He was saving himself for her. He wanted the first time to be special. How amazing was that? Rose found it both touching and silly. She had no fond memories of her first time and did her best not to remember any of the times since. Her mind had a tendency to remember the good parts of life and forget the bad, though not nearly well enough. Still, it also meant that Reuben and his lady love hadn’t shared a first time. It didn’t sound as if he’d even kissed her. And there was a pain in his voice—his eyes too. She saw it, and wondered if that was how Gwen was able to see things when she read people’s palms. Maybe everyone had the power to look into the souls of others and see glimpses of truth. Gwen simply knew how to look, or maybe it was just that she took the time. Some people don’t want to know—most people don’t. But if a person truly cared about someone else, maybe they could search their eyes and know what troubled them—that it would be visible, if you really wanted to see. Looking into Reuben’s eyes, Rose thought she understood something about him and something about the girl he was saving himself for. He’d given his heart to her, but the gift hadn’t been accepted. Whoever the moronic girl was, Rose hated her. She was also grateful for her stupidity, because Rose was certain she had fallen in love with Reuben Hilfred.
A chill ran through her as Reuben’s father hauled her through the city, but it came more from the wind than the thought. The thin dress offered little protection, but that had never been its purpose. It was difficult keeping the blanket from falling off her shoulders and the wind whipped it open. Winter was knocking, and its icy fingers were everywhere.
She should thank him. He was the father of the man she loved, and this was her chance to make a good impression. Rose understood she was already off on several bad feet. She was a prostitute, wanted by the constable, and had met his son as an escaped party favor. Her only consolation was that it would make a great story to tell his grandchildren. She frowned. Maybe the story about how Mommy was a whore would best be forgotten. Still she imagined the conversation.
Thank you for helping me, Richard. Your name is Richard, isn’t it? Or should I call you Father? Yes, I should—so much nicer, and I’ve always wanted a real father ever since mine ran off, leaving me and my mother to starve. So you won’t have any contender for that title. Can’t you imagine us all before the fireplace on Wintertide, Father? I’ll be cooking the goose that you and Reuben brought home while little … ah … little Gwendolyn and little Richard—yes, we’ll name him after you—play on the floor.
“Thank you for helping me,” Rose said.
“Shut up.” Richard Hilfred jerked her arm again, twisting her wrist slightly so that it hurt. He sounded angry.
Maybe he was upset because her talking might give them away. Rose forgot she was a fugitive, and it made perfect sense that he would be fearful. All he needed was a chatty girl getting them both killed. Just one more bad foot she put forth. This one into her own mouth. Winning over her future husband’s father was going to take a lot of repairing, but if Gwen could make a pearl out of the ruins of that Wayward Inn, Rose could fix this. Reuben would help smooth things over and Richard would come around once she gave him grandsons. Grandfathers were suckers for grandsons. In the meantime, she’d be quiet.
A smile invaded her face as she imagined what she would tell Gwen when she got home.
Remember what you said about me falling in love?
CHAPTER 16
THE LORD HIGH CONSTABLE
Rose was in the castle?” Hadrian asked. He had returned to the driver’s seat, and even Dunwoodie’s coat wasn’t enough to keep out the chill.
“Didn’t expect that.” Royce’s voice came hollow out of the dark interior of the carriage beneath him.
“We in trouble?”
“Don’t think so. Sounds like we just lucked out. He said Exeter was still looking for her. The timing might be perfect.”
“They’ll never make it to the Lower Quarter.” Hadrian watched the girl and the guard walk briskly past the line of carriages heading for the city. He remembered her from the year before. Rose was the one who had brought him soup all the time. She spilled some on him once and they had a good laugh. She used to love his stories and once, just before they left, he danced with her in front of the fire. “We should give them a ride.”
“I’m here for Exeter and I need the carriage. You can go escort them if you want. I don’t need you for this.”
Hadrian dropped down off the driver’s seat and stood next to the coach’s window. The curtain was drawn, but Hadrian could see Royce’s fingers holding part of it open.
He watched the pair walk into the shadows and sighed. “I’ll stay.”
“No. You should go.”
“Royce, you’re hoping to ambush a high noble and you don’t think you might need help with that?”
“This is familiar ground.”
“How so?” Hadrian said.
“There’s a reason the Black Diamond returned our horses. A reason why people still fear men in dark hoods in Colnora. I have a lot of practice in this. I don’t need your help, but that castle guard could use another sword—or three.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in the whole good deed thing?”
“Maybe Arcadius was right. Maybe you’re rubbing off.”
Hadrian wished he could see Royce’s eyes. Not that they ever told him much, but he was certain the thief was hiding something. Normally, convincing Royce to think of someone other than himself was like trying to explain to water that it shouldn’t always flow downhill. He also didn’t like him bringing up that Arcadius might be right. The last time they had seen the old university professor was when he’d practically twisted their arms into teaming up. Twisting Royce’s arm was never a good idea, and to hear him applaud the old man only convinced Hadrian something wasn’t right.
Hadrian took off the driver’s coat and hat and pulled his swords from where he’d hidden them on the driver’s seat. “I might still be back in time.”
“No rush,” Royce said. “Either way this works out, I’ll be busy all night.”
All night.
The words lingered as Hadrian walked away and would return to his mind several times before it ended. He slipped his cloak back on as he walked in shadows, and once he was out of sight of the gate guards, he ran.
He sprinted past the gentry shops, then slowed when he spotted the two. Hadrian kept a good distance. Following them wasn’t hard; he already knew where they were going. The guard glanced around a few times, but not nearly as much as Hadrian thought he should. The year Hadrian had spent with Royce taught him the value of awareness, and the last few hours of sitting on the coach’s bench had showed him just how active the streets were.
The pair cut through the homes and then passed under the Tradesmen’s Arch into the Artisan Quarter. There the world was darker, the homes smaller. Without enough income to pay for streetlamps, illumination came from the rare candlelight leaking out of windows through thin curtains that veiled the private lives of craftsmen, their wives, and children. Overhead, the moon had risen, turning the narrow streets into patterns of black and ghostly white. The tight buildings bounced sound, allowing Hadrian to hear their steps, loud and crisp.
He wondered what had gone on in the castle that night, and what might still be going on. Normally he didn’t indulge in pointless speculation about the nobility any more than he wondered what it was like to be a hawk or a fish. Meeting Albert had changed that. The viscount was … surprisingly human. He used too many big words but breathed air like everyone else. Hadrian worried about him. If there was some treachery going on, he hoped Albert had the sense to stay out of it.
The loud shuffle and clack of fast-moving heels on cobblestone filtered out of a side street. The folks of the Artisan Quarter were hardworking. Few wandered outside after dark, and none in such large groups. Hadrian ducked into the recess of a cobbler shop’s doorway, hitting his head on the boot-shaped signage, just as a patrol came into view. They marched quickly toward Rose and her escort.
“Halt!”
The pair stopped, and the men closed in. Like all the other patrols, this one had only one member in the black and white sheriff uniform. The rest were dressed in simple tunics and wool trousers, but each sported a white feather in his hat.
“What are your names?” the one in the uniform demanded.
“I’m Sergeant Richard Hilfred, of the royal guard.”
“You’re a castle guard?” one of the deputies asked.
The quarter sheriff shook his head and frowned. “The burgundy and gold falcon tunic and the chain mail didn’t give it away, huh?”
The other man shrugged, and another suppressed a laugh.
“And who is this?” the sheriff asked, nodding at Rose.