King's Warrior (Renegade Lords)

She forced her lungs to draw breath. “Let me in and I will tell you.” Being a widowed merchant had its boons. For instance, after the initial shock passed, one learned not to let oneself be pushed around even by black cyclones. One simply pushed back.

But this one made no response. Perhaps he was not the pushable sort.

He bent his head to the side, his regard close as it swept over her and her mismatched clothes, then across her face, stilling on her cheekbone. “What happened to you?” he finally said.

She touched her cheek, taken aback. These outlaws kept noticing hurts she’d forgotten about. “Let me in and I will tell you.”

“Where is Tadhg?”

“Let me in—”

“In then.’” He stepped back. “And swiftly. But you might wish I had not, when Fáelán sees you.”

She again climbed the rickety stairs, again sat in the room stacked with treasure, beneath a wall hung with weapons. Again, she was left alone. Again the wealth was shocking.

In the brazier, ash shifted and settled with a breathy sigh.

A bootstep scraped into the room. She looked up into the ebony eyes of the cold one.

“He will see you.”

Her breath thinned as she followed him to the end of the hall, past window after window, and three fireplaces, to the far end, behind a tapestry hung as a door. She glanced at her escort. He nodded at the curtain. She pushed it aside and ducked in.

The room was folded in darkness. There, seated before a low fire, in a large, low seat, a bootheel up on a low table before him, sat the outlaw leader, the one who’d thrown the dagger at the wall.

A wedge of white light cut into the dimly lit room and he turned, his pale eyes lanced through her. “Why have you come?” he said in a low, cold voice.

Trembling, she crossed the room and looked down at him. This band of rogues and mischief-makers all captivated, but this one was almost spellbinding, with his pale eyes and cold fury and…as she stared, she slowly realized his neck was covered by swirling, painted lines.

“What do you want?” he said in a low, cold voice.

Behind her, the other two came into the room and stood, each with a shoulder to the wall, watching in silence.

“You are Fáelán,” she said softly. “Tadhg told me of you. I am Magdalena, of Saleté de Mer. You would not know this town; it is a small sea port in France, filled with corrupt men and a great many little boats.”

He looked her over. “You are a long way from home.”

“It is not my home. Indeed, I am presently trying to get to my home.”

“And where is that?”

“Wherever your brother is.” She slid the dagger from its sheath and laid it on the low table. “You may have this.”

He didn’t look down at it. “In return for what?”

“You must help me rescue your brother. He has been captured.” She heard one of the men behind her push off the wall. She did not turn.

Fáelán reached out and touched a callused finger to the dagger’s ruby hilt. “Do you know how much the prince would pay for news of Tadhg’s whereabouts?” he asked quietly. “Or the French king?”

She stared the finger touching the dagger. His hands were wide, strong, calloused, capable. Like Tadhg’s. A dangerous man.

“We could settle a great many debts, with the mention of one name,” he said.

“You would not,” she replied, matching his low, cold tone. Yet if Tadhg had spoken true, he would indeed do such a thing.

Fáelán lifted an eyebrow. “Aye, I would.”

“He would indeed,” concurred the tawny giant from his lazy slouch against the wall.