Chapter 9 Olivia
Chapter nine
Olivia
Guilt knifed her heart like a hot blade as she watched Seraphina storm away from her in a swirl of dark blue velvet and wounded pride, finally heading in the direction of the chapel.
She hadn’t wanted to tell her like this. She had even dared to hope the topic would never need to be broached. Who cared what the Crow did in his spare time? This wasn’t a love match. His extramarital activities didn’t matter.
But clearly, it mattered to the woman fleeing from her as if the Arathian horde itself were nipping at her heels.
“Your Majesty,” Olivia called after her friend, moving to follow as best she could with her bad leg. But that single step was all it took to see fresh waves of Pain coursing through her left side, sharp enough to nearly buckle her knees.
Like clockwork, the Pain reminded her of the hour. It was getting late.
Her medicinal herbs were wearing thin.
Bracing her shoulder against the wall, she scrabbled for the flask at her hip and cast a narrow-eyed look at the Queensguard lingering nearby in the corridor. They stared back at her, uncertain, until she barked at Sir Arkwright, “Well, get after her! I’ll be along shortly.”
The armored men flowed around her like water, racing off down the corridor with their heavy steps, leaving her blissfully alone. Alone with the last of her cordial.
Uncorking the flask, she drained what scant droplets were left in one go. The wine burned her tongue and throat. The bitter root puckered her cheeks. But the dream petal painted the world in a pleasant rosy haze again, making everything a little brighter.
A little easier. Something that was swiftly becoming too easy.
Her Pain ebbed away. The throbbing in her left leg dulled.
Eyelashes fluttering, she breathed a little easier. Until she heard a shout echoing through the walls.
Percy.
“Olivia?” he called for her again from where he still waited back within the queen’s quarters, his voice muffled through layers of stone and wood. He probably thought she was still hiding out in Seraphina’s bedroom. “Olivia, how in the world—”
Snickering to herself, she limped back the way she had just come, back to the faded tapestry depicting the Sundering—the day all of Avirel had nearly ended.
When the dragons all turned evil, or some such nonsense, and tried to turn the world to ash.
Before abruptly dying out when the Lord on High smote them or something.
Fairy tales meant to keep all the good little boys and girls of the Lord’s Church in check.
Ducking behind the wall hanging, she pressed her hand against the right panel and shouldered the secret door open. It would be quicker for her to catch up with Seraphina this way—scuttling through the walls like a rat—rather than trying to outrun Percy through the halls.
In between the Lord Chancellor’s bum knee and her withered left leg, there was no telling who might win that particular race: the racing of the gimps!
They could start a new sport. Seraphina’s courtiers could surely use a spot of entertainment to distract them from the war and their own disgruntled murmurings.
There was only one problem, of course.
Very few people knew about her disability.
Stale air was all that should have greeted her the moment she slunk into the hidden passageway and let the door swing shut behind her. Stale air and cold. But instead, a whiff of something nice greeted her senses.
Something warm and male, freshly washed and wearing a hint of cologne. Something vaguely spicy.
Her good humor snuffed itself out in the very next second.
One of her many hidden daggers was in her right hand before she could think to draw it. When she whirled to face her stalker, though, his strong fingers caught her wrist before she could threaten him, as if he had been expecting the blade.
But of course, he would have.
It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time she had drawn one on him.
“Dacre,” she drawled in greeting, trying to remain calm. Casual. “What are you doing?”
She couldn’t see the pretty man in the darkness, but she didn’t need to see him to know what his face was probably doing right at that moment. His perfect lips would no doubt be turned down into a frown. His golden eyebrows would knit together. His sea-green eyes would shine with concern.
Concern. The knight was always looking concerned these days.
“I was waiting on you,” he confessed on a soft rumble that made the hairs on her arms stand on end. She didn’t like his tone. It was too warm, too intimate, too familiar. “You always travel through the walls at this time of night, so no one sees you limp.”
Peeling back her lips in a sneer she wished he could see, she jerked her wrist out of his hold and tucked her dagger away again. “If only you watched the Baron of Crestley and the Duke of Coreto half as well as you watch me.”
She could almost feel the man flinch. “I watch them,” he whispered, sounding wounded—like a dog that had just been kicked. That was Sir Tristan Dacre, though.
She was convinced he was part retriever.
“Why do you limp?” he asked as she pressed her back against the cold, rough stone and tried to edge around him within the narrow corridor. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” she snapped, her patience already fraying. She wished her flask weren’t empty. She wished she hadn’t shown Sir Tristan the tunnels cutting through the palace walls. “What do you want?”
His hand braced against the wall, barring her way forward with his arm. “I need to talk to you. And you’ve been avoiding me.”
Olivia breathed out a slow sigh through her nose and warned, “You have three seconds to move before I punch you in the throat.” He knew better than to try and call her bluff because she was never bluffing.
His arm disappeared.
“Good boy,” she taunted, placing a special emphasis on the word boy. She knew he hated that—her reminding him that he was younger than she was. “And I’ve been busy,” she added, setting off down the passage at a brisk clip. Her feet knew the way.
Unfortunately, Sir Tristan followed.
“No, you’ve been avoiding me,” he insisted again.
She rolled her eyes. Did he truly think she had nothing better to do than wait around for him to pay her a social call? Their kingdom was at war. She was Elmoria’s Spymaster.
She. Was. Busy.
But when he asked, “Did you receive the latest flowers I sent?” she could bite her tongue no longer.
“I did,” she said through clenched teeth. “Even though I told you to stop sending them.”
She didn’t have time for this. She needed to find Seraphina and ensure her friend was all right before she returned to this pamphlet business. Irritation gnawed at her. She should have found the culprit by now.
She had suspicions, of course, but suspicions were nothing without proof.
“If there’s another gift you would prefer,” Sir Tristan whispered, irritatingly calm when all she wanted to do was snarl and stab something, “simply tell me, and I will send that instead.”
Olivia stopped mid-stride and braced herself for their inevitable collision. Lacking spatial awareness, the knight crashed into her back just as she knew he would, threatening her balance.
“I don’t want gifts, Dacre,” she snapped to the air directly in front of her rather than bothering to turn and face him again in the impenetrable darkness. “I want you to start acting like you did before the Crow bashed you over the head.”
A strange desperation clawed at the pit of her stomach as she recalled the way things had been between them before—awkward, but professional. It had been better that way. Easier.
Far easier.
“I can’t do that, and you know it.”
She hated the way he said those words. Soft enough to make her heart skip. Low enough to make her shiver. She scowled at her own idiocy and set off down the corridor, veering toward an even narrower passage to the left that began a gentle slope downward.
The walls pressed in on both sides, leaving her elbows scraping against the rough stones as Sir Tristan still followed close behind her. Close enough that his words ruffled against her hair when he murmured, “I’ve been thinking, you know.”
Without missing a beat, she said, “A dangerous pastime for a man like you.”
Finally, that got a rise out of him. “I know I’m not as clever as you are, Olivia,” he said, sounding wounded again. “Just as I know that I’m your junior.”
Happy to dig the sharp knife of reality that much deeper into Tristan Dacre’s heart, she reminded him, “You’re nearly ten years my junior—”
His hand caught hers and pulled her up short, twirling her around to face him. “But I’m not an idiot. And I’m not a boy. I’m twenty-seven.” The air shifted, and suddenly, she knew Sir Tristan was kneeling. His breath now hit lower, just above her knuckles.
Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. “Stop—”
“Nearly dying makes a man consider many things about his life, including his future.”
“Tristan, I said stop—”
“I fancy you, Olivia,” he confessed from down on one knee despite her protests. “I’ve fancied you for a long while, and I’m tired of pretending as if I don’t.” Gently, he shifted his grip on her hand until he was cradling it within both of his, as if it were something special. Precious.
Over her fingers, he whispered, “I even think that you might fancy me, too.”
Ha. She wanted to laugh in his face. She wanted to hotly deny having any feelings at all for him beyond pity and derision. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t do it.
The words stuck in her throat.
“You don’t know a thing about me,” she pointed out instead. “You don’t even know my family name.”
Solemn and matter-of-fact for once, he countered, “You’re illegitimate. You don’t have a family name.”
At that, a mad laugh escaped from her at last. If only that were true. Oh, she was illegitimate all right. That was no secret. But everyone had a family name, even her. She just kept it a secret from everyone.
Everyone.
Even the Umberlys.
Even Seraphina. Because even her best friend would disown her if she knew the truth.
She could nearly taste Sir Tristan’s confusion. No doubt none of this was going according to his plan. But what had been his plan? This? That she would…what? Swoon into his arms and beg him to marry her and make her a lady? Was that his true desire? To dress her up in silk and parade her about?
She was a kitchen rat raised up to be a Spymaster.
She would never be more than that in anyone’s eyes, including her own.
“You’re a Dacre,” she reminded him once her laughter had subsided. “A baron’s son.”
“That doesn’t matter to me.”
Her nose wrinkled. “It’ll matter to your father. To your family.” Finally ripping her hand free from his grasp, she gestured vaguely and added, “To the world.”
“I don’t care.”
Frustration welled up inside her again. Trying to reason with him was like trying to reason with a brick wall.
Except even brick walls had more sense. “I don’t have time for this.
” She turned on her heel and started back down the corridor, carefully picking her way over every uneven stone. “My best friend needs me.”
But Tristan’s voice followed her, calling out, “And what about what you need?”
Those words stopped her dead in her tracks. “Nothing,” she hissed, her tone turning venomous. “I need nothing.”
What did she have to do to get this through his thick skull?
What did she have to say?
“I want you gone in the morning, Dacre, riding out with Coreto and his crew.” The command lashed from her tongue before she could think it through.
It made no sense for the knight to leave court with Lord Tiberius and the Duke of Coreto.
She already had several spies assigned to that particular party—perfectly inconspicuous spies that wouldn’t draw unwanted attention like the pretty man before her.
But it was too late now. She couldn’t very well take it back.
Now it was Sir Tristan’s turn to laugh. The sound echoed strangely against the stone walls.
“That won’t change a thing, you know,” the bullheaded man insisted, “sending me away. But have it your way, Mistress Olivia. If you want me gone, I’ll be gone.
But when I get back, know that I’ll be right here again—begging you for the chance to let me court you properly and show you how much you mean to me. ”
Her teeth clenched. This man was even more ridiculous than she had first thought. “You’re wasting your time, you know,” she coldly informed him. “You’d have far better luck chasing a lady of the court than a rat like me.”
Finally, she left him there in the passageway, fleeing from him like a noblewoman fleeing from a sore-pocked beggar.
But that didn’t stop him from calling out after her, “I’d rather waste a lifetime chasing after you than spend a single moment considering anyone else. I’ll see you in two weeks, Mistress Olivia. That’s a promise.”
Really? Was it truly?
Because it sounded much more like a threat to her.