Forbidden Warrior (Midsummer Knights)
Page 40
She lifted her chin, all defiance and beauty…and trickery?
“Tell me what you know,” he said softly.
“I know nothing of what foul dish you and my father have cooked up—”
“No. About my sword.”
Her body shifted but she did not try to move away. “Recently my father spoke of a sword that had come into his possession.”
Máel’s hands tightened. Come into his possession. The passivity of it infuriated, the way it sounded as if his sword had been magically transported into d’Argent’s coffers. He stilled the urge to smash something into small, broken bits.
“What did he say of it? How do you know it is mine?”
“He said it was a large sword. Very large.”
“And?”
“That it was old.”
“And?”
“It had a black pearl in the hilt.”
“And?”
“That there were spells wound about it.” Her eyes reflected moonlight as she stared up at him. “I do not know what sort of spells.”
“The sort that destroys Englishmen.”
She started, just a small thing, but it made her shift under his hands. He tightened his grip to prevent another mad chase through the woods.
“Anything else?”
“He said it was worth more than a small kingdom.” She paused. “He said it was worth more than me.”
“He’s right.”
That did make her struggle, but it was short-lived as he clamped his arm around the small of her back. “Anything else?”
She inhaled deeply, pushing her breasts up against his armor. “He mentioned it would come in useful.”
“Useful how?”
She shook her head. “I do not know his purposes. But I…I heard him speak of the king.” Her voice dropped lower, as if she was reluctant to reveal what came next. “I thought perhaps—”
“Perhaps what?”
“Perhaps he was going to turn it over the Crown to assist in paying King Richard’s ransom,” she said in a rush.
“The king?” he repeated incredulously.
“Yes. His ransom is 150,000 marks. All of England is being tapped to raise the money. Everyone must contribute, and my father…” she cleared her throat delicately, “…has found it difficult to comply. But whatever else he may be, whatever your opinion of him—or me—my father is a loyal king’s man, and he would turn this thing over to get King Richard back.”
Máel gave a harsh laugh.
Her forehead furrowed. He looked away, over her shoulder, his mind turning.
In no version of this tale would d’Argent turn the sword over to the Crown. Not to secure a ransom payment that would return the very king he was conspiring to overthrow.