Nine
She wore a sharply tailored jacket of robin’s-egg blue edged with black braid, and a black riding skirt. Her golden hair was pinned up in a neat coil. A pair of flawless pearls dangled from her ears. Her spine was as straight as a sword, her bearing regal.
But it was her face that had robbed Beau of words.
The sunlight, pouring in through the windows, played over its beguiling geometry. He saw the broad planes and angles of her cheeks, the strong line of her jaw, the full arch of her red lips. He saw her beautiful gray eyes—cool and appraising, fiercely intelligent.
And they saw him.
He’d planned to enchant the castle’s mistress, to make her heart flutter with silky smiles and satin words, to play her, just as he’d played every other woman he’d ever met. Instead, he was the one who was spellbound.
“Bow, you clotpole,” Valmont ordered. He grabbed the back of Beau’s neck and tried to shove his head down. His rough touch broke the spell. Beau smacked his hand away and stood tall.
“Approach,” Arabella said, with a wave of her jeweled hand. She was no longer looking at him.
“No, thanks,” said Beau, balking at her imperious tone. “I’m good where I—unhh!”
A shove from Valmont sent him sprawling. He nearly fell flat on his face but caught himself on a chair. Laughter rose from Arabella’s court, but Beau ignored it. He shot Valmont a dirty look, then made his way to the head of the table.
If Arabella had seen him stumble, she gave no indication. Her attention was absorbed by a book. It lay open next to a porcelain cup filled with black coffee. Near the book were platters of tantalizing foods, and Beau’s stomach growled at the sight of golden brioche as fat as pillows, flaky croissants oozing chocolate, and apple muffins topped with a rubble of streusel. There were fluffy scrambled eggs flecked with chives, too. Fat sausages slicked with grease. Streaky crisps of bacon.
Arabella closed her book as Beau approached her. He glanced at the spine. The Ancient Edifices of Athens.
Arabella took a sip of her coffee, put the cup down again, then sat back in her chair and regarded him with her mesmerizing eyes. Beau looked terrible; he knew he did. He’d seen himself in the shield’s reflection. He was dirty, sweaty, and rumpled. His hair was a haystack. Your face is your fortune, boy. And mine, Raphael often said. If that were true, then he was broke at the moment, and the knowledge of it made him wilt a little under her penetrating gaze.
Finally, she spoke. “What is your name, thief?” she asked, her voice chilly.
Beau lifted his chin. “Beauregard Armando Fernandez de Navarre,” he replied. “Beau for short.”
“Beau?”Arabella echoed, looking him up and down. “You are anything but beau, Beau.”
Her ladies laughed. Beau flinched. The insult had cut him, so he did what he always did when someone drew blood—he cut deeper.
“I guess that makes two of us,” he said. “Since you are anything but belle, Ara-bell-a.”
It was half a lie. Arabella was beautiful, but her cold, disdainful manner made her less so. Lie or not, though, his words had wounded. Anger sparked in her eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had come, drowned under ice.
“H-how dare you!” Percival sputtered, outraged. “Who do you think you are? You’re nothing but a thief! Valmont, take him back to the dungeon!”
Nothing but a thief …
The harsh words burst in Beau’s ears; their bitter poison dripped into his heart, searing it. How many times had he heard them? From sheriffs and judges, shopkeepers, the schoolmaster, the priest?
A beating’s too good for you, boy, you’re nothing but a thief …
You have no place in my school, boy, you’re nothing but a thief …
You’re not welcome in this holy church, boy, you’re nothing but a thief …
The sound of Valmont’s feet striding toward him silenced the voices. Beau shook off the hurt. He had only seconds before the man grabbed him.
“Why am I a prisoner?” he demanded, holding Arabella’s gaze. “You’ve no right to keep me.”
Valmont was just steps away when Arabella raised her hand, stopping him. “You are not a prisoner,” she said.
“I am not,” Beau said. “Huh.” He tilted his head. “So what am I? An honored guest? I must be. You gave me the tower suite. With a door that locks from the outside.”
“You were locked in because I cannot allow a vicious criminal to roam freely in my castle,” Arabella said. “I have the safety of my household to consider.”
“Vicious criminal?”Beau scoffed. “I took a couple of napkin rings!” He pulled them out of his pocket and banged them down on the table. “And I didn’t leave the premises with them. Which means I didn’t steal them. Technically. So let me go.”
Arabella poured herself more coffee. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
An image flashed into Beau’s head of Matteo, his body racked by a fit of coughing. “Why?” he pressed, a desperate edge to his voice. “Why is it impossible?”
“Because the idiots accompanying you destroyed the bridge!”
The words came not from Arabella but the woman in crimson. She was gripping the arms of her chair, glaring at Beau with such naked fury, he found himself taking a step back.
“That will do, Lady Rega,” warned Lady Espidra.
“I can’t stay here. I have to leave now, before snow cuts off the mountain pass,” Beau protested. “There must be another way out.”
“There is not,” said Arabella tonelessly, returning her attention to her book.
“But this is an ancient castle. Built on the border of Spain and France, two countries often at war.”
“Your point?”
“Castles that are likely to be attacked have more than one exit. You’re telling me there’s no second bridge? A drawbridge? A footbridge?”
“I am, yes,” said Arabella, without looking up. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
As she finished speaking, a high, whining scrape was heard. Rega had risen from her chair. Espidra shot her a warning glance and she sat down again, a smoldering look on her face.
Beau’s desperation turned into panic. He tried to wrestle it down. Losing his head wouldn’t get him any closer to his brother. “What about a tunnel? Running under the castle? How else did the lord of the manor send a messenger for help during a siege? Or smuggle a princess to safety?”
“We have no lords in this castle,” Arabella replied. “No princesses, either.”
“You’re lying,” Beau said hotly. “There is a tunnel. There has to be.”
“Enough!”Lady Rega shouted, slamming her hands on the table so hard, her plate jumped. “You want to leave this place? Build a new bridge and walk yourself over it!”
Beau looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Build a bridge?” he repeated. “Over the moat? It has to be a twenty-foot drop!”
“Thirty,” Arabella said. She snapped her fingers. “Get him out of my sight, Valmont. Find him work to do. He has a debt to pay. His friends stole half my silver.”
“Take him to the stables, why don’t you?” drawled Lady Hesma. “Something tells me he’d be good at shoveling manure.”
“This way,” Valmont said, taking hold of Beau’s arm, but Beau shook him off. He strode back to Arabella.
“Tell me where the bloody tunnel is!” he demanded.
Lady Rega sprang out of her chair so fast that it fell over, hitting the floor with a deafening crash. She grabbed a heavy crystal goblet from the table and threw it at Beau’s head. It missed, barely, and hit the wall behind him, exploding like a firework. The other ladies ducked and screamed.
“You could have killed me!” Beau angrily shouted.
“Stop it, Rega,” Lady Espidra commanded. “Now.”
“Why did you come here? Why? You shouldn’t have!” Rega bellowed at Beau.
“No shit!” Beau bellowed back.
Arabella looked up from her book. Her eyes found Beau’s. “You poor fool,” she said. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”
Beau shook his head, incredulous. “I’m a fool? I am? You’re the fool, girl! Who leaves a portcullis up at midnight?”
At that instant, Valmont, who’d been sneaking up behind Beau, grabbed one of his arms and twisted it behind his back, sending a bolt of agony through his body. What little self-possession Beau still had shattered. “Where am I?” he shouted. “What is this godforsaken place?”
“Just that,” Arabella replied. “A godforsaken place.”
“And you?” Beau demanded. “Who are you?”
Arabella laughed. It was a dry, wasted sound, like cornstalks rattling in the wind. “Godforsaken as well. We are all godforsaken here, thief.” She nodded at Valmont. “Take him away.”
Valmont shoved Beau forward. It was all he could do to keep his feet under him. Arabella watched them go. As soon as they were out of sight, she turned to Percival.
“This is your doing,” she said sharply. “You allowed a pack of robbers in to eat my food and steal my belongings. What were you thinking?”
Percival looked stricken. “We didn’t know they were robbers when we put food out for them,” he said. “We were only trying to be hospitable, Your Grace. To shelter lost travelers.”
“That is a lie, Percival. I know exactly what you were doing, all of you, and I won’t have it. This is a man’s life you are playing with. His life. I will discover who raised the portcullis, and when I do, he will pay for it. Dearly.”
For a long moment, Percival did not respond. He simply stood there, his hands clasped in front of him, struggling to hide the sorrow in his eyes. Then in a tremulous voice, he said, “My lady, you cannot punish someone for holding on to hope.”
Arabella squeezed her eyes shut, as if battling a sudden and deep pain. After a moment, she opened them again, rose from the table, and picked up her book.
“You still have hope, do you, Percival?” she asked coldly.
“Most days, hope is all I have,” Percival replied.
“How fortunate you are,” said Arabella as she left the room. “I myself lost hope. A century ago.”