Old Beadle?
“The earl was a problem, a rock in their road. A big, unmovable stone. Sadly, he didn’t have the same life span as most rocks. When he died without a male heir—just a delicate, young, inexperienced girl—the church saw an opportunity.” She shook her head and sighed. “But alas, the countess was no more pliable than the earl. So in the intervening years they found someone more amenable. Lord Fawkes will allow them to pull his strings, all while thinking he is the one in control.” She shook her head again. “So foolish. Now the stage is set for the final act in their little drama, The Death of the Last Dulgath.”
“And none of this frightens you because you’re protected by the magical woodland spirit of the valley. Do I have that right?”
“You’re the expert on killings. You tell me. They’ve tried three times now. How hard can it be to kill a delicate young girl?”
Something in the sound of her voice—not arrogance, but confidence—disturbed Royce, like hearing a deer howl or a rabbit roar.
“An interesting tale, but I’m not persuaded. I’m no fan of the church or nobility. It doesn’t matter to me who rules. The lives of those at the lower rung remain unchanged. I’ve decided, and I’m going to tell them how I’d kill you. I want you to know that.”
“How considerate of you.”
“Of course, should that ivy be cut down and a sentry posted to patrol the yard, such a thing would be a lot harder. And if you locked your door and posted another guard outside it, anyone looking to end your life might be out of luck.”
“You’re not a very resourceful assassin, are you? I should think there would be cleverer ways than climbing in a window.”
“Simple plans work. Every moving part is a potential failure point. Besides…” Royce shrugged. “Not a lot of incentive in this job. I’m just here to get paid. That’s all that matters.”
“Is it?” she asked, getting up.
She stood before him with her weight on one hip, arms limp at her sides. She had a predatory stare in her eyes. Royce found his muscles tensing. The look was threatening.
Is she thinking of pushing me out the window? No, that look isn’t violent—it’s inviting.
He’d seen that stare before, usually on prostitutes working a room. Gwen’s girls donned that expression frequently, but none ever looked at him that way. They aimed their weapons at the loud and the drunk, the ones throwing money away like silver fountains. No one ever stared at Royce.
Nysa locked eyes with him and smiled, soft cheeks growing round.
“I think you’re curious,” she told him.
“About what?”
Not a shift, not a blink. “About me, certainly, but even more about you. I can see doubt in your eyes. You don’t want to believe what I said, but the truth is impossible to ignore. Your problem is that you’ve lived with lies your entire life. What choice was there? Everyone agrees that elves are dirty, worthless, lazy, ignorant vermin. In a world without a dissenting opinion, how could anyone expect to judge fairly? The question before you isn’t, How could I be one of them? but rather, How could I have ever believed I was only a man?”
“What does the daughter of an earl know about elves?”
“I read a lot,” she said, then broke their contest and laughed.
She swirled, making the gown fan, and threw her head back. Gwen’s girls did that, too. Maybe Nysa was bad at it, or Royce was wrong about her intent, for the act was uncharacteristically awkward and filled with frustration and annoyance. In that instant, her guard dipped, and for the first time he felt he saw Nysa Dulgath, the woman behind the mask. The lady hadn’t planned it, but that slip succeeded where her previous efforts had failed. The truth was indeed hard to ignore. Royce decided he liked Nysa Dulgath, or at least he didn’t dislike her. She certainly was interesting.
She took a step toward him.
“Time for me to go.” Royce spun and threw his legs back out the window. “Don’t forget about the ivy. You need to get rid of it.”
“But I like ivy.”
“It can grow back.”
“And you? How will you visit me again if I tear it down?”
“I won’t. Goodbye, Lady Dulgath.”
Chapter Thirteen
Fawkes and Hounds
The trip back down the mountain was faster, as downhill trips always are. Even so, it was night when Hadrian and Scarlett Dodge reached the section of the trail where the pitch flattened to a mere slope and broadened wide enough for side-by-side travel. The moon was three-quarters full and cast a spray of silver pools where it penetrated the leaves. The light ran up and over their bodies as they waded through moonbeam puddles, and Hadrian kept stealing glances at Scarlett. At first he thought he was getting away with it. Still acting as a guide, Scarlett was focused on the trail ahead, but when he spotted her smile, he knew she’d caught him. He also knew she didn’t mind.
“So how did you end up in Dulgath—in Brecken Dale?” Hadrian asked.
“What do you care?” Her tone was both curt and cold.
Hadrian was surprised, then realized he shouldn’t have been. Royce had all but placed a knife to her throat. “Look, we got started wrong. You poisoned me, and Royce threatened to kill you—fact is, we’re not who you thought we were, and I have no idea who you are.”
“Probably best that way, don’t you think?”
“No—I don’t think that at all.”
She looked at him just as moonlight splashed her face. She had that puzzled squint he already recognized as one of her go-to expressions—at least the ones she used with him.
“But I’ll tell you what I do think. I think it’s easy to distrust someone you don’t know. If you’re ignorant of their past, you can’t understand their motivations, so you jump to conclusions, which are usually wrong. For example, I’m a really nice guy, but you probably hold a different opinion of me.”
“Yep—I think you’re an idiot.”
He smiled. “That’s just because you don’t know me. Once you do, you’ll discover I’m really only an imbecile.”
This made her laugh. He could tell she didn’t want to, and her frustration made the sound even sweeter.
“See, you can’t resist me. I’m like a dog that drops a ball at your feet.”
“Hadrian,” she said with a weary tone and a shake of her head. “I get it. You’re attracted to me. You’re trying to start something here—make me like you—but you’re only going to be around for a few days, and Wagner and I—we’re sort of a thing.”
“Wagner? The bartender? That old guy?”
“He owns Caldwell House, and he’s nice.”
Hadrian nodded slowly with a pushed-out lower lip.
“What?”
“Just seems a little old, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well, most men worth something are. Boys tend to be lazy or have an overabundance of dreams; they’re always looking but never finding because they haven’t a clue what they really want.” She glared directly at him as she spoke. “Men like Wagner are past the stargazer stage. He understands the way the world is and makes the best of it.”
“Ah-huh.” Hadrian kept his eyes forward this time but felt her looking at him again.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Wagner’s been good to me.”
“Didn’t say he wasn’t. Probably a great guy…when he’s not poisoning people.”
“I did that—and I didn’t poison you. I drugged you. If I’d used poison, you’d be dead.”