Chapter 4
Lia paced back and forth outside the stables waiting for the princess to return from the hunt. On a normal day, she would have used this time for mending gowns or tidying up, but at the moment, she couldn’t think of anything except warning the princess about the captain as soon as possible.
After fleeing The Bloody Kraken, she returned to the castle and asked every servant she encountered if they knew anything about Captain Julian and his seven missing fiancees.
The fragments of information she received in return only made her suspicions grow. The parlor maid seemed to think that all the women in question were commoners.
“Exactly ‘ow he likes it,” she had said. “Less likely folks will come lookin’ for ‘em.”
“I heard,” the stableboy had said, “That Lord and Lady Salamar adopted the captain and his actual mother is . . .” he looked around and lowered his voice. “Majis.”
“I don’t believe that,” Lia had whispered back.
“Why do you think he has a bluebeard?” the boy pressed. “Because his blood is magic.”
“There’s nothing wrong with having a blue beard,” Lia had defended, but her own words didn’t dilute her own suspicions. Why did he have a blue beard?
The cook had explained that the coachman told him that he had spoken to Julian’s personal groom who said there was a wing in Julian’s manor no one was allowed to enter under pain of death.
“The air in the place reeks of musk and garlic,” the cook swore. “The groom smelled it, himself. But that’s not the worst of it . . .”
“What’s the worst of it?” Lia had breathed, leaning in.
“The wailing,” the cook replied. “The groom swears he hears it coming from the forbidden wing late at night—the haunting wail of imprisoned spirits.”
Lia didn’t believe in ghosts, but that did not stop her from shivering.
The only good thing Lia learned that day was that the captain actually was somewhat close to Princess Tavia in age. Apparently, he was only a captain because his father, Lord Salamar, owned a ship.
Reflecting back on the image of Julian at the solstice ball, Lia realized this was true.
His face, beneath the bluebeard was young and unblemished—it must have been those eyes that made him seem so old; desolate eyes that looked like they had witnessed the deaths of a thousand screaming men (Or maybe seven wailing women).
In any case, being of suitable age was not enough to make up for the missing fiancees or the mysterious wing in his house or his complete disrespect for royalty.
The moments dragged by as Lia paced beside the stable, wearing down the grass beneath her feet. She became vaguely aware of a mumbling coming up behind her but was too distracted to turn around.
“Hair, like the warm glow of flame, dancing on the grass . . .”
“The grass is on fire?” Lia cried, jumping and twirling around. But she turned too late, Lord Tyrell collided with her, sending them both sprawling.
“Sorry, sorry!” Tyrell cried, jumping up and offering her a hand.
Lia accepted it. “No, I’m sorry, my lord. I’m just a bit jumpy today.”
She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. “You said something about the grass and fire and I just . . .”
Tyrell’s face went scarlet. “Nothing,” he mumbled. “It was a . . . a poem.”
Lia felt a warmth wash over her, calming her still more. She pursed her lips in an attempt to hide a smile. She had a pretty good idea of who that poem was for.
Would Julian ever write poems for the princess? Certainly not! He’d probably grumble about how her dress was unbecoming and then she’d swoon.
Lia imagined herself rolling her eyes so she wouldn’t do it in real life.
“You’re not on the hunt?” Lia asked.
Tyrell shook his head. “I had a prior engagement.”
“Oh,” Lia nodded.
They both stood awkwardly for a moment. He turned and looked outward over the hillside expectantly.
“The princess should be here in a moment,” Lia smirked, sticking her tongue in her cheek.
Tyrell’s gaze remained on the grass, but he broke into a bashful smile.
“I was awful, wasn’t I?” he said.
Lia grinned then pointed to a yellow bloom next to the paddock.
“There’s a daffodil,” she said. “Easier to pluck than a rose, but a bit more impressive than a clover.”
Tyrell snorted, his cheeks reddened but his grin grew.
A moment passed where they both just stared patiently up the hill.
“I know you asked to meet later but,” Tyrell shrugged. “It looks like we have some time now.”
With all that had happened, Lia had almost forgotten her invitation to Tyrell. At the moment she was more concerned with match preventing than match making. Then, something occurred to her.
Lord Tyrell’s father was a Councilor to the King of Allys.
As such, Tyrell spent a lot of time at the castle which had given Lia a chance to learn about him.
Tyrell loved spending time in the castle library and loved reading stories about old knights and legendary heros.
Lia knew this, because those were also her favorite stories so she could tell which books he was reading quite easily whenever she walked through the library.
And, while he was probably the . . . scrawniest .
. . of the young lords who spent time at the castle training grounds, he was easily the one who worked the hardest to learn how to wield a sword and lance.
In everything from his manners, to his obsession with honor, to his .
. . interesting attempts at poetry, he clearly wanted to be like one of the legendary knights.
If he knew his lady love was in trouble then . . .
“The princess is in danger,” Lia blurted out.
Tyrell’s brows shot up.
“Do you know Captain Julian?” Lia pressed.
“The fellow with the blue beard?” Tyrell questioned. “I know of him . . . but . . . well, he doesn’t talk much.”
Lia told Tyrell everything. She had not planned on sharing all of her worries with him, but Tavia was not there and Tyrell was. She told him how rude Julian had been during the ball, then about the rumors she had heard, and how no one seemed to know what happened to the captain’s former fiancees.
“And yet, I fear, even when I tell the princess,” Lia finished. “She’ll keep pursuing him. She likes a man with an air of mystery, always has.”
“She does?” Tyrell muttered. “Do you think I’ve been too forward?”
Lia groaned. “I don’t know! I just fear if this doesn’t end, Princess Tavia is going to become number eight!”
Somewhere in the distance, thunder clapped.
A cold raindrop landed on Lia’s hand. She shivered.
Something seemed to come over Tyrell, he puffed himself up and, taking both her hands, squeezed them in his own.
“I swear to you, Leah,” he promised. “I will not let that happen.”
Locking her gaze with his, she broke into a warm smile.
“It’s Lia,” she corrected. “But thank you.”