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She backed up to the edge of the bed, up against the wall, grappling for her bedclothes.
He came in, looked her over, then reached for her chemise and tossed it to her. She grabbed it, drew it over her head, then climbed out of the bed, snatching the iron poker from the brazier as she went.
“What have you done to him?” she demanded.
“Nothing.” He came into the room and, as he passed the brazier, tossed a new brick of peat on the coals, then sat down in the small x-chair beside it.
In the newly flaring firelight, she caught sight of his face. A horrid, raw wound disfigured one entire side of it. Tadhg had done that.
He looked at her silently for a minute, the way she stood with the poker half-raised, fending him off, then glanced around the room, at the tepid tub, her slippers, one tumbled over the other, her tangled chemise laying in a heap—all the clear signs of passion—and sighed.
“It is time to rip off the blindfold,” he said in a sad voice. “What has Tadhg told you, Magdalena?” He sounded infinitely patient. “Has he told you reasonable, understandable things?” He lowered his voice. “Or has he told you outrageous, incredible things, and tried to make them seem reasonable?”
She thrust up her chin. “He has told me you are a lying pig. That seemed entirely reasonable to me.”
It was madness to oppose him so bluntly, so insultingly, but tiredness, shock, and anger had stripped her to her essential elements, and that apparently was loyalty to Tadhg. And open defiance. And insults.
But Sherwood only smiled. Perhaps because he was not afraid of her paltry insulting defiance, as it meant nothing. He was entirely like Bayard, simply with more power to wield. But just as petty, just as bullying.
And this time, she had no recourse. She had no Tadhg.
Where was he?
Her mind set itself to this new problem as Sherwood spoke again. “You are devoted to the Irish brigand, mistress, so let me tell you about Tadhg. I have known him many years. To be blunt, he is a criminal and a liar.”
“And you, sir, are a traitor to your king.”
“Look to the evidence for the truth, Magdalena. You are too smart to ignore them. Does Tadhg not steal as easily as he blinks? Lie as he breathes? Is charm not a way of life for him, getting him everything he wants?” The baron’s eyes skimmed down her gown. “Everything.”
She looked away.
“What did he tell you of the dagger?”
She said nothing.
“It is the king’s.”
“I know that.”
“Do you know he stole it?
She shook her head. “Why are we speaking of this? We both know the truth. What do you want?”
“I want you to listen to reason. He did steal it. Took it from the king just as he was captured. Oh, yes, the word is spreading, King Richard has been captured, sold to the Holy Roman Emperor, and will be ransomed for an outrageous, kingdom-beggaring sum. But when the king was at his lowest, sickest, most vulnerable, Tadhg took the one thing that can rip the kingdom from the fair king’s hands, and ran. I have been chasing him ever since.”
She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “Yes, I see. That means Tadhg spoke the truth in everything. For he said every one of those things you just did. He took the dagger from the king—although the king handed it to him—just before he was captured, by soldiers you brought, and then, when the king was at his lowest, his sickest, Tadhg took from him the one thing that can rip the kingdom from his hands and ran…from you.” Their eyes met. “And you have been chasing him ever since.”
His jaw worked. “Tell me, mistress, what proof do you have of the stories Tadhg told?”
She tapped her chest.
“I see.” He leaned forward, a forearm slung over his knee. “Whereas I offer you the proof of kings. I tell you, madame, the law is after him. A king, a prince, and me. Does that measure nothing against the lies of your outlaw?”
“Nothing.”
Something flashed in his eye, perhaps respect, perhaps fury. Perhaps both.
“Then consider this, Mistress Magdalena: whether or no you like the definitions of the terms, you will see that you, very personally, are now engaged in treason too.”
