Shana Abe (8 page)

Conner had complained half-seriously that they couldn’t bear to lose their daughter, for who would soothe Cook’s tremendous tantrums when supper was delayed? Who would play chess with him each night? Who would prepare the special wine he favored? No one but their Kyla knew the intricacies of the countless little trifles her father came up with, a list so ridiculous that even her mother had sighed and shaken her head. But truly, both of them had been pleased for her, despite the bittersweet moment of it.

Kyla herself had been taken aback by the betrothal, but thought it rather exciting, as well. Marriage meant her own manor or perhaps even a castle. It meant a new name, a new family, a husband beside her always. For surely all men were like her father, she had rationalized. How wonderful to create a family like her own.

That was before she had heard of the Hound of Hell’s reputation. Conner’s assertions that Strathmore was indeed a gentleman, a good man, had been her sustaining hope. The point had been moot, of course—ultimately she had no choice and she knew it, but to have her father’s approval was reassuring.

It had been her father’s voice that had spoken in her head that instant in the inn, when she had to choose between allowing Strathmore his life or taking it.

Kyla had been certain she could do it. She was skilled with the dagger, and she was filled with enough hatred. How effortless it would have been. How much he deserved it.

But then came her father’s face in front of her, his voice resounding in her ears, speaking again the words he had said when she had run to him in a panic over a servant’s gossip: “Don’t believe what you hear of him, my dove. Don’t believe the envy that paints him so black. He is a fine man, he will be a worthy husband for you.…”

Conner had liked him. Conner had thought highly enough of him to give him his only daughter. And so it had
been Conner who had saved Strathmore, whether he knew it or not, whether he deserved it or not.

Now Strathmore lived, as she lived, but what would become of her?

She would not marry well now. She doubted very much she would marry at all, for who but the most base of men would take her? The thought of being wed to some grasping, desperate man, eager only to ingratiate himself with the king, was worst of all.

She would not suffer that. She truly would die before that.

Yet it seemed her choices were as narrow as Strathmore had earlier claimed. She would be taken to London, paraded before the court, kept locked in the Tower for days or weeks or even years, and eventually be expected to grovel before Henry while he made up his royal mind about whether or not to forgive her. In turn, if she was lucky, she would be wed off at some point to a minor noble with all expectations of her heartfelt gratitude, and would then spend the rest of her life being reminded how fortunate she was to have a man take her at all.

She would grow old and dry and withered, unwanted, reviled, laughed at, wondered at. Forever.

Or, she could escape.

Her life, whatever else it became then, would at least be her own again.

Kyla let her eyes drift shut, turning the bright colors of the outdoors to a muted red behind her lids. Auster kept the pace as she relaxed her legs and then her back after what she hoped was a suitably long enough period. She began to allow her body to bend in the saddle, just a little at first. Her head dipped down to her chest. She swayed rather dangerously to the left.

Sure enough, a command to halt came and she found herself swept up into solidly muscular arms. She pretended to come awake with a start.

“Oh, dear,” she said, hoping she sounded chagrined.

“My lady.” Lord Strathmore was looking down at her with concern. “Are you well?”

She lay across him in his saddle, her upper body and head propped up by his shoulder. He was close enough now for her to really see him—and it was the first time that she truly looked at him, for she had been ignoring him all day.

Again came that pang to her heart, for he was so very handsome, and he did look worried. She could even swear she saw a measure of warmth in his blue-green eyes, lit like the bottom of some enchanted sea pool.

Stupid
, Kyla silently chided herself. Now was no time to fall for the charms of a rogue. She fluttered one hand up to brush her throat, as if in alarm. His look followed the movement with unexpected intensity, a glare of that exotic color that discomfited her in the midst of her charade.

“My lord … I am so tired. Please, could we not stop for a rest?”

His arm shifted beneath her, moving her more securely against him. The fine corners and links of his chain mail dug into her skin. “I have not slept in so long,” she added softly, which was true. She tried to go completely limp without sliding down from his horse.

Roland tightened his grip. He smelled of something she could not name, sweat and pine and earth. Distracted, she turned her head to his chest, trying to pin down the disturbing emotion that was sweeping her. She suddenly wanted to stay in his arms, feeling safe and secure, surrounded by that masculine thing she could not define.

He dismounted, managing to get them both out of the saddle without much effort, swinging her up into his arms again. “We’ll camp here for the night,” he said. “It’s as good a spot as any, and we had only an hour or so of daylight left, anyway.” He took her over to a mossy bed beneath a tree. “Rest here, my lady. I will have your tent set up immediately.”

She almost felt guilty then at the gentle quality of his concern, but pushed that aside. She could not afford to lose her nerve now, no matter how pleasant it was to be held by him. He was no friend of hers, and she must not forget it.

Kyla concentrated on the meeting with the king that
awaited her, on the tiny, cramped rooms in the Tower of London assigned to prisoners.

She had been to one once, on a clandestine visit to a man who had later been beheaded.

When she was younger she had thought her father’s work was all glamour and excitement, which was why everyone loved him and admired him. She had wanted to be like him. She had wanted that exciting life for herself.

No one had told her she could not be an ambassador for the court because she was a female. Neither her father nor her mother had used that excuse. Instead, they had tried to explain that what Conner did was business, just business, and usually not very pleasant business at that. It was nice, yes, Helaine had admitted, to have the king like you. Yes, said her father under pressure, sometimes he got to meet wonderful new people from distant lands.

Kyla had refused to heed her parents’ warnings. She didn’t want to believe the king’s business was anything other than what she had imagined it to be. She wanted to go to the Tower, where most of her father’s work was done.

They absolutely, positively forbade her to go.

So she had arranged everything herself, carefully hoarding her allowance until she had enough coins to bribe a minor courtier’s son, who agreed to smuggle her in the next time his father went there on the strict condition that she never breathe a word of it to anyone as long as she lived.

She had gone dressed as a boy, of course, and was introduced to the father as a friend of his son’s. The father had grunted and then told them both to listen only and not be heard as he conducted his interview with the traitor.

It was only then that Kyla realized they were going to see a prisoner.

The room had been cold and dark, even in the midst of the hot summer day. There had been a cot with no covers, a bare wooden table, a single candle melting in greasy puddles on the wood. The stealthy scuttling of rats shivered across the beams above. One lone, narrow window slit the wall, barely wide enough for a sliver of sky to press through.

But worse than any of that, the room had smelt to her of fear, of hopeless desperation. Of death. She had seen that death reflected in the sunken eyes of the prisoner, a French man accused of conspiracy against the crown. He had kept his focus on her the entire visit, beseeching her with terrible black eyes clouded with cataracts. His hands had quivered uncontrollably, even when he had flattened them down on the table.

She had listened and not said a word, as instructed. She had tried not to cover her mouth with her hand to block out the stench of the man. She had tried to ignore the prisoner’s choked pleas to the courtier to end his life, to end his torture in that room, as he stared at her.

She had finally pinned her own gaze to the floor, concentrating on the blackened grime between the pitted stones, trying to think of anything but the trembling man who sat before her, weeping.

That day part of the flame of adventure in her died a little. She never bothered her father about his work again.

Now Kyla deliberately relaxed against the tree, took a deep breath of the forest scent surrounding her, the sweet spring breeze, and promised herself that soon her steps would match that free, windy path.

Chapter Four

T
hat night she slept securely in the tent they had set up for her, wrapped for warmth in furs and blankets. It was luxurious by the standards she had become used to, and she meant to make the most of it while she could. Her night was peaceful, surrounded by six armed men, by her count, all standing ready outside the walls of the indigo-blue wool tent.

History held valuable lessons, indeed. Kyla had always shown a keen interest in her studies, so much so that her parents had hired extra tutors for her and Alister. She knew mathematics, Latin, French, geography, even astronomy.

And she knew history.

History had told her of the Roman conquest centuries ago, of the difficulty the emperors soldiers had infiltrating this particular area of Britannia. The woods here in these odd pockets of low country often gave way to swamps and marshes without warning. She had read of the thick fogs that would billow up from the ground, covering everything in their path, obscuring even the boldest marker.

The Roman soldiers had not done well here, those regimented formations proving to be no defense against nature. Kyla had amused Alister on their way to Scotland with the stories she remembered, embellishing to keep his mind distracted from the reality of their situation. It had worked for a while, especially when they saw for themselves the odd white fog, blotting out the countryside every morning for a week.

Once they even had to halt and camp for a day and a night,
the fog grew so voracious. They made a game of it, pretending they were the Romans forced to camp.

“Do you think the ghosts of the soldiers are still here?” Alister had asked that night, all agape and wide-eyed as they huddled together.

“Nay,” she had replied. “They would not dare haunt us. Our ancestors vanquished them centuries past. We have our own guardian spirits to guide us.”

She had said it with all the fervency of a real desire that it be true. Alister had nodded, eager to banish the thought of ghosts in the mist.

So when the next morning dawned outside the indigo tent after her fine night’s sleep, and all were fed and the supplies were packed away again, the Lady Kyla mounted her horse with complete poise, noting quite calmly the thickness of the mist on the ground, listening carefully to the uneasy remarks of the men around her.

“ ’Tis naught, it will pass,” she heard the man she thought might be the captain say in unconvincing accents. The mutters of the soldiers indicated they doubted as much.

Thank the heavens, the soldiers had the right of it.

Instead of the mist clearing under the burning warmth of the sun, the day turned gloomy and dour, encouraging a heavy fog to build and reach up in snaky tendrils to cover the horses’ legs and then the riders’ torsos, until the very path was obscured from view, and all that could be seen was the vague outline of men and horses, and all that could be heard was the eerily steady clinking of armor against shields.

Six men to guard her tent! Kyla smiled to herself, adjusting her leg over the annoying horn of the sidesaddle. She supposed she should be flattered. At least Lord Strathmore was attempting not to underestimate her. But, from the moment she had realized there would be no way to avoid this journey back to London, Kyla had devoted her time to thinking about ways she could lull her keepers into a false sense of security.

She had not thought it would be very difficult. Her experience with men was limited, true enough, confined mostly
to servants, tutors, and merchants, and occasionally those perfumed gentlemen who favored the court life. But she had discovered long ago that if one pretended to be weak or incapable, a man simply accepted it as a fact of nature, an inevitable example that the female mind was inferior to the male. She had had so many tutors reveal identical expressions of astonishment when exposed to her prowess, or at least her interest, in their academic fields. This was something she had become used to.

She had learned that if she said that she did not understand something, it would provoke a pitying look, a murmur of comfort, an urging to move to some other—easier—topic.

The same remark from her brother prompted a deeper explanation of the theory involved.