Melting?
No wonder the stables had not been unbearably cold. That, drugged wine, and her body beneath him had warmed him.
Her virginal body.
In his right mind he wouldn’t have done it. In his right mind he would have halted it, no matter how she pleaded.
Balderdash. In his right mind he’d been wanting her beneath him again for a sennight.
A guard waited inside the door. Vitor bypassed him—none of the guards could be trusted—but he’d no time to stash the wine. He carried it to the ladies’ wing, set it down on a table, and knocked on her door.
She opened it only a crack. She was well. He tried to focus on her eyes. They’d shone with desire in the stable . . . he thought. But he trusted none of his senses now. Now he saw only blurred shadow. “Are you all right?” His tongue was thick. “No one— No one followed you?”
“Except you?”
Was she angry? Irritated? Hurt? He couldn’t see her face or read her tone. His head spun.
He clutched the door frame. “Are you all right?” he repeated. Or did he?
“Yes. But I don’t see how—”
“Drugged.” Had he spoken? “Poison.” He couldn’t feel his legs. “The wine.”
“Oh, no.” She opened the door entirely and touched him, perhaps. “Your eyes are peculiar. Oh, God.” Now he felt her hands gripping his arms. “What should I do? Tell me.”
He could not keep his eyes open. “Sebastiao,” he managed.
“The prince poisoned you? But Lord Case—”
“Help.”
Only a pinpoint of candlelight pierced the darkness. No moon like in the stable. No warm woman beneath him, giving him her body. Only exhaustion. Bone-deep and cold. The pinpoint spun.
He was walking, his legs heavy. But the bindings were like hands, the ropes like fingers this time. He would say nothing. He had nothing to say. He’d done no wrong. He had been loyal to king and country. He would not allow them to force untruths from his lips.
They were trying to drown him. The water flooded his mouth and he choked, but he made himself swallow, again and again. He would not let them win.
Voices came in muddled whispers. Occasionally shouts. Familiar voices. Before, the voice had been familiar. Beloved. This time too. But different voices. A man’s and a woman’s. There had been no shouts before. Only quiet, constant sound. This was a new tactic. But . . . Sebastiao? He could not believe it. Would not. And not Ravenna. Never Ravenna.
He clamped his teeth together and did not speak. Not even the truth. If he allowed himself to speak even once, as soon as the pain came he would say anything they wished.
The pinpoint of light ticked back and forth like the pendulum of a clock. Then it stilled, holding in one place.
He was lying on his back in a bed, the bindings gone. Above, the canopy glowed golden.
He closed his eyes.
VITOR AWOKE TO pain slicing beneath his brow. Amidst the pain he knew only that his tongue was dry and his arm peculiarly warm.
He cracked his eyes open.
Dawn. Early morning. His bedchamber. His bed. A dog curled in a ball against his arm.
He pulled in breaths, dragged himself up, and rubbed his hands over his face. The pup stretched and greeted him with enthusiasm. He scratched it behind the ears, but his hands were stiff, his limbs weak. Gon?alo pushed forward, demanding more.
“No.”
The dog dropped its ears and flattened himself to the mattress.
He should have said no to the woman in the straw the night before. The moment he’d felt the wine go to his head, he should have taken himself off. But her hands on him, her soft skin, her gasps of pleasure and intoxicating mouth . . . He hadn’t needed wine. The woman stretched out in the straw wanting him had been more than enough.
A folded paper rested on the bed not far from Gon?alo’s wagging tail. Astounding that the pup hadn’t eaten it. No doubt he’d had enough finely cured leather to satisfy his hunger. Vitor took up the missive. The wax seal and hand were Sebastiao’s.
The wine is safely stored in my bedchamber. The woman is likewise safely stored in hers.
His younger brother had always fancied himself clever. This morning Vitor was not amused.
She knew to keep you awake until the poison had worked its worst. She insisted upon water, though I argued her choice of treatment and recommended wine or at the very least tonic. But she held fast. I was obliged to melt snow—snow!—upon the fire. She would have it no other way, nor allow a servant to do the task. I carried the snow inside like a maid. I have never been more humiliated but it was night and no one else stirred, and of course it was your life and I could not argue it. I allowed her to be present during the dosing with water, but not the subsequent results of that. You may feel free to thank me for that consideration at your earliest convenience. I admit, I thought you were bested, and as you seemed unable to speak we could not know. She did not relent in her conviction that you would survive. She is remarkably clever. I’ve no idea what you did to rouse her ire, but if she had not been so hell-bent upon making you live I think she might have taken a fireplace poker to your head. Perhaps I will marry her and prove myself the better man after all.
Vitor summoned his valet and dressed. Though he would have preferred to shave himself, his hands were not entirely steady, and he did not wish to alert anyone to anything out of the ordinary.
Two notes were swiftly written and sent with footmen to each of his brothers’ rooms. Then he searched out Sir Beverley Clark.
The baronet sat alone at the dining table, sipping coffee. He nodded when Vitor entered the room. “My lord.”
Vitor went to him. “I would like a word with you, sir.”
“Concerning Mr. Pettigrew’s ward, I presume,” he said as though men sought audience with him every day about Ravenna.
“Ward?”
“Three years ago he made Miss Caulfield his ward and heir, though she does not know of it.” Serious eyes studied him. “So you see, she is not the penniless servant you believe her to be. Quite the contrary.”
“I understood her to have a family. Sisters. A father.”
Sir Beverley lifted his coffee to his lips. “A poor country vicar who allowed her to seek employment in an unknown gentleman’s distant household at the tender age of seventeen with nothing but a great black dog to defend her. When Pettigrew applied to him for the transfer of guardianship, the Reverend Mr. Caulfield allowed it without trouble.” He sipped. “So you see, Pettigrew and I have long considered her our responsibility.” He set down the cup. “She lost the dog not long ago. This loss has been difficult for her. I have no doubt that she would be wearing black now if she went in for such displays.”
This was a warning. Vitor nodded. “I understand,” he said. “Now tell me about the bird.”
RAVENNA DID NOT quite imagine that Lord Vitor Courtenay would appear at her door this morning with a bouquet of flowers and a profuse apology upon his perfect lips. But she did not imagine either that when she tried to leave her bedchamber to go to breakfast, the prince’s own personal servant would bar her way.
“By order of Lord Vitor, mademoiselle.”
“Lord Vitor has no say over whether I come or go. Let me by.”
“I cannot, mademoiselle. His highness commanded.”
For ten minutes she endeavored to convince him otherwise. Then she shut and locked her door, and climbed out her window. Vines snaked up the castle on the southern side and it wasn’t so far to the ground if one didn’t mind tearing one’s skirt a bit. She would ask her sister Arabella for a loan and pay back Ann in full for all the ruined gowns. Her stockings had not come out of last night’s sojourn in the stables very well either.