Chapter 9
“He didn’t believe me,” Tyrell explained as he followed Lia through the hallways. He had no idea where she was marching off too, and didn’t bother to ask.
“He didn’t believe that Tavia was engaged or . . .” Lia pressed.
“Oh, he believed that,” Tyrell explained. “Aparently, they asked for his blessing shortly before we returned.”
“And he gave it?” Lia raised a skeptical brow.
“He said something like . . .” Tyrell searched his mind for the phrase the king had used. “‘She does as she pleases and if I object, she does it more.’”
What Tyrell didn’t mention to Lia, was the amused way the king listened to his complaint and how he replied with, “If you love her, Tyrell, win her. Don’t come to me with ridiculous slander about a fellow nobleman.”
Defeated, humiliated, weak . . . accused by his own king of making spiteful gossip . . . Just what kind of warrior was he? If Julian wasn’t a murderous pirate, Tyrell may have just admitted defeat. He wasn’t the kind of man a lady like her deserved.
A muffled sniff snapped him from his brooding. Lia’s head was bent, her cheeks were soaked in tears.
Alarmed, Tyrell snatched up both her hands and squeezed them. “Don’t cry, there’s hope yet for the princess.”
Lia’s face went from pink to scarlet.
“S-six generations, we’ve served . . .” she sobbed. “I-I’ve known her my whole life . . . h-how—She can’t just make me l-leave!”
She ripped her hands from Tyrell’s and buried her face in them. He regarded her, normally she always wore that . . . braid loopy thing in a circle around her head. However, it had long since come completely undone, leaving her face veiled behind tangled locks.
She was shaking violently, perhaps from grief, but probably from cold and exhaustion. What time was it anyway? Close to midnight?
That’s when it occurred to him—he had been so focused on rescuing one lady, that he failed to properly protect another. What was he thinking? Carrying her off into a storm like that? If she was sick, it was his fault. Until she was well again, he decided to make her his responsibility.
She gave a little startled cry when he swooped forward and picked her up.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Taking you to your room so you can dry off and go to bed.
Lia aggressively shook her head. “I can’t. It’s connected to Princess Tavia’s room. S-she won’t let me back there.”
“Then, I’m going to find a fire someplace, put you next to it, and have one of the servants prepare another guest room for you. Just for tonight . . . tomorrow . . . um . . .” His eyes brightened, as an idea occurred to him. “You can come stay with my sister until the princess comes to her senses.”
She looked up at him through puffy eyes. The smudged makeup around them reminded Tyrell of a raccoon—a kind of . . . pretty racoon. He blinked realizing he was more exhausted than he thought. Pretty racoon? His mind couldn’t mind . . . or think.
“Thank you, my lord,” she mumbled.
He began making for the parlor, which usually had a fire going, all the while keeping his eyes open for any one of the servants.
The place was desolate, perhaps the servants had long since gone to bed.
“You’re very kind,” Lia mumbled. “The princess is a fool not to like you.”
Tyrell would have smiled, but considering the state Lia was in at the moment, he didn’t feel like he deserved the compliment.
He was about to reply when he spotted a maid carrying a mop and bucket at the end of the hall.
“Miss!” he called.
She set the bucket down and scurried over. “What’s happened, my lord?” she asked, observing the wilted figure in his arms.
He explained about Lia getting caught in the storm and then his mind rushed as he tried to think of how he could tell this maid why Lia couldn’t go back to her room without causing yet more scandal and gossip.
“Um, Princess Tavia . . . is really not herself at the moment,” he tried. “Lia doesn’t want to disturb her. Can you perhaps make up a separate room?”
“I won’t be but a moment,” the maid answered.
The parlor was right around the corner and as Tyrell suspected, there was a fire in the hearth. Relief washed over him when he noticed a sofa just beside it. He couldn’t admit this, even to himself, but his arms were starting to ache.
When he leaned down to set Lia on the sofa, she seemed to stick to him somehow.
Glancing down at her face, he wondered if she had fallen asleep in his arms—her eyes were closed and her head was snuggled into his chest.
“Um, Lia,” he whispered. “I’m putting you down now.”
Somehow, that made her stick to him even more.
Awkwardly, he shimmied to his knees, and finally managed to push her onto the waiting couch. Blood rushing back into his arms came as a welcome relief.
“Thank you, m’ lord,” she mumbled without opening her eyes.
“It’s alright,” he answered. Then, probably from the stress of the situation, he flushed.
Finding a throw on a nearby chair, he covered her in it. Then, made up his mind to get them both something to drink while they waited for the maid to return.
What was that strong drink folks used to treat a chill? Brandy or mead?
Not that Tyrell needed any. Somehow, he was feeling warm all over and his heart was racing in his chest. Perhaps he already had a fever, or maybe he was just recovering from the direness of the situation. What a day they had!