilf in charge, and had immediately followed Venn back into the mansion, his heart beating too fast. Clare would not have asked for him if the matter wasn’t urgent.

  When they had reached the base of the stairs and he saw Vera and Ivonne bounding down them, pale as ghosts, his fear had spiked. His hand had shaken while he read Eliot’s note.

  He had never run so quickly.

  And the moment he had seen her standing on the path, surrounded by rebels, his fear had been all-consuming.

  None of that compared to the terror he felt now. Her blood coated his hands.

  She was dying in his arms.

  “Bennick?” Clare’s voice was hoarse.

  “I’m here.” Her head rested against his arm, near his shoulder. Impulse had him setting a kiss against her brow, not caring what Vera thought. “I’m right here,” he breathed.

  She shivered. “I—I’m sorry.” She suddenly slumped against him and his pulse roared in his ears. But she was still breathing. She was only unconscious.

  Not dead.

  His breath rattled out of him.

  They hurried past the guards who were dragging the bodies of rebels into a pile. A couple of men took up positions around them, asking no questions but darting anxious looks at the woman in Bennick’s arms, whom they assumed was the princess.

  They climbed the stone steps that led to the library’s glass doors. Two guards ran up to them, one hurrying to open the doors, the other rushing to light the nearest lamps. Bennick ordered the first guard to keep anyone from entering through the library’s main door, except for the physician. As the man darted away, Bennick eased Clare onto a low settee. Her head tipped back against the cushioned bench and his hands shook as he
took over Vera’s job of holding the jacket in place. “Find bandages, any supplies you can think of.”

  Vera nodded and was gone.

  The guard lighting lamps carried them closer, then stationed himself outside the glass doors, keeping watch.

  Alone in the room with Clare, Bennick bent and set his lips against her cool cheek. “Stay with me,” he breathed. “Please, stay with me.”

  Boots clipped the carpeted floor and Bennick threw a look over his shoulder. Venn and a stranger hurried to the settee. He was middle-aged, his eyes a light green and his brown hair long enough that it brushed his shoulders.

  “Knife or arrow?” he asked, his voice a surprising mix of authoritative and calm.

  Bennick forced his voice to work. “Knife.”

  The physician crouched beside Bennick and peeled back the bloody jacket. “Thrown or stabbed?”

  “Thrown.”

  “I need bandages.”

  “I sent someone for supplies.”

  The physician tossed a look at Venn. “Hurry up the servant we sent for my bag.”

  Venn ran out the door.

  “I need to see the wound.” The physician scanned the room, then snatched a pair of embroidery scissors that were sitting on the end table. He made some cuts in the lavender dress, baring Clare’s side.

  In the glow of lamplight, Bennick got his first clear look at the injury. It was smaller than he had feared, and yet he knew the danger was in the depth of it. Even though seeing the cut in her flesh turned his stomach, he was relieved by the placement. If the knife had hit closer to her gut, or been thrown with more force . . . She would already be dead.

  With this wound, she had a chance.

  The physician quickly cut a length from Clare’s skirt, balled it up, and shoved it against the still bleeding wound. “Hold this. I need more light.”

  Bennick obeyed at once, his fingers brushing her soft skin. She trembled. Or maybe it was just his hands that shook.

  The physician gathered every oil lamp in the room and crowded them close to the settee. By the time he was done, Venn and Vera had both returned.

  The physician turned to Bennick. “I need you to hold her down in case she wakes.”