When Lord Marshall grabbed Valeric by the shoulder and ripped the hood from his head, Valeric screamed, defensively raising both hands to protect himself, awaiting a blow. Lord Marshall only searched his face a moment, then let him go and, without a word, moved away.
Valeric stared after Lord Marshall’s retreating back in disbelief. He’d thought himself caught. He’d thought himself
dead.
Breathing hard, Valeric watched Lord Marshall walk away, heart pounding so hard he wondered if he might die this night, regardless. Perhaps his treacherous heart would stop of its own accord and save Lord Marshall the trouble of slaying him.
On boneless legs he backed the few feet to the wall and slid down to sit among the rushes, pulling his knees close and wrapping his cloak tight about him. He listened to Lord Marshall shout orders and the hunger that had been with him for years surfaced once more. Why could not Lord Marshall have been his sire rather than Sir Royce? Would Lord Marshall have acknowledged him? Would he have trained him up to become a knight?
Shame had his eyes closing. That dream was now impossible. He’d tried to harm a lady. He’d tried to
kill
a lady. He leaned his head against the wall and fought against the tears burning his eyes. A lady who had been nothing but kind to him. Now he could never be a knight.
And what of Lord Royce? When he found Valeric had failed, what might he do? To him? To his mother? He considered staying at Marshall Keep and never returning to Royce Castle. In any case, he could not set forth. They had men everywhere, searching, watching. But he could not leave his mother unprotected, either.
All here knew and accepted him as one of their own. Lady Catherine had seen to that when she’d needed a message boy in place for her affair with Sir Royce.
Might he not help his mother escape somehow? Find her a place, either here or in the village?
He opened his eyes to watch Lord Marshall until he moved out of sight, still shouting. He wished he could trust him enough to ask for aid, to beg protection for his mother at the very least, but did not doubt Lord Marshall would kill him if he realized he were the culprit. And then what would happen to his mother?
He took a shuddering breath and lowered his head to his knees. He hadn’t actually hurt Lady Corbett, he reminded himself. He hadn’t
wanted
to hurt her. He’d been relieved when she was unharmed. Perhaps he had missed apurpose?
He rubbed his face against his hose, wetting the material with the tears he could not seem to subdue. He remembered the accuracy of the blade and knew nothing could excuse his behavior.
After he’d thrown the knife he’d been more shocked than Lady Corbett and walked a few steps into the room to assure himself she was unharmed. When she’d screamed, he’d realized she thought he was coming to finish the job.
He lowered himself to the ground, curled into a ball of shame and tears, and realized that he was, indeed, his father’s son.
***
The tension in the room was unbearable and, when someone pounded on the door, Gillian jumped, Vera gasped, and Yvonne placed a hand to her chest. Only Marissa slid off the bed where they were ensconced in furs and blankets and hurried to the door. “Who is there?”
When Kellen identified himself, Gillian let out a breath as Marissa unbarred the door. When he came into the room, he was tight-lipped and stern, but Gillian was relieved to see him and scrambled off the bed and hurried over with Yvonne and Vera, asking questions with the others.
Kellen put both hands in the air. “Enough!”
When everyone fell quiet, Gillian put a hand on one of his arms. “Did you find the man? The one who threw the knife?”
Kellen gave a curt shake of his head. “Not yet. Come.” He took her arm and ushered her first toward the chair, then changed directions and, when they reached the bed, grasped her waist and effortlessly set her on the high mattress. He put pillows behind her, propping her up, and pulled a blanket across her legs. When he’d arranged her to his satisfaction, one of his hands gripped the nearest bedpost and he looked down at her. “I need to hear every detail, no matter how trivial. All you remember.”
Feeling slightly overwhelmed by the way he was looming, and still shaken by the attempt on her life, Gillian nodded, drew her knees to her chest and hugged them. She still couldn’t believe someone wanted her dead, that someone had snuck into her room in the middle of the night to accomplish the deed.
As a woman who lived alone, she’d always checked and rechecked the doors and windows and set the alarm before going to bed. Here, inside a fortress, with a big, burly, overprotective man down the hall, she hadn’t given it a thought.
She took a breath. “When the guy came into the room, I’d just barely blown out the candle and was sitting in the dark.” She gestured toward the small table. “I was actually looking at the door when he slipped in the room or I might not have seen him because he was so quiet. At first I thought it was you.”
Gillian felt her face heat a bit as she remembered planning to sneak to Kellen’s room. “But then I realized he was too small, and I whispered to him, and the next thing I knew there was a knife in the chair. If I hadn’t stood when I did . . . ” Gillian placed a hand at her throat and swallowed.
“How much smaller than me?” Kellen barked out the words. “Who is of similar size?”
Gillian’s brows drew together as she remembered how the guy had strode toward her, how they’d been about the same height. “Actually, I don’t think he was much bigger than I am.”
“Could it have been a female?”
Gillian looked at the three ladies standing at the foot of the bed. Vera and Yvonne looked affronted, Marissa calm. Gillian shook her head. “The way he moved, it seemed like a man.”
Kellen’s face tightened with frustration and Gillian wished she had more information to give.
“Mayhap it was a youth?”
Again, Gillian shook her head, trying not to be irritated by his snapping. “I don’t think so. The knife hit hard, and I’m assuming it landed where he’d intended it to. Wouldn’t that take a lot of skill?”
Kellen walked a few feet away, his hand lifting to rub his neck before he turned back. “You did not see any feature that set him apart? Hair color? Clothing?”
Gillian shook her head. “No. It was dark and he was dressed in dark colors.” She watched Kellen continue to pace back and fourth. “I wish I knew more.”
“Surely there must be some tiny detail you have left off?” His tone was sharp. Again.
Gillian’s mouth tightened for a moment before she took a breath. “Well, sure I do. But I’m purposely hiding what I know.” She threw out a hand. “Bring out the thumbscrews or you’ll get nothing out of me.”
Kellen gave her a narrow-eyed glare then jerked his head toward the door. “Why was the door not barred?” He was getting louder. “
It must be barred every night
!”
Gillian’s chin lifted as she leaned forward. “I didn’t realize I needed security in my own bedroom.” She threw out a hand. “Maybe you should post a guard outside the door or get me a big dog since I’m obviously the target of a madman and I’m
completely without protection
!”
Both of them were breathing hard as they glared at each other. Only the opening door had Gillian glancing away to see several of Kellen’s men come into the room. She raised a hand to gesture, palm up, toward the door. “
You
didn’t bar the door.”
Kellen gave her a fulminating glare then turned to his men.
“Well?”
Sir Owen stepped forward. “’Tis bedlam outside, my lord. Word of the assassin has spread and many are panicked, seeing shadows, ghosts, and murderers.”
Gillian didn’t blame them. She didn’t feel safe, either.
Kellen started across the room and Gillian lifted a hand. “Wait! I want to ask you something.” When the men turned back, she continued. “Is there any way this could be related to Catherine’s death?”
Kellen turned back toward her. “I cannot deny there might be a connection.” He stared at a spot above her head. “If I had found the man responsible for turning Catherine from her duty, it may have prevented this attack.”
“But I don’t understand why you haven’t already figured that out?”
Kellen’s teeth clenched as he bit out, “I tried.”
Gillian didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t meant to offend him. She just saw him as super-competent, and was genuinely surprised he hadn’t found his wife’s cohort and dealt with him accordingly.
With a growl he turned away. “You will stay in your room on the morrow.”
“What?” She got to her knees. “No! Why should I? You told me you’d keep me safe!”
Kellen kept walking. “
I will
!”
“
But I want to go home!
”
At the door, Kellen stopped, then turned back, his gaze icy. It was the first time he’d looked at her like that, almost as if he hated her. “You are home.” The words were cold, hard, final. He turned and left, jerking the door closed behind him.
Gillian, stunned by his harshness, by everything that had happened, burst into tears.
As Yvonne rushed to bar the door, Marissa walked around the bed and pulled Gillian into her arms and stroked her hair. “He did not mean to be so heavy-handed. As a male, being told he is inadequate is the worst of insults.”
Gillian managed to sob out, “But I never said that!”
“Whether you said the actual words or did not, he believes you think it,” said Marissa.
Vera cut in. “Never tell a man he cannot protect you. ’Tis devastating to their ego.”
Yvonne stroked Gillian’s back. “Very true. Either they will rush off to prove you wrong and get hurt, else they will cease caring and go into a depression of the spirits. Either way, ’tis not a good idea.”
Gillian’s chest ached as she continued to cry. “Kellen hates me. I could see it in his face.”
“Shh,” said Marissa.
“And . . . and . . . someone is trying to kill me! I mean, I knew I could die of the plague or the pox or something, but a knife in the throat? What is that about?”
Yvonne continued to rub her back. “Hush now. You will make yourself ill. ‘Twill all be sorted in the morning.”
Gillian remembered the way Kellen had looked at her and cried harder.
Marissa tried to calm her. “Shh. Sit up now. Dry your tears. This is no way for the lady of the house to carry on.”
They pushed her into a sitting position and Gillian wiped her face with the cloth Marissa provided and tried to stop crying.
Vera handed her a cup. “Here. Drink this.”
After a few hiccoughing sobs, Gillian drank a bit. “Ugh,” she made a face. “It’s nasty.”
“Drink it down,” said Marissa. “‘Twill make you feel better.”
As soon as she’d finished, they tucked her in and Gillian wondered if perhaps she’d been wrong about the culprit being a women and if she’d just been poisoned, but couldn’t work up the energy to care.
Eyes closing, she buried one side of her face in the pillow, and her breath continued to hitch as she struggled to suppress more tears. “I’m not supposed to be here. You know that, right? In the morning I’m finding a way to go home.”
“Shh,” said Marissa. “Of course you will, dear.”
Gillian finally slept.
***
Late the next afternoon, there was
finally
a knock and Gillian’s level of anger flashed to boiling point as she leapt off the bed and hurried to the heavy door. “Who is it?”
“’Tis Kellen. Unbar the door.”
Mouth tight, Gillian shook her head. What a piece of work. Without so much as a word he’d left her to twiddle her thumbs the entire day, then showed up giving commands. She had no intention of making this easy for him. “How do I know you aren’t a murderer? One can never be too careful about these things.”
“Nay, my lady,” an earnest voice responded. “’Tis truly Lord Marshall.” Her guard, anxious to please after trapping her inside the entire day, was no doubt relieved to offer the good news. She crossed her arms and glared at the door, torn between throwing it open to let Kellen have it, and forcing him to stew in the hall.
Easy decision. After the day she’d had he could cool his heels. “But how do I
know
it’s him? It could be anyone. It could be a murderer who’s also a voice impersonator. I saw this guy in Las Vegas who—”
“
Gillian! Open this door! Now
!”
She hesitated, considering. She didn’t want him to disappear in a huff before she finally had the chance to give him a piece of her mind so she lifted the bar, swung the door wide, and glared at Kellen.
He stared back, face impassive, his amber gaze raking up and down her gown-clad body before he moved forward, forcing her to step back. He crossed the room, pulled in the sheet she’d dangled out the window, lifted it up and looked at the painted words. Throwing it across the bed he asked, “What is written here?”
“Trapped in the tower. Call 911. But maybe it should have said 999. It might have brought better results here in England.”