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Lady Sara was no girl, and he was the lucky one to have their support. But Court remained silent. Almain was both older and, if the rumors were true, crueler than the new king. He was not a man to be trifled with.

“You must be tired from your journey,” he said, still unsure why that journey had been made. “Would you like—”

“What I would like,” Almain said, “is to know when Moordon Castle will be ours.”

* * *

Nay, it could not be!

Moordon Castle? It had no men to speak of—certainly not enough to pose a threat to Camburg, or England—and it would have long since fallen into disrepair if it weren’t for her father.

Did Court know it was theirs? Is that why he’d refused to reveal the location to her?

When Court’s guest had walked into the hall, a chill had coursed through her at once, so powerful it had nearly brought her to the ground. Certainly her ability had grown stronger since the mark had appeared and she’d first come into contact with the stone. But this was . . . indescribable. When the English earl had walked by her, she’d struggled even to stand. Marion had no doubt this man intended to do harm. To her? To her country?

And then the man had mentioned Moordon, and thankfully, she began to feel herself once more. Because she would have to act, and quickly. Her own cousin had been sent to Moordon when the king granted it to her father asking for him only to restore the ancient holding to its former glory. But why the regent would want—

Its position.

Moordon was not valuable, but its position at the threshold of strategic holdings was very much so. Did this mean Edward would break the thirty-year truce? Did he intend to wage open war with Scotland once again?

“Your Grace, I believe we should discuss—”

“Discuss?” Almain spat out, his contempt for Court’s words apparent.

Marion’s hands began to shake as she watched the proceedings. How could she have so completely misjudged him? She’d nearly given herself to a man who would attack her own people . . . What had she been thinking?

You were not.

She’d allowed the man who’d stolen the stone to edge his way into her heart. In doing so, she’d failed to fulfill her destiny. Marion had failed miserably at the one thing she was supposed to do well.

“Well,” Almain pressed. “When do you attack? I’ve brought some of my own men to ensure victory. You still want Halbury, do you not? And an heiress to go with it?”

Court’s eyes met hers.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

The traitorous English bastard. The son of Satan. How could she have trusted him? Listened to him?

Fallen in love with him?

He could keep the damned stone. Marion had to warn her people.

She fled the room, running as quickly as her feet would carry her, out of the hall and into the courtyard. How could she have been so utterly foolish? She should have . . . what? Stolen the stone? Court was too intelligent to have allowed that to happen. Seduced him first and then stolen it? Injured him and taken it by force?

She chided herself even as the thought crossed her mind. But certainly the worst thing she could have done was wait around for him, trusting him and believing, even for a moment, that he’d begun to care more for her than his own ambitions.

Fool. You are a fool.

“Pardon,” she said to one of the gatehouse guards. Trying to keep her voice calm, she inquired after her men.

“They are just above,” a young knight, mayhap even a squire, said. He disappeared and emerged a short time later.

“What’s wrong?” Kenneth said.

They didn’t have much time. Moordon needed to be warned.

“We must leave,” she said. “Now.”