“
Well, I must go. I’ve a certain someone to meet up with, and he doesn’t like to be kept
waiting
,”
he remembered the other saying, and could have sworn the other voice was female. But that didn’t make sense.
Why would Leah be meeting with another woman and pouring out her heart to her?
Why would she attack his squire and run from him? If she was working for Baron Rutledge, why wouldn’t she take the tithe if she had the opportunity?
He sat down on the bed heavily, wading through the random stream of thoughts that blasted through his mind. Leah’s smiling, happy face back in his castle. Her drawn, pensive look when the smithy burned down. Her sad eyes on the journey, as if she knew something was terribly wrong and couldn’t say anything. And always, always that damned priest, watching her with avid, interested eyes. Always at her elbow, guiding her or giving her advice.
The priest.
Lost in thought, he almost didn’t notice the small flare of pain searing his buttock, until he shifted again and the needle slid into his skin. “Ow!” Royce jumped up and turned to the bed,
searching through the covers for the culprit, and his hands found Leah’s small embroidery hoop, the needle carelessly pointing up from the cloth.
It didn’t look like most women’s stitchery. There were no decorative curls, no ornate lettering – the stitches here were quick and messy, strung out in a pattern that could only be writing. He held it up to his nose, smelling the faintly salty perfume that always seemed to accompany Leah’s possessions.
“A candle,” Royce called, turning over the stitching in his hand. When one was provided, he held it up to the pale, thin cloth.
It was full of lettering. Words she’d strung together. The characters were sloppy, some more than others, as if she found the lettering strange. Across the top of the embroidery, he saw a careful set of alphabetic letters, a second set of similar, if odd-looking characters crawling beneath it. Like she didn’t know the language, and had tried to match it up to her own.
All so she could leave him a message.
I’m sorry,
it read, the stitches sloppy, rushed.
Never betrayed you. Be wary of the priest.
Always loved you.
There was more stitching at the bottom that had been carefully picked out, but the holes fell into an easy-to-read pattern. Her name, Leah, and a longer set of pulled stitches, with a double-f. Northcliffe. She’d daydreamed about taking his name.
Never betrayed you. Be wary of the priest.
Always loved you.
The thin, pale fabric was spattered with slightly darker rings across the fabric.
Watermarks, leaving faint stains on the fragile fabric from her tears.
“Where is the priest?” He scarcely recognized the hoarse voice as his own.
“We cannot find him, my lord.”
He had been betrayed.
And a short time later, when it was reported that Baron Rutledge was missing, he knew what had happened.
And what he was going to do.
#
“You’ve worked yourself into a real mess now, haven’t you?” Muffin’s thready voice whispered in Leah’s ear.
Leah’s eyes slid open and she peered into the darkness. Even that slight movement caused a slither of remembered pain to shoot through her. She blinked several times, trying to focus her mind. She was sure that she’d heard Muffin’s voice, but looking around, she didn’t see anything or anyone.
A patch of fleshy grass lay under her cheek, and the cold dew soaked under her cheek.
She guessed she’d been left there while the men took a quick break – they were active and talking, moving about camp, even though it was pitch-black outside. Her hands were bound behind her, but loosely. Her feet were untied. Just as well. She wouldn’t be escaping with the condition her body was in and they knew it.
Leah smacked her lips, a terrible taste in her mouth, and tried her voice. “Muffin? I can’t see you.”
“Look down,” said Muffin again, and Leah did.
On a nearby blade of grass, something moved. At first, Leah thought it was a bug. It was certainly the right size – but then it twitched, and Leah caught a flounce of blue skirts and white sausage curls. It was Muffin, her body shrunk down to the size of a penny.
“Surprise!” She beamed at Leah and poked the tip of her nose with a teeny sparkling wand. “Bet you didn’t expect to see me here. Now what on earth are you up to with these terrible men?”
Leah lifted her head slightly and glanced around. No one was paying attention to her, the men focused on the food and a few private conversations that would probably curl her toes if she could hear them. She nestled her cheek back in the grass and turned back to Muffin. “I’ve been captured by Royce’s enemy. Baron Rutledge.”
“Hmm.” Muffin tapped her wand against her chin, considering this. “That could put a definite kink in your plans. Why don’t you run away?”
“Legs,” she said, and the very word made them throb. “Hurt. Haven’t been in the ocean in days.”
Instead of the sympathy she normally received from the fairy godmother, Muffin tsked and shook her head. “Not very well done of you, I’m afraid. So what do you plan to do to fix it?
You’ve only got four days left.”
Only four? Despair overwhelmed Leah. She’d never see Royce again. “It doesn’t matter.
I’ve failed. He doesn’t love me. I’m not long for this world anyway. When Baron Rutledge finds out that I’ve lied to him, he’s going to kill me.”
Muffin pursed her lips. “I can’t help you, Leah. I wish I could, but that would go against the fairy godmother conventions, and I’d be fired if I let that happen. I’m sorry.” She reached out
one tiny hand and patted Leah’s cheek. “You’re going to have to stick it out for a few more days.”
Unable to speak past the knot of disappointment forming in her throat, Leah nodded.
She’d take the days, even with the blinding pain. Every moment left here was another chance that she might see Royce again.
Just then, a loud, angry bellow swelled from the makeshift camp. Muffin blinked out of existence, and Leah winced.
If she had to make a bet, she’d guess that Baron Rutledge had found the fake tithe. When his fingers wrapped around her throat and he began to scream in her face, she knew she’d guessed right.
“You little bitch,” he yelled. “Where is the real tithe?” Air suddenly became a precious commodity as his hands choked her throat. She struggled against him, but she was weak from pain, plus her hands were still tied. She started seeing stars and a harsh buzzing began at the base of her skull.
He released her at some point, when time had ceased to be anything but a vacuum without air, when things popped and burst behind her eyes and she began to think she’d get to Heaven a little faster than she and Muffin had anticipated. But then he released her, and air rushed back into her wounded throat in one thick, cold rush.
“No matter,” Baron Rutledge hissed, leaning over her. She felt hot droplets of spittle splash across her cheek as he spoke. “Royce will come after his little whore, regardless of whether or not we have his riches. And think how it will hurt him to see what I’ve done to you. I think you’ll be a lot less charming to him with fewer teeth. Unless you speak up now, of course.”
Leah smiled, the muscles in her neck protesting. Her tongue felt thick, and she could have laughed in his face. Even if she could talk, she would never reveal anything that would harm Royce. Blackmail or not.
Rutledge seemed to sense this, and as she watched, his face became mottled and red with fury. His fist rose into the air, and she saw it swing down just before the bone-jarring impact hit her and she lost consciousness, falling into a blessed, pain-free sleep.
Chapter Twenty
By the time the smell of the ocean hit Leah’s nostrils again, she was nearly insensible with pain. Pain from her bruised face and throbbing head, pain from her throat that felt like it had been ripped open, pain from her legs that overrode everything else and reminded her of her curse. A guardsman had been assigned to her when she’d slid off of the horse for the third time, and now she was cradled against the chest of a thick, sweaty man who smelled like he hadn’t bathed since Christmas.
Even his stench couldn’t keep out the scent of the ocean. It roused her from her stupor and made her lift her head. The salty breeze was coming from the west, and she turned her head toward it, her mouth salivating at the thought of release from the agony. Her blurry gaze focused in on a familiar crop of rocky stone, and the sight caused her to gasp with despair.
Northcliffe was on the horizon.
Baron Rutledge would win after all.
Hot, disappointed tears slid down Leah’s face. She’d thought for sure that something would happen – that Royce would arrive just in time, that Baron Rutledge would turn around –
that something would happen to stop this terrible turn of events.
It hadn’t. As the cool stone gates of Northcliffe loomed ever closer, Leah’s heart sank in her chest.
Baron Rutledge’s soldiers were encouraged by the sight of the doors, and a low cheer rose from the men. She heard Rutledge laughing with his delight as he spurred his horse forward.
“We’ll retake the keep from the bastard’s grip! He’ll learn not to cross me again!” To Leah’s horror, the portcullis was up. Were the people of Northcliffe insane? Weren’t they aware that Baron Rutledge was riding back to retake the keep? Once he was behind the walls again, they’d never be able to dig him out.
She thought of herself and Royce. Helpless tears tracked down the side of her face again, and she closed her eyes, turning her face toward the ocean once more, hoping for a soothing breeze.
Which was why she was so startled when the horses riding through the portcullis stopped.
Leah opened her eyes and stared at the semi-circle of mounted soldiers ahead of them, fifty strong and turned out in shining armor. Somehow, impossibly, Royce’s men were in the courtyard, prepared and ready.
Royce stood at the head of the line, raising his sword blade to his brow in a mocking salute to Baron Rutledge.
“Welcome to my home, Rutledge.”
As she watched, Baron Rutledge jerked on the reins of his horse, the animal turning skittishly in place. “This is my keep, FitzWarren. I come to claim what is rightfully mine.”
“As have I.” The cool, careless voice made Leah’s pulse skitter, and she sucked in a breath as Royce’s dark eyes searched the crowd, seeking a familiar face. Hers. She knew when his gaze touched her. An electric pulse of longing shot through her, and, as she watched, a muscle clenched in his jaw. “I see you are rough with your toys, Rutledge, but I suppose that should come as no surprise to me, given how I found the state of my ancestral home.”
Rutledge laughed, a mocking, bitter sound. “You can’t fool me, FitzWarren. You’ve come after the whore because you’re in love with her. I should have guessed that like blood seeks like,” he sneered. “It seems we are at an impasse. I have what you want, and you have what I want.”
“Let us finish this, then.” Royce said quietly. “A duel. You and me. Winner takes all.”
“If I defeat you, I will hang your corpse from the rafters of this castle.”
“If it suits you.” Royce sounded toneless, bored. It puzzled Leah. She’d never known Royce to be so calm and unruffled. “Know that I shall do the same with you, should I win.” He would win. Of that, Leah had no doubt. Baron Rutledge was a short, portly man who looked like he’d been living on the hard edge of life for some time. Royce, on the other hand, was well formed with broad shoulders, and he fairly glowed with health. He also vibrated with anger. It charged the air around them and gave him an intensity that Rutledge lacked.
It seemed stupid for Rutledge to agree to this. She didn’t understand. As she watched, the two lords stepped forward, each unsheathing his sword. As one, the men circling them – on both sides of this feud – stepped back to allow the fighters room.
The baron twitched one of his fingers as he stepped forward, and Leah’s eyes were drawn to that subtle movement. Hers were not the only ones; the man in charge of holding her shifted, and the next thing she knew, she was being thrust from his horse into Father Andrew’s arms.
“Take the wench,” the man growled, just as the first clang of swords pierced the air.
Father Andrew’s arms clutched at her waist desperately, and he struggled to keep his balance atop his mule. Once he got her situated, he stared at the battlefield ahead. Leah couldn’t see much except the occasional flash of a blade before the crowd cheered wildly – on Royce’s side. He was winning! Her heart soared.
“What are you doing?” Father Andrew’s quiet voice caught her attention. She turned, following his gaze.
The soldier was carefully raising a small crossbow in the jut of his arm, squinting down the stock. “Baron’s orders,” he muttered. As she watched, he loaded the crossbow and angled the tip of it, following Royce’s movements. “Can’t have the bastard keeping the castle from Baron Rutledge, can we?”
No! Leah acted before she could think; she flung herself at the man’s horse, fists pummeling. He would not kill Royce by cheating! He would not!
The horse squealed in surprise as Leah slammed into the side of it, saddle-buckles and the soldier’s boot digging into her ribs before the breath whooshed out of her lungs. She heard the sickening twang as the crossbow fired and time slowed…
As her horrified eyes watched, the man in front of them slumped on his horse, then tumbled forward, the crossbow bolt sticking out of his back. One of the men called out in outrage, and one of Royce’s men pointed and shouted. “Cheater! He cheats!” The cry took up in the courtyard, and soon it echoed with the sound of the outraged men.
Swords were drawn, and suddenly the neat semi-circle had given way to a madhouse of angry men, and the clang of swords increased tenfold.
Leah wobbled on her feet, momentarily confused. She had saved Royce, but she’d also made things worse.
Firm, grasping fingers latched onto her upper arm. “Come with me,” Father Andrew hissed. At some point, he had gotten off of his mule and was now at her side.