The Crimson Lady (3 page)

“Your intrusion here is more than inconvenient,” she said, her words precise and delivered like arrow shots. “It will take me some time to go over the accounts with Stuart’s mam, as well as discuss what must be done in my absence. And I need to prepare some clothing for the journey and afterward if we are to make efforts to rejoin those with whom I worked before.”

“I’ll wait.”

Her mouth twisted. She looked as if she might say something more, but then turned away from him deliberately and walked to the door, taking the two torches from their holders as she went, so that the chamber was left flickering in shadow behind her. Yet just before she disappeared through the portal, she called over her shoulder, “I will take what time I need to prepare, Braedan de Cantor. Know that I will not be rushed, by you or anyone else.”

“Somehow I don’t doubt that,” he murmured in response, but she’d already left.

The sweet fragrance of vanilla lingered after her, and he found himself shaking his head, trying to dispel the strange effect that it—and the woman wearing it—had on him. The Crimson Lady was an enigma to him, far more than he’d anticipated, and that would make the quest they were about to undertake much more difficult than he’d planned. Were it not for Elizabeth, he’d have forgone all of this and simply found his way to the king, throwing himself at his sovereign’s mercy, even if it meant suffering a long imprisonment until the whole mess with his uncle could be sorted out. But that wasn’t
a consideration now. Not with Elizabeth’s honor hanging in the balance.

Braedan breathed in deeply and leaned back against the counter, sparing another glance at the darkened and quiet corridor beyond the portal. It was as still as a grave.

He might as well get as comfortable as his bruised and aching body would allow him, he decided. He sensed that the Crimson Lady was going to make this wait and all that came after as drawn-out and painful for him as possible, for as much as he was the seeming captor and she the hostage in this sordid affair, he had no doubt that she would try to take control of the situation if she could; she wanted to make him pay for what he was forcing her to do, he knew—and that process was beginning tonight.

Right here and now it had begun, as he cooled his heels in this darkened chamber, at her mercy until she deemed herself good and ready to grace him with her presence again. He shook his head once more and sighed, tipping his chin up to stretch his stiff neck, and closing his eyes as he did. Aye, she was going to do this her way.

And so, blast it all to heaven, he would wait.

T
he steady rhythm of their horses’ hooves might have lulled Fiona to sleep had she not been jolted to full awareness time and again by the animosity pricking at her. For what must have been the twentieth time in the past two hours, she turned her head to glare at the bedraggled example of manhood riding next to her. He seemed oblivious to her stare, hunched over as he was, his hood drawn up over his brow and looking as if, even riding, he might fall asleep astride his mount.

A mount supplied with
her
coin, she fumed.

Gritting her teeth, she tried to make herself dwell instead on the chill beauty of morn stretching damp and luminous fingers out all around them. Whether or not Braedan had promised to return the money once he’d earned enough to do so had mattered little. It was adding insult to injury, as far as she was concerned, to make her furnish their transportation, and she liked it
about as much as she relished the nighttime trek he’d ordered them to take.

But it hadn’t gone as he’d planned, at least; she could take comfort in that. They’d left her shop and traveled only a few hours before the rain had forced them to find shelter off the main road. Any latent fear of being accosted by bandits had dissipated long before that in the face of the foul weather unleashing itself all around them. The terse words they’d exchanged while making the decision to stop had been their only conversation since she’d first succumbed to his bullying tactics.

In the end they’d rested for a few hours, wrapped in cloaks and tucked under the branches of a huge tree—completely separated from each other by their steeds and the small cart containing her trunk and a few provisions—until the worst of the rain had passed and he’d insisted that they push on.

Now he was paying for his ridiculous tenacity, she thought, allowing herself a flare of satisfaction. Though it had been years since she’d had to go a whole night with so little rest, she still appeared to be in far better shape than Braedan; he looked ready to topple at any moment, and if she wasn’t mistaken, those muffled growls of complaint weren’t coming from his mouth, but rather from the depths of his clearly empty stomach.

But then he coughed, and Fiona swung her gaze to him again, her smugness faltering a bit. Frowning, she studied him more closely. That hadn’t sounded good. Nay, not good at all.

She was readying to say something to him when the cough resounded again from deep in his chest, harsh and wracking. She narrowed her eyes, peering at what she
could see of his face beneath his hood. He looked flushed. Could he have taken ill?

It was possible—and if he had, then perhaps she’d be finding herself free of him sooner than she’d thought
.

The renegade idea wound through her mind, and her tattered conscience struggled to suppress the hope that filled her. If he fell ill, she might be able to sneak away without worry, leaving him to whatever the fates intended. She could flee back to her sewing shop and pack up, moving to a new city much farther to the north, perhaps, where she could take on another name and begin again—

“We need to stop soon for food and to dry out. An inn that will do sits not far from here.”

The clarity of his words yanked her from her baleful reverie, and she looked over at him again, finding herself caught, suddenly, in the calm, cool scope of his gaze. It was directed right at her, and though his face still looked flushed, there was nothing cloudy about his eyes. They were blue and piercing, seeming to see inside her secret soul to the dark thoughts that had been lurking there. To her surprise, she felt her own cheeks heat under his perusal.

“I am not hungry.”

Her peevish answer came from somewhere unbidden. It was a lie, of course; her stomach, too, had begun growling not long after they’d taken to the road again from their brief respite.

“That matters not. You must eat, as must I.” He turned his face forward again, relieving her of that penetrating gaze of his. “We will stop.”

An answering burst of resentment swept through her.
How dare he order her about as if she were his chattel? Panic churned below the surface with that thought, bringing back with it too many painful memories. Remembered years of powerlessness and despair; she pushed the old terror down, determined not to give breath and life to it again. Not now. Not ever, if she could help it.

To mask her sudden weakening, she let her stare bore into him once more, snapping, “Just how do you intend to purchase victuals and time before a drying fire? Have you thought of that—thought of anything beyond your addle-minded scheme to track me down and force me to your bidding?”

“Aye,” he replied calmly. “We will use your funds to buy some meat and drink, just as we did when we acquired the horses. I will replace what you spend—and then some—once I’ve managed to procure my own supply of coin.”

“And if I refuse to allow you further use of my money?” she countered, unable to contain the spite in her tone.

He turned his head to look at her again, the motion weary, though his expression glowed intense. “We have already discussed this, woman. Do not test me further. If you will not cooperate, then so be it; I will bind you and drag you back to Hampshire to face prosecution for your past crimes. Then I will needs find another to assist me—one who is certain to be less skilled and far less knowledgeable in the arts of thieving and whoring, the two pursuits most necessary for me to understand if I am to free Elizabeth. It is not what I would choose, but it is what will happen if you continue this obstinacy.”

Cheeks still burning, Fiona stifled a gasp and snapped
her gaze forward again, struck dumb as the sick sensation she’d almost forgotten bloomed in her belly. Anger had helped to mask it before this, but now it reared up, dark and relentless. It was accompanied by that old voice inside of her, the one filled with self-loathing, whispering of her sinfulness, her worthlessness. Braedan de Cantor had just named it outright, and there was no more escaping it; he had sought her out above all others because she was a notorious whore and thief, the most tainted woman he could find—a paragon of wicked skill that surpassed every boundary.

Aye, she was that; she couldn’t deny it. She’d stolen from many as part of a group of bandits well-known for their criminal success. And long before that, her innocence had been purchased for the price of a few coins, after which she’d been trained in all manner of unholy acts at the whim of her master. The fact that he had never allowed another to bed her in all the years he’d owned her—that he himself had orchestrated the elaborate ruse they’d used to gull the many men who’d ended up believing they’d bedded her—had no bearing, she knew. This powerful mercenary knight, born to a family who lived only to uphold the law, would never believe it. And it would make no difference if he did, for whether by one man or many, she was still ruined, her virginity stolen, her body and soul corrupted.

And yet in these past years, she’d almost managed to pretend it wasn’t so. Wrapping one arm around her waist, Fiona squeezed her fingers into a fist against the bulky padding beneath her bliaud and cloak as her mount jounced down the rutted and muddy road—clinging to the disguise she’d worn for nearly three years to help her believe the lie she’d created for herself. And it
had worked until this vengeful warrior had come bursting into her life, dragging her sordid past into the light of day again and making her remember everything, making her despise herself all over again…

“Bear in mind,” Braedan broke into her thoughts, his voice raspy from his recent bout of coughing, “that I ask the temporary use of your coin not for myself but for my foster sister’s sake—a woman who needs the help you can best provide her by assisting me. Think on it that way, if it is easier to swallow.”

She remained silent, the confused emotions inside of her swirling in a queasy jumble. The plight of Braedan’s foster sister did tug at some deeply buried part of her, but it didn’t make what he was doing to her any easier, she thought. Nothing made it easier.

What in God’s name was she thinking, letting this man lead her willingly along on a journey back to a hell she’d sworn to have forsaken forever? Eyes stinging, Fiona lifted her face to feel the caressing warmth of the morning sun, her desperate gaze taking in their surroundings. Her heart thundered an uneven beat. They were nearing Alton. The bend in the road ahead was familiar, as were the groupings of trees, with their rain-dampened branches gnarled and crooked low to the ground, the moss hanging from them in tattered swaths.

In another few minutes they’d reach Whitbow Crossing. Once over that, they’d approach the inn and go inside…then money would change hands, questions would be asked, and information would need to be gained to find the hiding place most lately favored by Will and his company, so that she and Braedan might attempt to rejoin them. And though Braedan didn’t know it, when that time came, the life she’d savored as a plain
and hardworking, honest embroidress named Fiona Byrne would end abruptly.

She shuddered. Aye, it would end just as swiftly as if Braedan de Cantor had lifted his blade and laid a vicious stroke to sever her head from her neck.

Braedan took another swallow of the bitter brew that the serving wench had placed in front of him, trying to ease the burning in his throat. It had gotten worse in the hour that they’d been here, even though the warmth inside the rough-hewn walls of this establishment had dried him, and his belly was pleasantly full from the mutton stew on which he’d supped. It was almost too warm where he sat, he thought, rubbing his hand across his brow; he’d chosen a shadowy corner of the main chamber, away from the majority of the patrons and far from the heat of the blaze behind the grate, yet still the atmosphere oppressed.

The sounds of conversation, swinging from muffled to raucous, continued on around him, accompanied by the clanking of cups on the tables and the giggling squeals of the women when one of the more drunken patrons reached out to sample their rounder parts.

Braedan shut his eyes; they felt like hot coals in their sockets, and he was more than a bit wobbly. Shoving the cup away, he grimaced. Perhaps he’d better forgo any more ale himself.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, he turned to look once more at the door that led to the sleeping chambers above the inn. Where was Fiona, damn it? She’d been up there nigh on the entire hour since their arrival. Having had his share of experience with women and their need to stroke their vanities with excessive grooming, he’d
prepared himself for her to take some time before descending again to sup, but this was getting ridiculous.

The people in the inn would be the only witnesses to any fussing over her appearance. Whom did she hope to impress? Not him, surely. They were there to gather information, eat, and rest for a bit, nothing more. She’d assured him that they’d learn the whereabouts of her former band of thieves here—it was close enough to their old haunts in the forest that someone at the inn would know—as long as no men of law were hanging about, she’d added, instructing him to scrutinize every patron to ensure that no justices or sheriffs were present.

He’d done as she’d asked, but damn if it would do them any good. Grimacing, he decided to neglect his former decision to cease drinking by tossing back the remainder of his tepid ale. They’d get nowhere with her out of sight, arranging her wimple or donning another of those singularly unattractive black kirtles she seemed devoted to wearing. By God, nothing would happen as long as she cloistered herself up there.

Unless she wasn’t abovestairs after all.

Blast it, he hadn’t even considered that. What if she’d decided to do something foolish and attempt to flee from him and his demands on her? Gathering all of his waning strength, Braedan pushed himself to his feet, preparing to go and find out if his suspicions were true. But he swayed a bit as he stood, knocking his cup to the floor.

God’s bones, it must be a potent brew. The thought wiggled through his brain like a heat-slicked worm, elusive and boggling, leaving him feeling even more confused than before. Rubbing his hand across his brow again, he shook his head and squinted. A dark shape filled the doorway. Fiona, at last?

The whisper of vanilla cooled his senses as she swept toward him, keeping in the shadows along the wall so as not to attract attention. She stopped in front of him and his newly brimming cup of ale. It had been replaced by a buxom wench with flaxen hair, who’d been glancing at him from across the room with a half smile every time she caught his gaze. The woman had sidled back toward the other patrons with Fiona’s entrance, he noticed, apparently pouting over the fact that the return of his female traveling companion would make it unlikely for him to respond to any additional interest she might show him.

Dismissing the woman and her carnal disappointments from his mind, he redirected his attention to Fiona, subduing the relief he felt at her return by eyeing the long, hooded cape she wore.

“Why the devil are you wearing that inside? We’re not going anywhere soon.”

She didn’t answer, instead reaching for his cup and lifting it to drink.

He sat down again, adding wryly, “I take it you’re thirsty.”

She only kept drinking, pulling the cup away for a moment to breathe before tipping her head back again and draining the last of it. She set the vessel down when she was done, delicately wiping her mouth with her fingers.

He scowled at her, beginning to become annoyed at the way she continued to ignore him. “Enjoy that, did you?”

She looked askance at him this time, her face still shadowed in the folds of her hood. “I haven’t tasted public ale in a long while, but it is as awful as I remembered.”

He didn’t possess the strength to ask why, then, she’d
gulped it down like it was elixir. He closed his eyes for a moment, determined to work through this fog that seemed to be settling over his brain. She still hadn’t answered his first question about her cloak, he realized, and he wanted an explanation. Her severe, matronly gowns and wimples had been bad enough, but this garb could attract unwanted notice that might hamper their objective in being here.