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  The sheet caught fire.

  Kenton advanced on Godfrey, unfazed. Again steel clashed on steel. Godfrey tripped over a tangle of blankets and stumbled, his sword dropping a bare few inches as he struggled for balance. It was an opening Kenton could hardly ignore; he thrust, cutting Godfrey from wrist to elbow.

  Smoke choked the air. The fire spread over the bed and chewed up the tapestry-covered wall. The room swam in dizzying circles. When Mallory looked at the door, she saw three instead of one. Every time the swords met, the reverberations echoed in her skull like a busy little blacksmith beating his anvil.

  "Help!” Her cry came out barely more than a raspy whisper. She pulled herself along the floor, too tired to climb back to her feet. “Don't faint,” she told herself, the words slurred and malformed even to her own ears. “Don't faint."

  "You really ought to come to the Field more,” Kenton said. “If there's one thing that twenty-seven years of sparring with Varden has taught me, it's that you can never have too much practice."

  "I will see you hanged, sirrah,” Godfrey snarled. He lunged for Kenton's throat, his blade flying wide of its target.

  Kenton stepped sideways and neatly sliced Godfrey's other arm as the bigger man fell past. “You always were an impatient pup."

  The door flew open and both Grete and Abigail stumbled into the smoky room in their nightgowns. Grete turned immediately, shouting down the hall, “Fire! Fire!"

  "Stop this at once!” Abigail demanded. Her horrified gaze missed Mallory completely, focusing instead on the two men. “Kenton, put down that sword! How dare you raise arms against your betters!"

  Both men had fallen back through the open balcony doors. The pounding rain quickly soaked through their hair and clothes.

  An entire wall of the room was in flames. The bed and table were completely engulfed, the fire spreading to the throw rugs on the floor.

  "Hurry! Get up!” Grete grabbed Mallory beneath her shoulders. Even as slender as Mallory was, the older woman could barely get her off the floor. She looked wildly about her. “Help me! Please, someone, help!"

  Abigail was the only one near enough to hear, and the dowager did not move. Her hands covered her mouth as she stood in horrified disbelief as the next flash of lightning illuminated the moment when Kenton's sword pierced Godfrey, the point sinking into his shoulder, only to reappear again out his back. She screamed as Godfrey stumbled against the banister, lost his balance, and fell over backwards.

  Swearing as capably as Varden and stumbling on the hem of her nightgown, Grete dragged Mallory from the burning room. Once safely in the hall, she collapsed, cradling Mallory to her breast as if she were a child.

  "Easy, girl,” Grete crooned, rocking her. Her eyes filled with tears as she tried to wipe the worst of the blood from Mallory's battered face. “Oh, my poor flutter-headed Duchess!” With the hem of her gown, she tried to wipe away the blood. “You are safe now, Lady Mallory. Rest easy, luv. I have you, and you are safe."

  Soldiers and servants arrived quickly after the smoke began to flow through Cadhla.

  "Don't just stand there!” Grete commanded, a tinge of panic in her voice. “Put out that fire!"

  She tried to pull the tattered edges of Mallory's gown over her exposed flanks. Failing that, Grete covered her with the loose folds of her own nightgown.

  "Dear Lord, what's happened here?” Wilcox appeared suddenly beside them. He touched Mallory's cheek with gentle fingertips. “She's bit through her lip."

  A bucket line formed quickly to extinguish the fire. They were barely in time to keep it from spreading into Mallory's chambers. The Dowager Duchess hardly noticed any of them.

  "Filthy whore,” she hissed from the doorway. Despite the broken droop in her shoulders, hatred burned deep and hot in her eyes. “You've killed my son, you filthy whore. F-filthy...” Abigail stopped and tears spilled down her face. Shoulders shaking, she sank to her knees and wept, heedless of those who gathered in shocked, silent witness to the Dowager's moment of weakness.

  Shaking, Mallory turned her face into Grete's embrace. Letting the maid's arms tighten around her, she finally gave in to the darkness that enfolded her.

  * * * *

  It was past dawn and approaching noon the next day when Varden returned. And yet it was, surprisingly, into the courtyard of a quiet castle that he came. There was no chaos. There was no screaming, shouting, or servants milling about aimlessly. The windows in his balcony doors were broken and there was just a hint of a smoky scent in the air, but all in all, things seemed peaceful.

  His wife was losing her touch.

  Varden swung down from his saddle. Groaning with relief, he stretched. He was tired to his bones. With a hand pressed to the small of his back, he hobbled like an old man up the bailey steps and into the Great Hall.

  He thought longingly of bed. Dirty and wet from the drizzling pre-winter weather, Varden went to his study instead. There was a message on his desk from Kenton, notifying him that the green room was now his bedchamber and that his immediate attention was required in the blue room that adjoined it.

  Varden shook his head. “What have you done this time, madame wife?"

  Sinking into the chair at his desk, Varden leaned back and closed his eyes. Rubbing his face with both hands, he heard the door creak open. He smiled and, without opening his eyes, said, “Good morning, Kenton. I hope you brought me food. No, I take that back. Whiskey. I could really, really use a glass of whiskey right now."

  "So could I,” Kenton said. “Unfortunately, I don't seem to have any on me."

  "What a pity."

  Varden opened his eyes to look first at Kenton, then to the empty doorway behind him. He half-expected his wife to be hiding in the shadows, worrying her fingers, and gauging his temper before she decided whether or not she needed to start running. He was slightly disappointed when she wasn't there. Then Varden took a second look at Kenton and his smile faltered.

  "Why do you have a bandage on your arm?” In this light, it almost looked as if Kenton had a fat lip. “Good lord, man! Have you been brawling?"

  Maybe she hadn't lost her touch, after all.

  "There was,” Kenton paused, and Varden could almost see him picking his way through a mental list of explanations. “There was an incident while you were out."

  "What did she do?” Varden sighed and rubbed his temples. On top of everything else, he was developing a headache.

  Kenton's mouth tightened ever so slightly in disapproval. If Varden didn't know better, he would have thought the disapproval was directed at him. “She tried to defend herself."

  * * * *

  Varden's angry shouts trickled down through the darkness, lifting Mallory from the empty void that cradled her and forcing her back into painful consciousness. “I want the names of every man on duty last night! What am I paying them for if they can't keep my bedchambers secure?"

  Mon lion rugissant, Mallory thought fondly. Just listen to him roar.

  Doctor Robert Wilcox shouted right back at him, just as loud and just as angry. “You should be grateful Kenton was within hearing range! Content yourself that she lives at all!"

  Good ol’ Doctor Bob.

  "How the hell did he get in here?” Varden bellowed. From the way his voice moved about the room, she could tell that he was pacing.

  Then she heard Grete interrupt with a slightly worried, “Your Grace, please—"

  "How,” Varden repeated, just as loud, “did he get in?"

  "How do you think?” Wilcox shouted back, matching him decibel for decibel.

  Oh, don't tell him that, Mallory wanted to say. Now he was going to think she did it!

  "If the two of you don't lower your voices,” Grete began, beginning to sound a little angry herself.

  "Your stepmother let him in, that's how! I don't see you yelling at her!"

  "You don't know how comforting it is,” Varden said, his tone seething with fury, “to know that anyone can just walk into my private c
hambers without raising so much as an alarm!"

  This was shaping into a fairly decent fight; Mallory wished she could get her eyes open to watch it.

  "Godfrey killed the only man close enough to notice,” Wilcox shouted. “The storm covered the noise from the rest, so you can bloody well blame Mother Nature!"

  "That's it!” Grete shouted louder than either of them. “Both of you, get out! Lady Mallory is trying to rest!"

  "I'm not leaving,” Varden said in a forcibly calm tone.

  "Then sit down and shut up,” Grete snapped. He turned his dark glare on her, and as if suddenly realizing to whom she spoke, in a much quieter and more respectful tone, she added, “Your Grace."

  Bravo, Mallory wanted to say, but her mouth felt as if it were stuffed full of foul-tasting cotton. She swallowed—or tried to—but moisture refused to come. The sound that emerged from her throat was hardly more than a rattled whimper. It was a pitiful attempt, but it was enough.

  The response was instantaneous as several people rushed to her bedside. Someone took her hand to stroke it lovingly. “Claire? I mean, Mallory. Mallory, mon âme, are you awake?"

  She struggled to peel back her eyelids, but they were too heavy to raise. Her body felt so weighted it could have been made of lead. She managed another whimpering mew.

  "Come, bise, open your eyes. Look at me, mon volcane, so I can know you are awake."

  Mon volcane? Ooo, that was a new one!

  Mallory felt the soothing brush of fingers against her cheek, smoothing back hair that felt sweaty, damp and hot. She tried again to open her eyes and this time succeeded. Focusing, however, was something else entirely. She blinked twice and, gradually, Varden became a little less blurred.

  He smiled at her. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, worry, and probably a little too much liquor. He looked as if he hadn't shaved or changed his clothes in days. He stunk, too. Or was that her? It was difficult to tell.

  "You look awful,” she tried to say, but what came out was a raspy mumble that only barely resembled English words.

  "Shh.” Varden stroked her hair as he bent to kiss her forehead. Several days of whisker-growth scratched her face where his lips touched her skin. Mallory grimaced. If her head were not so heavy, she would have turned away.

  "Watch the bump,” Wilcox said.

  "I know.” Varden glared at him, then turned back to her. He smiled again. “I look horrible, is that what you said?"

  She couldn't make her mouth smile, so she blinked instead.

  Varden raised her hand, pressing a kiss into her palm. “You're not a raving beauty right now, either."

  Mallory's heart melted. Tears rose in the back of her throat as she smiled weakly up at him. Only someone who loved you could say something so awful that sweetly.

  "Oh, for God's sake!” Wilcox hissed. “That's the last thing she needs to hear!"

  When Varden saw her smile, he bent to brush her hair back from her face, careful to avoid the bruises and her swollen, split lip. He pressed another kiss into her palm and whispered against her skin, “I missed you, bise. Don't you ever scare me like this again!"

  Clearing his throat, Wilcox quietly excused himself from the exchange. “She probably has a headache. I will fetch some laudanum."

  Mallory croaked her gratitude.

  "Thirsty?” Varden asked. He turned his head to call after Robert. “And some water."

  Mallory closed her eyes. She must have dozed, because when she opened them again, Doctor Wilcox was back with the water. Varden had slipped a hand beneath her nape and helped her rise far enough to drink.

  She flinched, expecting agony to slice through her at the slightest of movement. To her surprise, there was only a mild twinge of discomfort.

  "Sip slowly,” Varden coaxed. He touched the rim of the cup to her lips and cool water flooded her mouth. Mallory drank greedily. She coughed and shook with each swallow until Varden took the cup away.

  "That's enough,” Wilcox said. “It could make her sick again."

  Again?

  She was asleep before Varden lay her back on the mattress.

  * * * *

  As Varden stepped from Claire's new bedchamber into the hall, the two men assigned to guard her door snapped to attention and Abigail, who had been pacing the floor, rushed to him.

  "Have they found him yet?” she demanded, catching his arm.

  Varden glared at her. Abigail had aged in the last few days. Lines he had never noticed before had appeared out of nowhere to crease her eyes and the corners of her mouth. He wondered how long it had been since she'd last slept. How strange, to see this woman whom he had always considered so strong and indomitable looking so ... frail. “Do you realize that when I find him, if he is still alive, I intend to hang him?"

  "He is your brother!"

  "Half brother,” Varden emphasized. “Most of my life has been spent with you hammering that distinction into me."

  "Callous and cruel,” Abigail hissed.

  "Just like my father,” Varden said with her. “Except that, unlike my father, I'm not going to ignore you any longer. In fact, as an accessory to his crime, I am sorely tempted to hang you alongside him. There, now I have given you reason to think me callous and cruel."

  Abigail drew herself up stiffly. “I have done nothing wrong. It's a mother's duty to protect her son."

  "Is it a mother's duty to condone and aid murder?"

  She studied him coldly. “I don't know what you're talking about."

  Varden stepped toward her. “I'm talking about your financing Godfrey's raids up and down the border. He doesn't have the money to do it by himself. He had to have help."

  Abigail blinked. “You have no proof."

  When she turned to walk away, Varden grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Do you realize what you have done? What he has done? What if he had killed her?"

  "It was her own fault!” Abigail knocked his hands from her. She fell a step back, glaring as she rubbed her arm. “She is a siren. She has him snared tightly round her smallest finger. I have tried to break his fascination, but the whore opens her mouth and he is taken by her all over again!"

  Varden laughed. Even knowing it wasn't funny, he laughed anyway, and ran his hands through his hair. It was in desperate need of washing. His rumpled tunic both looked and smelled horrible. He rubbed his eyes, fervently wishing he could either take a bath or sleep for a week. Both would have been equally heavenly, and either meant that he wouldn't have to stand here and listen to her. “You never give up."

  "He was confused!” Abigail cried.

  "He suckled from a viper's bosom and has taken the lessons that you've taught him to heart,” Varden said coldly. “What else? What else does Godfrey have planned for me?"

  "You'll have to ask him,” Abigail said. “When you find him. If you find him."

  Varden shook his head. To one of the guards, he said, “Take her to her chambers. See that she stays there until I decide what's to be done with her."

  "You cannot lock me in my room as if I'm an errant child,” Abigail said as the soldier took hold of her arm to lead her away. “I am the Dowager Duchess! This is my home!"

  Varden walked into his new bedchambers, shutting the door on her protests. He didn't bother calling for a bath. He didn't even bother to get undressed. He lay down face first on his new bed and waited for the oblivion of sleep to overtake him.

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  Chapter Seventeen

  "This isn't a horse. It's a mule.” Grumbling under her breath, Mallory nudged the stubborn beast with the heel of her foot. Grazing contentedly on the grass at its feet, the horse took a step and then refused to budge. The three men that made up her escort looked everywhere but at her, she suspected, as an aid to hide their amusement. “Why the hell am I doing this? I want to go home."

  "Yer perfectly safe out ‘ere,” Cort said. “'Is Grace ‘as chased Godfrey and ‘is men ‘alfway to London this past week. So long as we s
tay near Cadhla, we'll be fine. Besides, this ‘ere's the first sunny day we've ‘ad in weeks. Ye should enjoy yerself while it lasts."

  "It's ‘is Grace's orders, anyway,” Rafe said, smiling through his beard, not in the least bit apologetic. “We're to take ye for a long, relaxin’ ride. And we're not to return until ye're back to yer laughin', ‘appy self again."

  "'Is Grace commands it,” Cort added, equally amused.

  "He can't command me to feel something I don't,” Mallory snapped, then winced. She gently touched her split lip, which still hurt. Being angry wasn't helping it, either. “What if I don't want to be happy?"

  Cort shrugged. “Then we're to drown ye in the first stream we find."

  Mallory jerked around in her saddle to glare at him. “What?"

  "'Is Grace's orders,” Rafe repeated.

  Collin, quiet and younger than the rest, was more sympathetic. “'E might ‘ave been jokin’ about that part."

  "Aye,” Rafe said. “But when ‘e does it all straight-faced like that, it's ‘ard to tell."

  "A pity, really,” Cort said. “Ye're the only lady I've ever gambled with. Ye were so good with the dice."

  "Can't I at least go back for a better horse?” Mallory asked. “Or a decent saddle. I feel like I'm about to fall off this thing!"

  Rafe said, “That's a right proper lady's saddle and a fine little mare. Ye just ‘ave to learn ‘ow to ‘andle ‘er, that's all."

  Some joy ride this was. Mallory scowled, then winced and touched her lip again. That and the sore spot on top of her head were the only reminders left of her encounter with Godfrey nine days ago. She supposed she should consider herself lucky. What was a scarred mouth compared to what would have happened if Kenton hadn't heard the struggle?

  "Be firm with ‘er, Your Grace,” Rafe suggested.