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Doesn’t he know he’s playing a dangerous game?
He trusted her, at least a little.
Just enough to fill her with an irrational guilt.
And just enough to leave her an opening.
Blanchette sped to the end of the bridge, the wind thrashing at her cheeks and fluttering her red hood.
The tower of the rookery came into sight; she picked up her stride and lifted a torch from a sconce to illuminate the frosty darkness better.
“Slow down there, milady,” a masculine voice commanded. Blanchette’s breath hitched as she met the speaker’s face, then she felt the blood drain from her cheeks. Sir Jamie Oswald had been a soldier of her father’s. He’d fought beside him on the battlefields, had jousted against him at tourneys—and he’d turned his cloak to side with the rebels.
With the Black Wolf of Norland.
“Sir Jamie,” she said, her voice slow and careful but not without a bite.
He had the decency to look down. He bent into a shallow bow, his eyes still averted. “Princess, it’s unsafe for you to wander alone. Come?—”
Blanchette shoved at his hand and took three steps backward. “You are correct that it’s not safe,” she said, her voice sharpening. “And this is still my home, sir. I shall wander wherever it pleases me.”
Something darkened in his gaze. He closed the space between them and reached for her arm again, a bit too forcefully. “This is no fairy tale. Rowan Dietrich took this castle, and to him alone it belongs.”
Blanchette whipped the torch at his grasping hand. He wheeled back with a curse, allowing her enough time to speed toward the rookery. Rage bubbled inside her and pumped her veins with battle fever. She felt for her dagger, buried inside her red cloak, and filled her hand with it. She prayed she wouldn’t have to use it, but seeing Sir Jamie had sparked an inferno inside her soul.
She’d stop at nothing to see this carried out.
No more soldiers or guards rushed at her or stopped her as she continued onward. Not when she crossed the bailey and watchtower, then headed to the dark and jutting rookery tower. Urgency fired her steps. She smoothed the red riding hood over her head and nervously meddled with the lace. Her steps doubled their pace… and the frantic beat of her heart as well.
She glanced over her shoulder, paranoid she was being followed. She was convinced she’d turn and find Sir Edrick just behind her, his eyes victorious, or Smoke readying to pounce.
She raced up the winding stairwell and found herself in a circular tower with stacked cages. The pigeons cooed and flapped their gray wings at her appearance. Their mad fluttering echoed the rhythm of her heart.
She had only minutes before she’d be found.
Blanchette dug the parchment from her cloak and took one last glance at her handwriting.
My dearest Isadora,
Come quickly. I shall try to escape from the Black Wolf’s jaws myself but come, regardless.
Take back what is ours.
We are at your and King Adam’s mercy.
Your loving sister
With a deep breath, she opened the cage belonging to the capital of Demrov, grabbed a pigeon, and carefully tied the parchment to its leg with unsteady hands. It bobbed its dark head and cooed.
“Fly,” she commanded, and the pigeon flew.
* * *
Fifteen years earlier
The clang of swords and the cries of men filled the air as Rowan Dietrich knelt before the king on the grisly battlefield. The smell of smoke and the metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air, and the sound of wounded men groaning in pain rose around him.
Rowan felt the weight of Bartholomew’s sword on his shoulder as the king knighted him. The cold metal sent frissons down his spine. He looked up to see the king’s stern face, etched with the lines of battle and determination. Bartholomew’s eyes met his, and for a moment, Rowan felt as if he could see the weight of the kingdom’s troubles in them.
