The Conqueror

liest lessons: how to wield a sword, the right way to carve a duck, the importance of laughing at oneself.

Oath-breaker.

Liar.

Betrayer.

His hand went to the key around his neck. Your inheritance. I am sorry, Griffyn’s father had whispered, then died. About time, too. Past time.

His father’s half-mad ravings those last few years had been awful, and unbelievable. His violence more awful and unbelievable yet.

Griffyn no longer had time for the rages of old men, deformed by greed and cunning too long practiced. Everoot was his inheritance, and this little iron weight around his neck was surely not the key to the castle. That rested in his name and sword arm. And he was finished with people standing in his way.

He felt like pounding the wall. He smashed his fingers through his hair and sat forward, grinding his elbows into the tops of his knees. What, then? Ionnes de l’Ami was dead, so he was to wreak his vengeance on a woman who was two at the time of the betrayal?

To what end? he asked himself bleakly. Stake her up by the fingernails and she still wouldn’t be the one who’d hurt him.

He stared down at his fists.

Every truth he’d ever believed, every person he’d ever trusted, every lesson he’d ever learned, had turned out to be false. How could she ever be the exception?

Everyone got infected with the sickness of soul. Everyone who knew of the hallowed treasure in Everoot’s vaults got corrupted, deformed. Ruined.

Which brought him sharply around to Marcus fitzMiles. Endshire was sniffing around Everoot’s skirts, was he? If men at their best were greedy and corrupt, Marcus was a worm in the muck. Let him try to batter the Nest—she had defences Marcus hadn’t dreamed of.

Griffyn sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowed in on the candle flame. The old King Henri had put Marcus’s father, Miles, into a baronage because the wily royal dog saw the virtue of keeping his enemies close to hand. It was a prudent move. Not prudent enough, though.

First father, then son, had taken several vows to honour the old king’s daughter Mathilda as successor, as had the rest of the English nobility. Then, when it suited his purposes, Marcus had turned to King Stephen. As had the rest. And, when it further suited his purposes, he set himself to imprison beautiful women and stock his own coffers forthwith.

Henri fitzEmpress would be coming to take back the land of traitors exactly like d’Endshire. Griffyn suddenly decided he’d ask to ride in the van the day the army rode north and set fire to fitzMiles’s keep.

His gaze drifted back down to the sleeping beauty in his bed. When had he last laughed from the depth of his gut? When last had his blood pounded and spun his head from pure, perfect passion? When had he last been surprised, intrigued, impressed by a woman? Not in all the bloody long days of his life.

He would burn d’Endshire to the ground.

Half an hour later, as he watched with a half-drawn lid, his thoughts far from his bedside vigil, her eyelids fluttered open.

Chapter Seventeen

It was the crash of thunder that awakened her. Gwyn dragged her eyes open. A pale, uncanny light illuminated the room. Not yet dawn, but that was all she knew for certes. Such an awakening could be hours away, or a moment. Or never. The darkness was secretive and alarming.

Where was she?

She lifted her hands into the air. They were pale, shadowy things in the firelit chamber. Moving her head to the left showed more darkness.

“Where am I?” she whispered.

“Safe,” came the murmured reply. She looked to her right. A dark hulk slumped on a bench against the wall, but his eyes glinted firelight as he watched her. Everything rushed back.

The Nest besieged, Marcus’s absurd, dangerous proposal, the attack on the highway, her saviour, Saxons and Hipping, dream-like wandering through hidden paths. What a mysterious night, clogged with phantasms and caped heroes. And searing kisses, straight to the centre of her soul.

This last thought swept the cobwebs away entirely. Pushing aside the heavy weight of furs, she swung her legs out.

Her sore muscles had stiffened while she slept, and the sudden movement sent them screaming in protest. She dropped back to the pillows with a small cry.

Griffyn watched from the bench without moving. “Lie back,” he ordered in a quiet voice.

She nodded obediently. The soft, rough sound of hair moving against linen accompanied her nod. An arc of hair puffed above her head on the pillow, fine strands of black silk that reflected the glimmering candlelight in the room. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks puffy and creased red from the pillow. A rather large bump on her head had swelled to noteworthy proportions already, but Griffyn’s experience with battle injuries told him it would be fine. Her hand fluttered towards her head and found the nub.