Chapter 21
Chapter
Twenty-One
Over the next week, we grow no closer to discovering who released the báshounds nor who masterminded the crypt attack.
The list of suspects, of course, is exactly the same.
With a single woman at the top. A woman who remains beyond reproach, thanks to a lack of evidence and her relationship with the duke.
We are not foolish enough to ignore that the latter may be causing the former.
Since this most recent incident, I have learned two things.
First, more than one celestial knight died that night.
Duke áine is just as disturbingly unbothered by those losses as he is by his lover’s murderous (allegedly) tendencies.
And second, the báshounds will attend him during the Wild Hunt.
They’ve been trained specifically to hunt human flesh.
Again, it’s knowledge of which I would have rather remained ignorant.
I convalesce for several days in our quarters, during which time Lachlan answers one of my lingering questions.
The bell-shaped hill overlooks Campan’s Vale, the disputed region from which Lachlan himself hails. He promises to take me there as soon as I’ve healed.
And the second question? About what he was on the verge of telling me that night?
It was nothing, according to the freshly taciturn Lachlan, who returned as soon as I drummed up the courage to ask.
Even though I’m quite certain he’s lying, I’m not going to pester him about it; if he wants to tell me, he’ll tell me.
This morning, we’re in the midst of a tabletop strategy game Vesper taught us involving colored seeds—she’s won every round, probably cheating—when the duke arrives to collect me for our first official courting trip.
A visit to his báshound kennel.
How thoughtful of him.
The word kennel does not do the location justice. It’s a several-acres-large compound with a padlocked entrance gate and covered areas for the beasts to sleep. There’s also an open-air meadow for roaming. And feeding.
Of course, it’s feeding time when we arrive. I force myself to watch as Mortis pounces on a terrified deer. The scar on my calf throbs in answer.
“How will you use them during the Wild Hunt?” I ask meekly, my face wan as the deer releases a pathetic bleat.
“To track you.” His Grace observes the carnage with unabashed glee. “They’ll be under strict orders not to harm you, though.” He cuts a glance toward my leg. “They do go off script sometimes, so you’ll need to keep your wits about you.”
Honestly, the thought of facing his báshounds again is less anxiety-inducing than this outing.
He’s not asked me a single question nor offered any of his own history.
Not even his first name. Is he supposed to initiate the get-to-know-each-other chit-chat or am I?
And when is he going to share his clue? Desmond shared his immediately; I thought Duke áine would do the same.
Is the man not as desperate to become king?
I am about to ask when a valet interrupts us. “Your Grace, a reporter from the Sky Gazette is waiting in the grand salon. Lady LaBeaumont has arranged an interview for you. Your people are clamouring to hear how you saved the castle from the báshounds last week.”
The duke turns to me with a put-upon smile that rings nothing but false. “My apologies, Miss Fitzroy. I must take this meeting. All of Tír na Lune deserves to know my bravery firsthand.”
All ten seconds of it, a deep voice rumbles into my mind. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip to keep from laughing.
I’ve kept the diamrhán open for Lachlan this morning; the stubborn brute insisted. Though he can’t see what I’m seeing, he can hear what I hear, feel what I feel.
Which at the moment is humiliation. Even more so knowing that Lachlan has witnessed me hold the duke’s attention for all of twenty minutes.
“Of course, Your Grace, I understand.” I dip into a shallow curtsy. “Will I see you after?”
No answer follows, and when I rise, I see that Duke áine has already marched away.
His valet escorts me back to my quarters.