by Nicole Locke
Many years passed like this with him hiding and observing until, one day, he overheard his father and mother plotting. Whispering about a legend he thought was a childhood story, but they talked of it as if it was fact. How the Jewel of Kings, a gem, had been hidden inside a jewelled dagger. Much like Excalibur and King Arthur, legend had it that whoever possessed the Jewel of Kings would rule Scotland. A mere symbol, but powerful enough to capture King Edward’s interest in obtaining it.
Reynold knew, then, that if he acquired the Jewel of Kings he would have power over his family. They couldn’t amass anymore. His parents might have kept their machinations with whispers to kings to behead a few nobles, massacre a few towns or conquer a few highlanders. But his brothers held no such circumspection. Ian’s duplicity and cunning wouldn’t be satisfied with piecemeal evil. If he gained all the Warstone wealth and power as verily he was aiming to do, no one was safe from harm. Especially not infants who smiled at their brothers.
So every duplicitous trick he’d learned at his mother’s breast, every backstabbing ploy discovered at his father’s knee, every disloyal stunt performed by his brothers he would do as well until he was victorious. Until he possessed the Jewel of Kings.
He already held an advantage through his many studies. All his books and travel revealed the Jewel of Kings might be more than a symbol, though with the uproar of Scottish politics that alone would sway many from one side to another.
No, the Jewel of Kings was more lasting than the borders of countries. It was a map to a treasure. A great treasure. One that could buy kingdoms and any man. Could influence the Pope himself. He suspected this was why it had become a legend, why so many wanted it to control their political turmoil.
The issue, however, was he didn’t have the dagger or the gem, nor did his family. And the dagger and gem were now separated thanks to a bumbling fool of an Englishman.
Who hired him? Either Ian or his parents. For a time while Reynold tracked the Englishman and his entourage of men and a cunning archer who never left his side, he thought he had some true competition. But with the exception of the archer, the Englishman had hired mediocre mercenaries. Like idiots, they had lost the Jewel of Kings to the Colquhoun family.
Another complication. A troublesome one, but he knew the direction he needed to take now.
The Colquhoun family might now be on his game board, but they were easy to follow—distinctive red hair would do that. At one point he was tempted to order the slaughter of them all. But the brothers had scattered. So for now they were safe. However, it was the people they came in contact with who were the unacceptable variables.
Because of those variables, he needed to take the players he knew off the board, the Englishman being one of them, his brothers the other. He was grateful to the Welshman, Rhain, for killing his brother, Guy. Not only was Guy’s wealth split among his brothers, but he was taken out of the game with no familial backlash.
‘She was more than wet.’ Entering the room, the thief swept past his desk and sat on the bench. Adjusting Grace, she extracted a tiny bowl of porridge from the basket. Nibbling on the contents from the wooden spoon, Grace sat docile in her lap.
It was a picture in domesticity, and jarring to his thoughts, to his work, to his game. To go from spying, treasure maps and murder to—
He watched Grace reach for the spoon.
‘She’s awake, I can return to my room,’ the thief said.
They needed to leave. Both of them, but it wasn’t safe outside or in here with him. ‘Stay. I didn’t sleep much—I think I’ll read for now.’
He tossed the unread opened message on the desk, swiped the nearest book and flung it when he realised which one it was. It was an accident, it must be because he hadn’t touched the book in years. Yet he feared the reaching for the haunting story of Odysseus traversing years and adversities to return to a devoted wife wasn’t by chance. That somehow he had done it because Grace and the thief were going about their tasks as only a mother and child could. As a wife could.
Glancing over, he caught the thief’s gaze travelling from the flung book and back to him. Irritated that he inadvertently revealed anything to her, he swiped the next book. Only to realise too late she’d settled into his favourite spot in the room, the one with the most light and comfort. He was regulated to a modest chair.
He opened the book and shifted as he tried to get comfortable.
‘I can move,’ she said.
‘I didn’t ask you to.’
‘There’s more light here.’ She shifted over and moved the basket.
He had killed a woman last night. He was clean, but the deeds had stained his soul...if he had one anymore. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Making room for you.’
Chapter Ten
He slammed the book shut, startling Grace. The thief clutched her close, placed her hand on the back of her head. As if to protect her from him.
‘I’ll leave,’ she said.
‘You’ll stay.’ Though he needed to stay away from his daughter, he rationalised he would need the thief nearby to ascertain more about her. That was reason enough to invite her to the study and not leave her down below.
A couple of steps and he arranged himself on the large bench. An immediate mistake. He was so near her on the sun-warmed pillows he could smell the sage soap that enveloped her skin.
Aliette continued to feed Grace little bites. His daughter’s eyes wide on her face, on the food. A light to them that wasn’t there at the first feeding. Though clean, her skin still didn’t have the glow of health and it hurt to see her swollen belly, frail arms and legs.
A bit more porridge, and Grace slowed, wiggled. Aliette wrapped her in swaddling and held her close.
Standing, Aliette was all too aware of the gaze of Darkness upon her. He had washed and changed, but these clothes were just as black as the last. His hair was wet and now shone almost blue.
He seemed aggravated with her, yet he had invited her to this room and ordered her to stay. She didn’t understand. He’d kidnapped her, didn’t like her, yet displayed acts of kindness.
It was only fitting she made room for him on the seat. How often had she done that with Vernon and Helewise? But...her captor wasn’t her family and she shouldn’t have done it with such unthinking ease.
He was a man, a species she shied away from as much as she ran from Darkness. More than that, he was this man.
And he didn’t react to her offer of sitting on the bench with ease. Instead, frustration and distrust flashed across those grey eyes of his. As if she suddenly presented some danger to him.
Yet he said nothing while she walked the room with the child over her shoulder. His book was open, his eyes downcast, the thickness of his eyelashes remarkable against his cheeks.
Inexplicably, she knew his attention stayed on her and turned her back, but could feel his gaze as if he could see her very thoughts. She walked further away from the bench, patting Grace’s back until she heard the telltale signs of wind and saw the drooping of eyelids.
‘She sleeps much,’ he said.
Nodding, Aliette took a few more turns around the room and Grace’s eyes fully closed. She wanted to close her own. The quiet of the room, the warmth of the child, the fact she was fed, cleaned, clothed in a chemise that was soft against her skin.
The man returned to his book, a certain tenseness about his concentrating expression. All these books and he had trouble reading?
She returned to the bench and adjusted the child. Her captor shifted his body so it angled towards hers, their legs and feet almost touching.
The bench was enormous, padded with giant firm pillows along the wall and numerous smaller ones that were generously stuffed. The light from the window was pale given an oiled parchment which covered some of it, but enough with the torches along the walls.
Except for Grace�
��s gentle breathing and the turning of pages, the room became ensconced in stillness.
Nestled like this, Aliette could observe her kidnapper. His body was sleek, elegant, the broadness of his shoulders hinting a leashed strength that couldn’t be hidden by his tailored clothing and refinement. As if this inscrutable man hid himself not only in shadows, but in manners and the finest wool.
But his powerful physique was noticeable to one such as she. Used to the streets, on who to steal from and who not. Her rich captor could be alone at night and drunk, and, no matter how desperate or starving, she’d walk the other way.
It wasn’t only his appearance that gave him away, but in the well-rehearsed way he moved that made him a predator. Even now, with his legs stretched out, his ankles gracefully crossed, the deft cupping of his hand that held the book, the capable curving of his fingers as they turned a page.
He leaned back against the pillows, but that only accentuated his size, his status, his formidable position in her world. She didn’t feel his eyes on her, so she risked glancing at his face.
Dark hair drying, eyes relaxed. His lips softly moving, reading to himself. Like this he was... Aliette willed the wild flicking awareness to die out, but failed.
Like this, reclined, at ease and reading in the light, the man was utterly breathtakingly beautiful. Disconcerted, she searched his features for the cruelty, arrogance and ruthlessness that must be there.
‘Something concerning you?’ he said, his eyelashes sweeping upwards until those dark grey eyes burned into hers.
Was she concerned? Yes. This man was only Darkness and Death. Like this, he became something more. Was this fascination with him why she reacted that way on the landing? Was she noticing him as a man?
‘I don’t recognise the symbols.’ She indicated with her chin.
He pursed his lips as if to challenge her before he said, ‘It’s Greek. A philosopher named Parmenides.’
‘You can read other languages?’
‘A few. I can speak more. Does that surprise you?’
No. Darkness would know more than others.
‘What is a philosopher?’
He frowned. ‘A philosopher is a great thinker.’
‘So they are opinions or advice?’ At his nod, she added, ‘Don’t you have thoughts of your own?’
His lips curved. ‘Too many. It’s refreshing to read others especially when it comes to matters I cannot solve solely on my own. Do you know how to read?’
She shook her head.
He jostled the book. ‘Yet you know these are symbols.’
‘In the market, there is writing and numbers. I don’t know what they are, but I listen. What you are reading isn’t like any of them.’
He roughly exhaled, his calculating eyes trailing to the child. ‘You should know how to read.’
‘Your philosophers won’t have advice on how to find food.’
‘There is more to life than survival.’
‘What would you know of that?’
His grey gaze stayed steady, before he rolled his shoulders and waved around the lavish room. ‘It takes much to guard silks and enamelled boxes.’
Again, she thought of his voice and his words. How they contrasted with the tone and the look in his eyes. Why did she feel he was playing a role? That he wasn’t what he appeared to be.
‘Survival is not about gold. Is that what you learned from those books? It’s good that I cannot read such foolish words.’
‘If you fight me so much on this, I insist you learn to read. Let me.’
‘No one teaches a servant to read,’ she blurted out, almost laughing.
He remained silent; his indomitable will speaking volumes, and all the tentative peace of the day was gone.
‘You kidnapped me today,’ she stated when his expression did not change. She sat in comfort now and had fed a child who slept contentedly against her, when the truth was she didn’t belong and her own family could be frantic. This man had blood and mud splattered on his clothes the day they met. He wasn’t safe. Now, he wanted to teach her to read.
‘Yes, and you have yet to thank me,’ he said.
‘Thank you?’
‘From saving you from the guard, from the baker, from the streets.’
‘I will not thank you for ripping me out of the life I had!’
A mistake. His eyes narrowed. ‘Why wouldn’t you want it? Are you telling me you intend to escape?’
‘Any sane person would. I don’t know you. You’ve fed me, given me clothes, invited to teach me to read. No one does that.’
He eased back against the numerous pillows. ‘You don’t trust your good fortune.’
‘I have yet to know if it’s good.’
‘Tell me why you want to escape, what displeases you so, and I will try to remedy your discomfort.’
Never. As if she’d believe him, as if she’d jeopardise her family! ‘Tell me why you kidnapped me. Why you want this child, but won’t touch her. Tell me why you have her, but don’t know how to care for her.’
He went still. Carefully, he closed the book on his lap. ‘It appears we are at an impasse. I think I’ll say good day now. I’ll have food sent to your room for later. Ask one of the mercenaries where the garderobe is. Or the kitchens are near it if you want things to do while it’s light.’
If he was allowing her to leave, she’d leave. Laying Grace in the basket, she lifted it with both hands and leaned the cumbersome weight into her stomach.
She was tired, trapped, with no visible way to escape...yet. But she would find one, and he could find someone more suitable than her to care for the child.
‘Tomorrow, I want you and Grace here after midday but far before light fades. You will be learning to read and to do sums.’
Arguing with him would achieve nothing. He had told her to find the garderobe and kitchens. That gave her plenty of free rein to find exits and weaknesses in this house. Almost to the door, he called her out.
‘Thief.’
Not her name and she liked he didn’t know it. Even so, she couldn’t ignore him. He’d raised his voice and could wake Grace.
‘My men, when they brought you here, did they speak to you?’
The men who brought food, water for the bath and clothing, had ignored her. But there was one who said a few words. The kind one who stopped the other one from breaking her arm.
Ah, now she understood why they had ignored her questions. This man had ordered them to be silent. What would happen to the kind one if she said he did speak? Nothing good.
‘They’ve ignored me,’ she said.
‘None of them spoke?’ he said, overly loud again.
Trying to keep quiet, she shook her head.
He canted his head, peered at her overly long as if she was someone or something of infinite puzzlement to him.
Impatient, she shifted the child’s weight. ‘Are we done...sir?’
He blinked and shook his head. ‘You weren’t meant to have secrets,’ he said softly. So soft she almost didn’t hear him.
But she did and it was true, she did have secrets. Perhaps for the first time in her life, she did and it surprised her. Made her feel...stronger than she had before. It was a power that she never had. Because she had secrets and he wanted to know them.
Of course, Darkness always wanted everything. But in the dead of night he had taken away her first family—she wouldn’t let him take her current one. ‘And you have too many.’
She turned away, but not before she saw a gleam of light to those all-knowing eyes and a quirk to his lips. Darkness enticed when he almost smiled.
At that realisation, she hurried out of the door to crash the cumbersome basket into one of the two men who stood guard outside.
The exact two men who had dragged her here. Then she understood her captor�
��s loud voice. And by their fierce frowns, and eyes that gazed pointedly at her, they understood it as well.
Chapter Eleven
Aliette woke the next morning to Grace’s restless turning. She pushed herself off the floor and took the few steps to the basket. Gathering her close, she rocked the child, who startled before she stilled.
‘Who are you, Grace?’ she asked. ‘Where is your mother and why are you so unwell?’
Wide grey eyes soaking in her every word. The child looked as if it had known only suffering in her short existence. Had she been suffering here in this house, this fortress?
Because after her walk around yesterday to find the kitchens and the garderobe, Aliette came to the only conclusion she could. This place was a fortress. One exit and entrance, and far too many patrolling men.
If she was locked behind bars, she’d have less security than she did here. But there were comforts, too, fine clothing and fare for all and none of the men suffered.
Which meant Grace was a newly captured being, just like herself. And her father...for Aliette knew her captor must be Grace’s sire...had had blood on his clothes the day they met. Whose? The mother’s? Because she couldn’t conceive of anyone willingly giving up any child. If Grace were hers, it would take someone killing her to separate them.
Could her captor kill? Without a doubt. Was he capable of killing the mother of his child? That she couldn’t reconcile, just as she couldn’t reconcile her attraction to him.
That feeling of needing to be closer to him on the landing. And if he did kill Grace’s mother, what did that say of her?
He wasn’t...heartless, but what did she know? A day in his presence didn’t tell her who he was. He was different than other nobles whose conceit wouldn’t even deem her worthy to talk to. But his kindness was hardly enough to compensate for murder. Maybe if he was sorry for it, or if it had been accidental... Or maybe he was playing a role and he wasn’t cruel Darkness at all. The way he protected Grace... Maybe he was... What was she thinking? Her thoughts were dark. Was this what one day in his presence brought?
