King's Warrior (Renegade Lords)

“Everyone needs to know such things, Maggie. The world is full to the throat of badness, choking on it, even among the great. Especially among the great,” he added in a voice so full of bitterness she knew at once this was not a philosophic attitude, but a very personal knowledge. The sort that came from deep affection, and deep betrayal.

Unless Sherwood had done something that had once spawned affection in Tadhg, which she sincerely doubted, that meant someone else in his life had once been great. Then failed him terribly.

He pushed to his feet. “Time to go.”

She tried to push up too, but her body rebelled. Her muscles did not want to obey. She might have whimpered. His hand curled under her elbow and lifted her to her feet, then slid down until his fingers twined around hers.

“I will help,” he promised.

BACK AT THE GATES of Saleté de Mer, a bleak sun rose on Baron Sherwood, who watched in mounting fury as his men, sans Wiley, who sat under a blanket, shivering blue and dripping wet, turned the small gatehouse barracks upside down. Now, defeated in their search, they stood in front of him in a line, empty-handed and shame-faced.

“Couldn’t find them anywhere, my lord,” muttered one of them, eyes averted. On the bench, Wiley groaned softly.

Sherwood’s jaw worked, then he spun away and kicked a water bucket as he bellowed, “Someone find me or make me a set of goddamned gate keys!”

Chapter Fifteen

MAGGIE’S PRESENCE DID EXACTLY as Tadhg had intended it to: got them through the gates of the little port town of Cîté de Rosé without attracting any attention.

There were the usual questions by the porter, but when Tadhg indicated they were visiting family, and Maggie supplied a name—“Edwin Needleman,” she informed the gateman, meeting Tadhg’s gaze over the man’s shoulder with a faint shrug; he’d replied with a faint smile—and after paying the pittance of a toll, they passed through the gates with nary a look, other than the scorching one the porter sent down Maggie’s body.

“Head down,” Tadhg murmured, tamping on the unprecedented and powerful jealousy that rose up inside him.

Beside him, Maggie bent her head and followed in his wake.

Unfortunately, while her presence may have got them through the gates, it could not get them on a ship. Nothing, not even a writ from God on high, would have done that today. Not here. For this quay was all but shut down, just as it had been in Saleté de Mer, but not by an order from Sherwood. By an army.

Soldiers were everywhere, climbing ladders on and off ships and into portage boats, while servants and underlings and dockhands and ship’s crewmembers rushed to and fro along the waterfront, carrying loads of well-wrapped canvas bundles, pushing carts filled with heavy chests, and attempting to lead spooked, balky horses into the belly of great ships set at anchor, further out in the bay.

Tadhg stared, his blood turning cold as it pumped through his veins in thick pulses.

At his side, Magdalena whispered, “Good God.”

Tadhg backed them into the shadows, gripping her hand tight, ready to flee onward again.

Her soft hand on his arm stopped him. “I know someone here in this little town.”

He snapped his gaze down. “What sort of someone?”

“The sort who can help us. Help you. It would take but a moment.”

“I do not have a moment, Maggie. We must go.”

“Please, Tadhg.” Her soft words made him pause. “May we not speak with him?” She folded her fingers over the leather gauntlet laced around his forearm. The cuir bouilli was sturdy enough to block cutting blows from swords and shield, but he could feel Maggie’s light touch through it. It stopped him in his tracks.

“Come with me. Trust me,” she urged softly, her eyes dark and sincere, and he did, following her deeper into the town busy town streets.

“Who is this person?” he demanded as they turned up a wide, cobbled avenue. Expensive shops lined the streets, and other people milled in and out. Still, Tadhg felt exposed.

“I have already mentioned his name, at the gates. Edwin Needleman.”

“I thought the name a ruse.”

“I do not have ‘ruses’,” she replied placidly. “Yes, here is Tailor’s Row.”

“A tailor? A tailor can help us?”

“Yes, and here is his shop.” She emitted a little satisfied sound.