King's Warrior (Renegade Lords)

“Well, Lóegaire, you are a fine outlaw’s cook,” she told him.

He nodded and swung his feet off the bench as they talked, as ten-year-olds-or-thereabouts were wont to do. If he was a hostage, he a well-treated one. And a wealthy one. Or the child of a wealthy someone.

She was just about to ask a question when a low roll of banked fury came from the far end of the room where the men sat. There were no shouts, no raised voices, but it rolled through the length of the apartment like thunder.

Magdalena and the boy got to their feet and turned in time to see a dagger fly through the air and embed itself in a wooden beam. It stuck there, shuddering.

“Son of a bitch,” the boy muttered, and slipped away.

A tall, long-haired man came striding out and, without looking at her, turned and disappeared into a far room. A moment later Tadhg came striding toward her, his face fixed and merciless.

“We’re off, then,” he said tightly, and took her hand, leaving the steaming bowl of soup behind.

Chapter Forty-Two

THEY SWEPT down the street as though carried on a wave. Magdalena’s skirts swirled around her ankles and the veil belled out behind her, the fur-lined hood hanging down her back.

“Where are we going?” she asked, half breathless as they turned a corner. The sun was about to set, and light spread in a glorious wash across the horizon, but overhead, there were clouds. Snowflakes were beginning to drift down.

“An inn. A very fine inn. I promised you a bath tonight, did I not?” Tadhg’s words were lightly spoken, as if his usual charming self, but underneath lay a cold tension, hard like stone.

“Yes, but—”

“Only the finest for you, Maggie.” The smile he turned on her was thin as a knife.

She tried to stop their headlong trek through the streets. “Tadhg, what happened back there?”

He tugged her forward again, gently but irresistibly. “Come, we must hurry. They will stop taking guests soon, when the sun falls.”

Candles were appearing in windows above, and nighttime coldness moving in. “But we have no have money.” She reached for his arm, trying to force him to stop. “Listen to me. We will be turned away—”

He stopped short and instead of her holding him by the arms, it was she who was locked in a firm grip, her elbows bent in, her body drawn up against his. “You will have a bath tonight, Maggie,” he said fiercely.

Her eyes searched his. “This has naught to do with a bath,” she understood softly. “Tadhg I do not need you to keep such a whimsical promise—”

His eyes, heretofore abstracted, locked on her with grim intensity. “It is not a whim.”

She loosed a breath, half sigh, half distress. She’d seen Tadhg hard, she’d seen him merciless, but she’d never seen this…this…stone cold fury.

That is what he was. Furious.

With forcible effort, he relaxed his jaw and assembled his face into another faux smile.

She did not like his false smiles.

“Now,” he tugged down on her gown and straightened the veil over her head. “Behind me stands the Dove’s Inn. It is a quality establishment. They take only the finest guests. So look stern,” he said, and turned to push the door open. “And gravely disappointed.”

They stepped into a small vestibule. A low archway separated the receiving area from a firelit common room beyond. A huge fire roared in the large grate, and many of the tables had guests arrayed around. Pilgrims and visitors, merchants on fair circuit, they were all clearly wealthy, the evidence in their clothes and the food on the table.

Tadhg propelled Maggie to a high counter at the back of the entryway, where a man sat on a high stool. “The baroness,” he said, as if there was only one baroness in all the realm, “has arrived.”

The hostler blinked at Maggie, who was doing all she could to look high-born and haughty. His nose twitched like a bunny, then he rested an elbow on the high counter and leaned closer to Tadhg.

“Truth to tell sir, I’ve no recollection of a baroness.”

“Then your recollection is faulty.” Tadhg tossed a pouch on the counter with the careless gesture of one who had dozens more similar bags to toss, should they be required.

Which he certainly might, for this pouch contained half a dozen barbettes that he’d stolen earlier in the day.