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

“I need a horse,” he said. “Averanche isn’t far, but I’ll stop by Josselin on the way and bring some knights with me. I need my armor as well. Jon-Landon may not come willingly.”

“Are you sure you’ve recovered enough, Ransom? Your injuries were severe.”

“The scabbard will continue to heal me on the journey.”

She gave him a pained look. “Be careful.” She pulled her son close, stroking his hair, but her eyes were fixed on Ransom.

“Thank you for helping me,” he told her. “Have you seen what happens next, Constance?”

She nodded but said nothing, which only added to his alarm.

“Will they kill Guivret?” he asked.

“Don’t ask me that,” she said. “Don’t ask me anything about the future. I will tell you what I can when I can. Know this: if you hadn’t gone to Pree to get the Wizr set, we would have lost.”



The scabbard continued to restore Ransom’s health as he rode from Ploemeur alone, heading to Josselin. In addition to his hauberk, Constance had given him a new tunic and cloak. The injuries he’d sustained throbbed, but the pain lessened as the day wore on. His castle at Josselin was on the border of Brythonica, protected on one side by a river. The townsfolk mostly dealt with sheep and traded in wool and candles. When he came down the road, people looked at him without recognition. His hair was shorn, his beard gone, and he looked like a foreigner to them.

When he arrived at the castle gates, he dismounted and was soon met by his steward, Westin.

“Welcome, traveler,” he said. “Where do you hail from? Did you bring a message?”

“It’s me, Westin,” Ransom said and smiled as his steward did a double take.

“By the Fountain! Lord Ransom, what are you . . . ? Why didn’t you send a message you were coming?”

“There was not time. Is Dearley here?”

“He is. I hardly recognize you!”

Ransom detached the large saddlebag that contained the chest with the Wizr set. He flung the bag over his shoulder and followed Westin into the castle. Elodie had updated the decorations, and he was pleased to see everything was clean and orderly.

“Send Dearley to my room,” Ransom said, eager to sit down and rest. Westin agreed and departed to obey, while Ransom mounted the stairs and went to his personal chamber. It smelled musty from lack of use, the windows closed and barred. He set the saddlebag down on a table and then sank into his favorite chair.

His mind was afflicted by worries, and he found himself brooding about what he should write to Claire. He hadn’t recovered the stone, nor did he intend to now that he knew what it had been doing to her. They needed to open their hearts to each other, to talk privately and sincerely. But he was bound by his secrets and worried that the conversation might strain things further. Still, he needed to save her from the book. Angry as she was, she was unlikely to heed a warning from him, but he needed to deliver one, nonetheless. And if that didn’t work . . . should he hire someone to steal it? He hated the thought—it was underhanded and wrong—and yet Constance’s warnings rang through his mind. He could not let Claire fall victim to the dark magic. He would save her even if she hated him for it.

The sound of approaching footsteps prompted him to look up as Dearley and Elodie arrived. The expression on his first knight’s face showed his astonishment.

“Westin said I wouldn’t know you, Ransom, and he wasn’t lying.”

Lady Elodie smiled at him, but a certain sadness underlay the gesture. The grief of losing her unborn child had hit her hard, something he understood keenly now that he was a father. He felt a pang of longing for his sons, for Claire.

Ransom gestured for them to come closer because his body ached so much. He winced as he sat up.

“Are you injured?” Elodie asked in concern. She and Dearley held hands as they approached. It was just a small gesture, but it heightened his longing for his family.

“I’m well enough,” he said. “It’s good to see you again. Any news?”

“Not really,” Dearley said. “Things are quiet here. That’s been good for us.” He gave his wife a fond smile.

“I’m sorry to disrupt the quietude.” He glanced at Dearley. “How many knights are guarding the castle?”

“Twenty,” said Dearley.

“We’ll take half of them. We need to ride to Averanche immediately. King Rotbart is dead, Estian is coming back to start a war, and Jon-Landon has fled the palace.”

“Goodness!” Dearley gasped.

Elodie’s eyes filled with worry, and he was sorry to have put it there.

“I’ve learned that the prince is in Averanche. I’m going to take him back to Kingfountain whether he wants to go or not. I hope to surprise him with my sudden arrival. I don’t want to give him a chance to flee.”

“Of course. Let me decide who will come.”

“I’ll have some provisions prepared,” Elodie said. She left first, Dearley lingering behind.

The young knight’s hesitation showed he was ill at ease. He shook his head and was about to depart, but Ransom stopped him.

“What is it?” he said.

Dearley turned. “It’s not my place to question you, Ransom.”

“But as my friend, you are worried by what you see.”

“I have to say that I am. There have been rumors, but I’ve quashed them—”

“And I appreciate it,” Ransom said. He grunted as he rose from the chair. “Power is beguiling to some. I’ve risen very high very quickly, but I’m still the same man I ever was. I cut my hair and shaved because I had a mission in Occitania. It is done. I was injured . . . seriously.”

“You did seem unwell,” Dearley said. “But then you’ve always recovered rather miraculously.”

“It is a blessing of the Fountain,” Ransom said. “I came by way of Brythonica. I’ve spoken to the duchess. I know that Claire . . .” Here he paused, his heart aching with the torment of his secrets. He sighed, struggling with his emotions. “I know the situation is strange, but it’s not what it seems. You have my word. My duty requires that I say no more.”

Any appearance of unease or doubt disappeared from Dearley’s eyes. He gripped Ransom by the shoulder. “You are the last man I would ever accuse of being untrustworthy. Thank you, all the same. It bolsters my confidence in you.” He tapped his hand against his chest in a knightly salute, and Ransom reciprocated.

“How is Elodie?”

Dearley shrugged. “Some pains take time to heal. Our grief has not yet passed. I don’t know why it happened. Sometimes life is not just.”

“It is not,” Ransom agreed. “I worry for you both.”

“We’ll endure our trial. Now, let me fulfill your commands as is my duty.”

“Thank you. I need you to send a knight to Claire at once. I’ve learned that a book in her possession contains dangerous magic. It’s written in ancient Gaultic. Please . . . she must be warned to get rid of it. I cannot rest until she’s freed from its thrall. If she won’t part with it freely, he must try to find it.”

Dearley’s eyes widened with surprise, but he nodded somberly. “I’ll send someone before we go.”



As they rode into Averanche, Ransom felt the grip of his memories. Training with Lord Kinghorn. Bunking with James. Learning to be a knight.

“You trained as a boy here,” said Dearley as they rode side by side. Ten knights accompanied them, and they’d ridden all night to get there by dawn. “Wasn’t Lord Kinghorn the one who took you in?”

“Yes, he’s my kinsman on my mother’s side,” Ransom said. “My father had nothing to offer me, but my mother sent me with a message to Sir Bryon.” He smirked. “James Wigant and I were particular friends back then.”

“Oh, I’ve heard about your friendship,” Dearley said with a drawl. “It’s a beautiful castle. Pleasant day too.”

The morning was a glorious one, the sun knifing over the eastern mountains and bathing the valley in buttery light that illuminated the pasture grass, sparse woodlands, and smoke rising from chimneys in the village below the castle.

They entered town and cantered up the road to the castle gate, which was shut.

“Who do you be?” said a sullen guard from the upper wall.