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

“So if I attempt to offer more, they can exceed it.”

“Yes,” Benedict said blackly.

“Then I need to offer something other than golden livres. I need to make Gotz see that having you as a friend is worth more than money.”

Benedict looked at Ransom thoughtfully. “He’s abrupt and ill-tempered but not unreasonable.”

“He wants to be king,” Ransom said. “I think he intends to use the ransom to pay for it.”

“It would be a start,” Benedict said. Then he straightened. “I trust you, Ransom Barton. See if you can entice him to agree to a lesser amount, one that we can afford, and promise an alliance that would truly be in his interest.”

“I shall do my best, my lord.”

Benedict approached and embraced him again. “I’m counting on you.”



At the conclusion of his visit with the king, Ransom was escorted to the room that had been arranged for him and his party. It was not a large room, given the size of the castle, but the window overlooked the town of Eisen far below.

Cecily and Terric asked about his visit to the king, and he quickly related a few details. He’d not been there for long before a knock sounded at the door. Cecily answered it and then stepped aside to allow the visitor to enter.

The stranger wore a colorful outfit that reminded Ransom of the oasis. He had jeweled earrings, expensive necklaces, and a shaved head.

“My lady of Chandigarl wishes to meet you, honorable knight of Kingfountain,” said the man is a resonant voice that carried a slight accent. “Tales of your prowess have traveled great distances.”

Cecily gave Ransom a hopeful look.

“I will go,” he said. He felt a flash of worry in his gut.

He left the others behind and followed the man down the hall to a door. It opened and revealed a stairwell leading up to one of the towers of the fortress. Obviously, the lady was entitled to greater status. As he climbed the stairs, he felt the stirrings of Fountain magic. Worry welled in the pit of his stomach. Was the woman Fountain-blessed? Or had she recovered one of the lost relics of the Deep Fathoms?

After a quick climb, they reached the top of the stairs. Two servants stood outside the door, each with a curved saber fixed to his belt. The one guiding Ransom opened the door and let him in.

He was struck by the spicy perfume that hung in the air. Standing at the far side of the room was the woman in the mask of silver and gold.

“Iss kamare se chale jao,” said the woman with a flick of her fingers.

The servant dropped to his knees and stretched out flat on the floor before rising and leaving the room. Alone in the masked woman’s presence, Ransom sensed the depth and range of the power she wielded. It was so immense his own magic trembled in its presence.

“I do not speak your language,” Ransom said.

“I speak yours,” she answered curtly. Her Occitanian accent caught him off guard. He could see her eyes through the mask, but the other things that gave a person away—her mouth, her nose, the crease between her brows—were all hidden. It put him at a decided disadvantage.

“Why did you summon me?” he asked her.

She stared at him, the mask showing nothing. He felt a foreign surge of emotions again, as he had earlier, and noticed her eyes had begun to flash silver behind the mask. A twisting sensation gripped his stomach. He realized she was making him feel uncomfortable.

“Who are you?” he asked, bothered by the intrusion into his feelings. Something about it felt familiar. He didn’t understand why, but he felt he’d been in this situation before. He was about to turn and head for the door when she reached up and lifted the mask from her face.

It was Noemie Vertus, Estian the Black’s sister.





Once again, I have a deep foreboding about Ransom. Not that he’s unfaithful but that he is in grave danger. I despise the voice that whispers worries into my ear in the dark, moonless night. Ransom is so far away from me. I hold my swollen belly and fear my husband will not come home, that the child in my womb will not know its father. These troubling thoughts often come in the still of night, when the work of the day cannot distract me from them. The voice whispers that it all will end badly, that the Brugians are capricious and so is fate. That Ransom may be a warrior like no other, but he is still just a man.

Jon-Landon has taken the city of Kingfountain. There is to be a marriage between him and DeVaux’s daughter at the sanctuary of Our Lady. Some say he will turn the wedding into a coronation. The hollow crown is locked in a vault in the palace. Yet he just may have another forged in its stead. Winter is coming. This is the chance he’s been waiting for.

Léa DeVaux is so young. Does she realize how capricious Jon-Landon is?

—Claire de Murrow

Glosstyr

(sleepless, anxious, restless)





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE


A Fact of Loyalty


Have you missed me, Ransom?” Noemie asked. Her tone lacked any intonation, and he couldn’t tell if she was trying to be playful or vengeful. A storm of memories broke over him, causing him to relive some of the darkest hours of his life. This was the woman he’d been accused of seducing, when in truth she was the one who’d attempted—and failed—to seduce him. More than once.

He ignored her question. “There were rumors you’d gone to the East Kingdoms,” he said warily, shaking his head.

Another surge of feeling struck his chest—her feelings, he realized, or ones she was compelling him to experience—accompanied by a rush of tainted Fountain magic. Dark thoughts began to swirl in his mind, unbidden.

“Yes, if I couldn’t be Queen of Ceredigion, I decided I’d rule elsewhere. The people in the East Kingdoms are less . . . sanctimonious. Power is what they crave. And they brook no rivals. It is an ancient land.” Her eyes continued to glow silver, which gave her an otherworldly aspect that made him inwardly cringe. This was magic he did not understand and felt powerless against.

“Were you behind this war?” he asked.

A knowing smile came to her beautiful mouth. “I will answer all your questions, Ransom, but not now. You will come to me at midnight, as you refused to do before. If you want best to serve your king, you will do exactly as I say.”

She had demanded this of him before, and in the past, he’d refused. This time, his knees felt weak, and he nearly gasped as another spasm of emotion tore through him. His will was bending.

The look on Noemie’s face was one of triumph. She knew the sway she held over him, and she gloated in it. “Midnight, Ransom. You will come at midnight.”

He tried to deny her, to say the words of refusal he knew he should utter. But then he heard a whisper in his mind. It was so soft, it couldn’t have been louder than a breath.

Go at midnight.

He didn’t understand what was being asked of him, but the gentle guidance came from a different source from the hurricane of emotions emanating from Noemie.

The voice had spoken to him.

“I will,” he heard himself say, and then he felt tears prick his eyes. Tears of shame.

With a satisfied toss of her head, she dismissed him.

He staggered down the stairwell before he came to his senses again, sweat dripping down his ribs and trickling down his cheeks. Guilt and terror battled inside his chest. Was he utterly mad? What if the voice he’d heard—the one that had bid him go to her—had been hers after all?

Returning to see her in the middle of the night would go against every principle he’d sworn to uphold when he became a knight. He almost turned around and marched back up the stairs, but he feared the power she wielded against his emotions. He paused to rest on the stairwell, his feelings galloping like a runaway destrier without any reins or bridle.

When he returned to his room, he walked straight past the others, poured some water in the basin, and splashed his face with it. They could clearly sense his agitation and held silent until he had mastered himself enough to speak. Grabbing a towel, he wiped his face and then his neck.