It seemed so long ago that he’d come here with his sack of modest offerings, hoping to help her pass the night more easily. Even then he had instinctively doubted Althalos’s words. He should have listened to his gut.
Otto wandered over to the table, which had yet to be cleared. No servants came in here; it was his own private domain. He wrinkled his nose at the stale bread and wizened, moldy berries. Clearly Ariana had been stolen away before she could satisfy her hunger. He hoped she was well-fed, wherever Sir Leon had hidden her.
A roll of parchment was at his feet. He bent to pick it up, starting in recognition at the vivid image etched onto it with charcoal. It was smudged, the lines drawn hurriedly, but its meaning was clear. Otto’s hands trembled as he gazed down at Ariana’s depiction of him: a man, not a warrior.
A man at peace.
A man drawn with love.
Any remaining doubts as to whether Ariana wanted a future here in Darkmoor evaporated like morning mist.
Otto placed the drawing reverently on the table and stood back, drinking it in.
His resolution was clear-cut and shining, like the brightest jewel in the vaults. He would rescue Ariana and bring her back to Darkmoor. And he would rule his estate in his own way, no longer suffering misplaced doubts about his own moral code.
Otto fished in his pocket for the token Ariana had given him at the long-ago joust. He clenched it inside his fist, drawing strength from the memory.
A man could be both a warrior and a husband. Could live a peaceable life but stand up against his enemies.
He pressed his lips to the token, then returned it to his pocket and drew his palm over the familiar hilt of his sword. He had done enough thinking on this matter. It was time to act.
Chapter Eighteen
Ariana gazed outof her narrow window to confirm that nothing had changed, that no armored warriors were descending across the moors, then she resumed her frantic pacing of the chamber.
She had grown weary of sitting around and waiting to be rescued.
Somewhere between waking up and breaking her fast with the usual meager offering of small ale and stale bread, the unrelenting tedium of her incarceration had become too much to bear. She needed something to happen.Anything.If it meant putting herself in fresh danger…
So be it.
She dressed quickly in a plain tunic, belted at the waist and ornamented with Otto’s broach. Her hair, she plaited into a long braid over her shoulder, securing it with a faded ribbon plucked from a pile at the bottom of her closet. Rummaging further, she was pleased to find an old pair of goatskin shoes which she dimly remembered wearing several summers past. They were cracked at the soles, but far better than nothing.
She felt better for being up and properly attired. More herself. As if she’d shaken off her sluggish despair along with her bed linens.
When her father had given the order for Ariana to be locked in her chamber, he’d made provision for her temporary release each morning to take the air in the inner courtyard. Up untilnow, Ariana had ignored the guard when he came to escort her, turning her face to the bare wall and waiting for him to go away. But today, as soon as she heard the key turn in the lock, she rushed towards the door with the brightest smile she could muster.
“Good morn,” she greeted the dour-faced guard.
He pursed his lips. “I am come to take you for your walk, milady.”
She nodded graciously. “And I am pleased to accept.”
The guard stood aside to allow her to pass out into the narrow stone stairwell. “You can walk afore me, milady. But know that there are men stationed all over the keep. It would not be wise for you to try to run.”
“No indeed.” Ariana cast another smile over her shoulder. “I shall not run.”
Their progress was slow down the steep turns of the tower, and Ariana was glad of her shoes on the cold, worn steps. When they reached the antechamber at the bottom, she paused. “Where are we to walk?” She already knew the answer, but she was playing for time until she could formulate a plan.
“The inner courtyard.”
“How pleasant.” She offered the man her arm, and he was too surprised to do anything but accept it.
They progressed together out of the main doors and out into a brisk breeze which whipped up Ariana’s plait and made her eyes water. The inner courtyard was a grand term for a patch of rough grass, across which smoke from the bakehouse billowed. But Ariana’s gaze had shifted to another section of the castle. At last, she settled on her goal.
“Is my father in his solar?” she asked nonchalantly.
“I cannot say, milady.”
