The Virgin's Daughter (40 page)

At last Nicolas flicked the tip of his dagger in Anabel’s direction. “Let her go, Laurent,” he said softly.

Like the good soldier he was, Laurent released Anabel without hesitation. She shot a glance at Lucette.

“Time to go, Princess,” Nicolas said. “I think the young Courtenay boy will be only too glad to take you out.”

“What about Lucie?” Kit broke in.

“You got what you came for. Take her now, or forfeit.”

“Anabel, go,” Kit said softly, but she reached his side and took his hand, determined to stand with him. Lucette nearly shook her head at the foolishness of both of them.

“I won’t offer again,” Nicolas promised.

“You said Mary’s freedom for the girls.”

“I promised a princess for a queen. You have her.”

“And my sister?”

“Ah, a sister requires the offer of a brother.”

Kit glared. “Good thing I’m standing right here.”

“Not her brother, boy. Mine. I know perfectly well that Julien is just outside these walls aching to get his hands on me. Take your princess out, and send my brother in.”

It was Lucette who had to order them. “Go now.”

Anabel at least had sense, and more time with Nicolas to know he meant what he said. She pulled Kit with her. “Wait outside, Laurent,” Nicolas said. “Bring my brother in when he arrives.”

Then he turned to Lucette and caressed her cheek with the flat of his dagger blade. “The three of us have unfinished business.”

—

Kit returned with the Princess of Wales. Everyone in camp had watched the two figures approach in grim silence, and waited for word from inside.

Julien didn’t think anyone was surprised when told that Nicolas would not deal for Lucette until his brother had surrendered himself. Not surprised, but disappointed.

He said roughly to the princess, “Has he touched her?”

“He has not hurt her,” she answered carefully.

Which was not an answer. Julien simply nodded once and began to walk toward the manor house.

Minuette stopped him, though her husband was immediately beside her. Julien expected to be told to do whatever it took, perhaps even to be careful for they were not cruel people and would not lightly see him hurt, even for Lucette’s sake.

But she put her hands on his face and pulled it down to kiss him on the forehead. Like his mother used to do. “I am sorry, Julien,” she whispered. “I know what it costs to confront one who has betrayed you—especially when it is someone you love.”

She dropped her hands. Dominic’s face looked carved in stone, but he nodded once. In approval? In resignation? Julien didn’t much care. As he began the walk to Wynfield Mote, he silently spoke toward the woman inside:
Lucie mine, you’re coming out of there alive and whole. Whatever it takes
.

Once across the shallow moat, he was searched thoroughly by the kind of men who would kill without thought when ordered. He had dressed plainly and casually, prepared to fight. No weapons, of course. He’d figure something out.

It was odd walking into Wynfield Mote. There were flashes of memory from his previous visit, his body remembering where buildings were: the practice yard to his right, the stables where he’d hit Nicolas for his insolence…and been interrupted by the fierce ten-year-old
girl who’d followed his brother around like he was God. There had been a week or two this summer when he’d imagined returning to Wynfield Mote with that fierce girl—if not tamed, at least gentled to his hand, coming home to receive her parents’ blessing.

He should have known better. Dreams were only that.

Felix’s tutor waited for him outside the front door. Julien had never been fond of the supercilious Laurent, and now that the fanatic in him had been given free rein, Julien would cheerfully have knocked the man senseless. Instead he submitted to the tutor’s search, though he did say, “You saw your men search me already. Is it that you like to feel men’s bodies?”

He received the expected backhanded blow without a word. Laurent laughed grimly. “Can’t wait to see you brought down, traitorous filth.”

Julien, his jaw throbbing, kept his mouth shut. Better not risk too many blows before he got to Nicolas.

Laurent shoved open the door and jerked his head for Julien to precede him.

His strange sense of déjà vu continued to overlay his vision—the wide-planked floors strewn with rugs, the medieval fireplace—but the moment he locked eyes with Nicolas, all déjà vu vanished. There was nothing but an awareness, deep in his bones, that only one of them would be leaving this hall alive.

With effort, he pulled his gaze to Lucette, for it seemed dangerous to take his eyes off Nicolas for even a second. She looked back at him steadily, no colour to her face at all, dark hair hanging loose. Her gown was plain and clearly could be laced without aid. He didn’t know if it made him feel better or worse that Nicolas had not insisted that she be dressed and pampered elegantly.

“Are you well?” Why did one ask that? Because to ask anything more would upset his own precarious balance, not to mention whatever balance maintained between Nicolas and Lucette at this point.

“Perfectly.” If she could not control her colour, she could control her voice. Neutral, verging on bored. Seized by an insane desire to laugh, Julien nodded once, then turned his attention back to his brother.

“So, Nic, I’m here now. Whatever lies between us began long before Lucette was involved. Let her go.”

“The moment she leaves, my men will be overwhelmed by her father’s men and I will be seized for Walsingham’s vicious questioning. I have no intention of being racked by the English. I need her to get to the coast and out of England.”

“So you plan to return home as though nothing has happened, as though Father isn’t going to say a word about the fact that you violated the trust and hospitality of his friends and laid violent hands on a girl he cares about for her own sake?”

“Whatever you may say about my hands on Lucette, they are never violent.”

Julien took a furious step forward before he managed to restrain himself, but it was enough for Nicolas to pull Lucette against him as both warning and shield. Swallowing the bile that rose, Julien halted.

“Lucie mine,” Nicolas purred, and how Julien wanted to smash his brother’s face for appropriating that phrase, “why don’t you wash your face and change? We should celebrate being together. It’s the way I want it, you know. The three of us. Together. I’ve had weeks to think about it.”

“I’m not changing clothes with Laurent watching me.”

He managed to sound injured. “Of course not! Go on up to your chamber. We’ll wait for you here.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll do something rash, like jump out a window?”

Though Nicolas spoke to Lucette, it was Julien he stared at. “There is not the slightest chance in the world that you will do a single thing to jeopardize my brother’s life. Knowing that he’s here with me, that if you are not back in this hall in a quarter hour—dressed
and fashioned appropriately—knowing Julien will pay forfeit for whatever price I demand…no, Lucie mine, there’s not a chance in hell that you won’t do exactly what I say.”

Julien could only hope Nicolas was wrong. That Lucette would use her head, and figure a way either to get out of the house or to signal to her father and brothers…as long as she was out of reach of Nicolas, everything could be borne.

Because this would only end when one or both of them were dead. He knew it as surely as he knew his name. Death loomed in Wynfield Mote’s hall, waiting to pounce. All that mattered was that Lucie be well out of death’s reach.

27 August

Outside Wynfield Mote

As soon as Julien headed for the house, Dominic and the other men questioned Anabel closely about the state of affairs in and around Wynfield. Bless the girl for having her mother’s practicality and quick wits! She not only did not wonder at the purpose of such questions, but had clearly anticipated them. Her answers were prompt and clear. The men on the outside, of which we have counted eleven, never enter the house. The cooking, such as it is, is carried out by the tutor, Richard Laurent. Laurent and Nicolas LeClerc are the only men in the house. They are armed with daggers, swords, and pistols
.

Anabel and Kit described the scene in the hall before she was handed over. “It was the first time we were let out of my chamber,” Anabel said. “It’s possible Nicolas took Lucette straight back up when Kit and I left.”

“Possible,” Dominic said slowly, “but also highly possible they’re still there. If he wanted a stage for the first part of the climax, he’ll most definitely want it for his confrontation with his brother. We should proceed as though they are in the hall.”

“Proceed how?” I asked. Mostly to force my husband to speak it aloud for those who do not read him as quickly as I do. Though I
imagine our sons knew what he would say—and for certain Harrington did. He had already alerted the small force of handpicked men who have been kept two miles away so no one at Wynfield might catch sight of them. Dominic had spoken privately to Julien while Kit was in the house. He knows what is coming. When it is full dark, in less than an hour, those men will be led by Dominic, Harrington, and both my sons. No matter the tiredness Dominic noted—my boys will not be left behind. And like their father, they have the necessary strength to do what must be done when it must be done. They can sleep after
.

Of course, the hope is that Julien will be able to talk—if not himself—at least Lucette out of Nicolas’s hands. But if she is still inside Wynfield when darkness covers all, then my men must move silently and swiftly
.

While I sit with Pippa and Anabel and Carrie and pray. And wait
.

There is nothing more difficult in this world than waiting
.

TWENTY-FOUR

L
ucette went up to her bedchamber in a dreamlike state of unreality. It was precisely as she’d left it. Covers drawn back but the bed unslept in, the gown she’d worn that last night at dinner still lying on a closed chest. Only once alone did she truly feel the tension that had stalked her these last days: the constant pressure of someone watching her, breathing in her hearing or just outside a closed door…Lucette gave a great shudder and felt a sudden desire wash over her to curl up in bed and sleep.

There wasn’t time. She had only minutes to change her dress and prepare for whatever crisis was imminent in the hall. For that she would need a different dress, and a different hairstyle.

Someone—no doubt Laurent, as Nicolas hadn’t done it and no one else came indoors—had filled the pitcher with water. Lucette quickly stripped down to her shift and washed her face and as much of herself as she could in three minutes. She was grateful for how that revived her. A clean shift helped to further restore her, and now to choose a dress.

Hopefully Nicolas hadn’t meant her to come down dressed for
court or even church. Were men aware of the help required to get into such complicated layers? She imagined both brothers had done their share of removing such gowns from women…but that was not a thought to linger on at the moment. Her own requirements for what to wear were simple: she could put it on herself, and she could hide a weapon in it.

She chose a gown with cherry-red flowers on a white background that she’d often worn at Wynfield during the summers. It had belled sleeves of white lawn that gave her a certain freedom of movement. But most important, along the inside of the split overskirt that left the vivid red of the kirtle showing was a matched set of sheaths sewn in the stiff line of seaming. One on the right, one on the left, just far enough down not to interfere with sitting or walking, but perfectly placed for a quick hand to snatch out two narrow bodice daggers. Though the wicked long dagger her father had once given her had been removed from her chamber, thankfully neither Laurent nor Nicolas had thought to explore further. Her bodice daggers were where she’d left them, stored in the false bottom of her jewelry casket.

The final step was her hair. Like the dress, it couldn’t be elaborate. She braided it at both her temples, then managed a single thick plait down her back. It was imperfect and no doubt crooked, but who cared? Once plaited, she wound it at the nape of her neck into a heavy bun and secured it with pins. Then, a single decoration pushed through her hair: a gold-leafed, circular ornament six inches long and with a teardrop-shaped ruby at the top.

The benefit to Nicolas’s tight timeline was that she couldn’t dwell on the many things that could go wrong. All she could do was utter a quick prayer for guidance and safety as she made her way back to the hall.

She was not surprised to hear Nicolas speaking as she approached, for she had become accustomed to his near-constant murmur that had at times seemed only half directed at her. Pausing to make out what she could, she caught only a few snatches: surprisingly, Nicolas
seemed to be musing about how Felix was passing his time at Blanclair without his tutor.