Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

Ransom stared at her with a feeling of disgust.

“I am weary, that is all. I will be well soon enough. Sir Ransom will take me.” She looked at him with an expression of defiance. It would be beyond rude of him to deny her—indeed, he could not do so without creating more gossip—and she knew it.

She swayed a little as the servants helped her back to her feet, which nearly made Ransom snort. Then she gripped his arm and began to walk tentatively.

The servants took the horse to the stables as they shuffled forward. “I don’t believe any of this,” he said in a low voice.

“I really do not feel well,” she said, grimacing.

He shook his head, feeling pricks of doubt in his chest. Was she playing with him? Or was she truly feeling unwell? Distrust battled with real concern, the dichotomy making him feel even more ill at ease.

With Noemie gripping his arm as if she might faint again—or for the first time—at any moment, they walked side by side down the corridor. They didn’t pass a single servant, but perhaps that was not so odd. Most of them were probably enjoying the festivities of the tournament. The marble tiles shone with the warm sunlight spilling in from behind silk curtains. When they reached the door, he opened it for her. Her pace slowed, and he noticed a sheen of sweat on her forehead. Could such a thing be faked?

“Help me to the couch,” she mumbled.

As they started to shuffle toward the couch, her legs gave way again, and she sagged against him. Her head lolled, and he noticed her skin had become pale. Worry began stabbing him more earnestly.

“I’m getting a healer.”

“It’s too late for one,” she said, panting.

Ransom lifted her up effortlessly, and this time her head sagged against his chest. He carried her to the couch and set her down on the cushions. The feelings of dread intensified.

What if Noemie died on his watch?

What if she was an even better actress than he’d thought, and this was all a pretense?

“Get me a cloth, dip it in cool water,” she whispered. “I’m . . . I’m burning up.”

He rose and looked around the room. He’d planned to leave the instant they arrived, but he couldn’t walk away now, not when she seemed so ill.

He knew there’d be a pitcher of water in the adjoining bedroom, so he hastened to retrieve it. There was also a bowl, empty, and a towel. He poured water into the bowl and picked up the towel with his other hand. As he heard the waters splashing against the ceramic, a trickle of power shot through him. A warning.

He turned his head just as Noemie followed him into the room and shut the door behind her, blocking his sight of the chamber beyond. She slid a bolt into place. Her eyes looked feverish and dangerous.

“I’ve barred the other door too, Ransom,” she said, her strength remarkably improved. “The servants won’t come. We’re alone.”

He crumpled the little towel and tossed it aside. It clearly was not needed. He set down the pitcher of water.

“You will not reject me this time,” she said, leaning back against the door, shaking her head.

He still wore his dust-spattered armor and had yet to remove the sword strapped to his waist, but he’d never felt so afraid, so helpless. The pulse of warning began to fade. He turned back and poured more water from the pitcher, filling the bowl. The sound of it was soothing. He breathed out slowly.

“I order you to do this,” she said. “Trust me when I tell you that it will save your king’s life.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and set down the pitcher. It had all been another ruse, a lie—even her talk about the threat to Devon.

Turning, he looked at her. “Trust you? I don’t, Your Highness. What you ask of me is wrong. I am loyal to your husband.”

She pressed herself against the door, shaking her head. “If you are loyal to him, you will do this. I command it. The guilt be on my head, not yours.”

She was blocking the only exit. He already knew the balcony attached to the room was suspended over a cliff. There was no other way out. He started walking toward her, intending to bodily remove her from the exit if need be.

“You could not take away my guilt,” he said. “I am his sworn man, his knight. Loyalty may mean something different in Pree. I begin to think that it does. Devon trusts me. Even with you.” He shook his head. “It would be treason to break that trust.”

Her eyes flashed with rage and despair. “You’ll kill him. I swear it on the Fountain. This is the only way to keep him alive!”

She had chosen her words well. Devon’s safety was paramount in Ransom’s mind. “Who threatens him?”

“I will tell you. But you must sit down and listen to me. Sit down, on the bed.”

He didn’t trust her reasoning or her attempt to delay him further.

“Get out of my way,” he said, reaching her.

She shook her head. “Why must you be so stubborn! Why must I be the one who begs! There is no one here! No one will know!”

“Get out of my way,” he said, his tone becoming darker.

She curled her hands into fists, and tears started streaming down her cheeks as she pummeled her fists against his breastplate. He gripped her by the arms and lifted her aside. Then he unbolted the door and opened it. She let out a primal scream of anguish as she tried to throw herself in his path.

But he wouldn’t let her prevent him from leaving. He sidestepped her and marched across the room, listening to the keening of her voice as she raged against him, cursing his name in Occitanian, filling the air with blistering oaths.

Ransom felt relief when he reached the other door and turned the handle.

And found Sir Robert Tregoss standing on the other side. His face was flushed as if he’d been running.

Ransom flashed him a menacing look, and the knight took a step back.

“The princess is sick?” he asked worriedly.