Lady's Ransom (The First Argentines, #3)

Ransom looked from man to man, realizing that he was in a dangerous situation. He felt his Fountain magic ripple in a belated warning he was surprised hadn’t come sooner.

“I had a feelin’ de Murrow’s brat would take the treasure by ship,” the lord said to Ransom. “I’ve had men stand watch on the quay. It’s worth a thousand livres to me to gain your cooperation. That’s more than you’ll earn in ten years, Sir Knight. Who do you serve?”

Ransom met the steady gaze with one of his own. They still didn’t know who he was. That was to his advantage. “I serve Glosstyr,” he said simply and watched for their reaction.

One of the men seemed shaken by the information, but the others just sneered.

“Glosstyr, eh?” said Tenthor with a chuckle. “A thousand livres. No one will know about our arrangement. You were looking for Toole. He’s at the fortress with her. All I want is to know the day the ship you came on will set sail. I’ll pay my taxes, but I want the money back. It’s worth a thousand to me, you see. Do we have an understanding, lad?”

Ransom glanced at the man to his left, then looked back at Tenthor. “You think I’d betray my lord for a thousand livres?” he said softly.

“I’m counting on it,” said Tenthor. “Men disappear in Atha Kleah all the time. Especially if they sail under the wrong banner.”

Now it had turned from a bribe to a threat.

“I’ll not help you,” Ransom said, shaking his head. The sense of danger increased, making the skin at the back of his neck prickle. “It’s for the best if we end this conversation now. I’ll be on my way to the fortress.”

Tenthor gave him a menacing smile. “As you will, Sir Knight. Lads . . . show him the door.”

Ransom felt their intent to maim and harm him. So he didn’t wait for them to attack. He lunged to the left and smashed his fist into the jaw of the closest knight, snapping the man’s head back. The commotion that ensued became a blur as his Fountain magic responded to the danger. He kicked another man in the abdomen before he was grabbed around the middle. Instinct overcame him, and he knocked his head back into his attacker’s nose and felt the weak bone crack.

Then Tenthor was in front of him, punching Ransom in the gut in a vicious blow that took his breath away. Another fist, hard as a stone, collided with his forehead and sent a blinding flash of light before his eyes. The others crowded in, grabbing at his arms to hold him back. Ransom used their grip to his advantage and lifted himself up, kicking Tenthor in the face and knocking him backward. When his own feet were back on the floor, he levered the man holding his right arm with pure strength and hurled him down.

Another fist came at Ransom’s jaw, but he ducked, and the man punched the wall instead, letting out a yelp of pain. As the knight still holding his left arm released it in shock, Ransom punched him on the cheekbone with his left fist. The invisible ring on his finger sliced the man’s cheek open, and blood began to spill.

Tenthor, who’d recovered and regained his feet, roared and charged at Ransom again like a bull. The two collided, and Ransom was shoved back into the wall. The massive man grabbed Ransom’s throat with one hand, his face curling with rage as he raised his fist to punch.

Ransom kneed him in the groin twice before pain finally slackened the man’s grip. The moment it loosened, Ransom caught hold of the giant’s collar and shoved him face-first into the wall.

He saw a flash of steel, and a dagger came at his ribs. Ransom turned, catching the man’s wrist, and then brought the edge of his hand into his throat. The dagger clattered to the floor an instant before the knight did, holding his neck and struggling to breathe.

Ransom turned and saw everyone else had fallen to the floor. His breath came hard and fast. Lord Tenthor held his loins with one hand, grunting in pain, and pushed away from the wall, blood oozing from his eyebrow. The giant’s shoulders quivered as he began to stand again.

Ransom sensed his host’s desire to continue the fight, so he grabbed him by the shirt with both hands and shoved him into the wall again. The Gaultic lord fell to the ground, unconscious.

Ransom gazed across the room at the other men, some writhing and one cringing from him. He walked to the door and opened it, and the servant who had led him upstairs backed away in terror. Grabbing the man by the neck, Ransom hauled him to the front door.

“You’re taking me to the fortress,” he said. “Now.”

“Yes! Of course! Can I check on my—?”

“No,” Ransom barked. He kept a firm grip on the servant, and as they made their way onto the busy street, people pointedly ignored them. The men who had followed him were gone, or at least he couldn’t sense them any longer.

They wove through the crowds as dusk faded into darkness and the streets began to clear. Shops closed, as did all the shutters. There were still others walking about, only now they were hurrying back to their dwellings instead of reveling in the street. Darkness brought danger, Ransom sensed.

“Where is it?” Ransom demanded.

“A little farther. You can see the towers?” He pointed to a sturdy structure, surrounded by timber-and-plaster homes. They turned another corner, and the fortress gates lay ahead. Ransom let go of the servant, who fled like a frightened animal.

As he marched up to the gate, he saw several knights standing guard. He recognized one of them as Sir Axien, one of his own mesnie. He couldn’t imagine what he looked like, waterlogged and approaching them in the dark, his boots still squelching.

“You may be lost, friend,” said one of the knights good-naturedly. “Go back the way you came.”

“He probably only speaks Gaultic,” said Sir Axien and then stopped when Ransom drew near. “By the Lady! It’s Lord Ransom! Did you come on the king’s ship? The one that docked at Wood Quay?”

“Aye,” he answered. “I was a little lost. Is Claire here?”

“Yes,” Axien said, grinning broadly. “She’ll be only too grateful you came in time. We’re collecting taxes on the morrow. You’re soaked! Let’s get you inside.”

They walked through the gate, and Ransom was immediately surrounded by servants eager to attend to him. They had all heard of him, but none had met him. He heard Gaultic expressions left and right. The throng followed him inside, where he saw Dearley gaping at him in astonishment.

“What are you doing here?” Dearley asked, flummoxed.

“Is this not where I should be?” Ransom answered, arching his eyebrows.

“You know what I mean! I thought you were still in Kingfountain! Was that your ship? We heard about one of the king’s ships docking at the wharf, but no messenger came. Come on, Lady Claire will be just as astonished as I am!”

He led the way up a set of stairs, past several smoking torches that would have given Lord Kinghorn a coughing attack. Once at the top, they entered a solar, and the first thing he saw was Claire holding her stomach and leaning over a bronze dish, one arm pressed against the wall. Although her back was to him, he could see a glimpse of her pale cheeks. His anticipation turned to concern—Had Alix attacked her while he was away?—but he reached out with his magic and could sense no evidence of warning or danger. She was queasy, nothing more. He watched Elodie hand her a cup of water. Claire rinsed her mouth out and spat in the dish before handing the cup back with a grateful smile.

Another man rose from a chair, a gaunt-looking fellow with a lot of silver in his hair.

“Is this the messenger?” Lord Toole asked, looking at Ransom with expectation.

“No. It’s the Duke of Glosstyr,” Dearley said.

Claire straightened, turned, and looked at Ransom as if she didn’t recognize him. Then she blinked with surprise. “Ransom!” she gasped and hurried to him, rushing into his embrace. Although she was pale, she felt warm, and the ache caused by their separation began to fade.

When they kissed, he felt a sense of peace wash through him. He hooked his hand around her neck and then noticed the wet spots on her dress from his tunic.