Setup:
Lady Linnet Norwood is the whispered scandal of the Tudor
court. Attacked in an abandoned courtyard by a fool in motley and a mute giant,
she is trapped and desperate when a stranger arrives…
* *
*
Someone else now commanded the
courtyard—a lithe shadow clad in jet and glittering jewels. God love her, could
this be rescue?
This was no ragged vagabond,
not with a nobleman’s short cape slung fashionably over one shoulder and pinned
with a starburst ruby the size of her fist, or the wicked rapier like a streak
of silver fire that swung at his lean hip. A spill of raven hair poured around
his shoulders beneath a dashing plumed hat as he stalked toward Linnet, silent
and graceful as a cat on the icy stone. Silhouetted against the swirling snow,
his slender frame seemed almost to glow with a nimbus of pearly light.
Before her, the giant groaned
and fell to one knee, ham-like hands clutching his wounded thigh. Ribbons of
blood snaked through his dirty fingers. His vacant eyes stared up at her,
uncomprehending and somehow tragic.
Suddenly the fool was there—so
close!—hopping into the wagon. Linnet cried out and swung around, raising her
blood-daubed pitchfork with its lone tine. But the fool was staring at the
fallen giant in dismay.
“What’s this, little bird? What
have you done to my poor Burl?”
Silent as a spirit, the
glittering nobleman materialized before the wagon, cape rippling like ebony
wings around his shoulders. Close enough now to glimpse the face beneath his
fashionable brim—all slanted cheekbones and angular jaw and a mouth to make any
woman blush. Beneath a dramatic sweep of jet-black brows, his long lashes were
lowered, eyes hidden as he gazed down on the fallen Burl.
Then that mobile mouth curled
upward, as though he mocked the death spilling into the straw at his elegantly
booted feet.
A heavy gauntlet, stitched in
silver, hung crushed from a careless hand. As he watched, he slapped the glove
idly against his thigh. She would have said he looked bored,
a jaded playgoer enduring a familiar script performed by mediocre players.
The quality of light under
these pewter skies lent his fair skin a pearlescent gleam, as though he glowed.
His cloak unfurled in the air behind him, and that lush banner of hair rippled
around his shoulders—even when there was no wind.
Both she and the fool were
riveted.
The fool recovered first.
“Who are you? Some friend of
the little bird’s?”
The stranger never lifted his
gaze from the crippled giant, huddled in a spreading pool of crimson. But his
sullen, exquisite face seemed to brood.
“I’m no man’s friend, and no
woman’s. Mine is the face you see when it’s time for you to die.”
Linnet’s breath caught in her
throat. At odds with the terrifying words, the music of his voice enchanted
her. A silken tenor that caressed the ear, finer than any troubadour’s,
flavored with a foreign accent. He spoke as though he sang, more beautifully
than the Queen’s own choir.
The rippling magick of that
voice sent chills down her spine and gooseflesh across her skin. Like the
Merlin in the Summer Lands, he could sing the very stones into dancing…
But nay, she’d only dreamed
that. There were no Fae and no Merlins in the world anymore. Any other belief
led straight back to madness.
The fool shifted, as though he
too sensed this strange enchantment. “If you’re no friend of hers, then you’ve
no interest in this business. Forget what you’ve seen here, and my master may
well forgive you.”
“Forgiveness,” the stranger
mused, “is a vastly overrated virtue. Ask any soul in Hell. I care naught for
forgiveness, Master Rune, son of Rudyard.”
The fool stiffened. “How do
you…I’ve spoken my father’s name to no man since…”
“Since the night you drew the
blade across his throat as he slept, and sent him to Hell with his own skinning
knife?” the stranger murmured. “Yes, I know.”
“Curse you!” the fool exploded.
His hand shook as he extended the hatchet to point, though the stranger never
lifted his gaze from the dying Burl. “Curse you and begone!”
“Save your breath. I’m
thoroughly cursed already.” The stranger’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile.
At his feet, the giant
convulsed. Sweeping his cape behind him with a practiced flourish, he laid his
bare hand on Burl’s shaven head—a gesture that looked strangely like
benediction. Blood-colored rubies glittered on his graceful fingers.
Before Linnet’s astonished
gaze, the stranger glowed as though the moon were rising
behind his pale skin.
“Be at ease, Burl, son of
Grufydd,” he whispered. “For you suffered greatly in life, and killed without
malice to feed your ailing mother. Someone will make a case for you.” He
paused. “If I were you, I’d ask for Gabriele. Avoid Michael like the smallpox.”
Even at such a moment, with the
man himself speaking nonsense, he flashed a grin that was pure mischief.
A novel sensation fluttered low
in her belly. For no earthly reason, her heart lifted. For one mad instant, she
nearly smiled herself.
Beneath the light touch, the
man called Burl heaved a breath and stilled. She could almost see the life
leaving the giant’s body, a coincidence as well timed as though the stranger
had planned it.
Despite her fascination with
the scene playing out before her, the shock of that death hit her.
She had killed a man. Again.
Never mind that she’d acted in
self-defense. How many misdeeds could she hide behind that fig leaf? Murder was
a mortal sin. When she confessed for Jasper, the nuns at Glencross Abbey had
feared for her soul.
“Sweet blessed Bride.”
Wretched, she shifted her pitchfork to cross herself. “I’m going straight to
Hell for certain.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Looking
thoughtful, the stranger quirked a brow. “Not at my hand.”
