The Beautiful Pretender (A Medieval Fairy Tale #2)(68)

The tiny chamber was only about three feet wide and seven feet long, and they were sitting shoulder to shoulder at one end.

“What is this room?” she asked.

“My father used it to store valuables, until some things went missing. My brother and I also played in here. But I don’t think anyone has used it for years.” He combed a spiderweb out of his hair with his fingers.

“Is there another way out?”

“There is only one way in and out. We shall wait until the guards fall asleep or leave. Now what did you want to tell me?”

She sighed. “It is rather somber news. But I was speaking with a maidservant, Gerhaws, while we were churning butter—”

“What were you doing churning butter? Did someone say you had to work?”

“No. I did it to see if I could find out something about what Geitbart was plotting against you. And I did find out something, as it turned out. But first . . . Gerhaws was very drunk. I don’t know where she got such strong drink, but she was crying and saying that Geitbart told her to . . . kill your brother, the margrave.”

Reinhart’s blood went cold in his veins. “Explain.”

“She said she hid in his bedchamber, and when he—when they—went to sleep, she set the bed curtains on fire.”

Geitbart. He must have thought it would make it easier to take over Thornbeck. Rage and heat rose to his forehead.

“I am very sorry to tell you.”

Reinhart forced himself to take a deep breath. He could think much more clearly if he allowed his emotions to go cold. Someday Geitbart would pay for having his brother killed. The assurance helped the heat to dissipate and him to think calmly.

“You must not tell anyone else what you have just told me. If Geitbart finds out you know, he will kill you. I am surprised he has not killed Gerhaws yet.”

“Did you already suspect Geitbart?”

He did not reply immediately. Avelina had already deceived him once. How could he know if he could trust her? But she had come and warned him, had run to him on her injured ankle . . .

“No, I did not suspect Geitbart. I thought it was an accident, a stray spark from the fireplace.”

“He must have wanted people to think that you had killed your brother.” Avelina sighed. “I cannot comprehend anyone so evil.”

“Greed and lust for power will make a man do almost anything.”

They sat in silence as he took in this new information. He was sick at the thought of someone deliberately murdering his brother, his brother’s lover, and their unborn child. Henrich never had a chance to fight back—or repent of his sins.

Avelina broke the silence. “I don’t want him to kill you.”

“Thank you for that.” He was very aware of her shoulder pressed against his. He should have sat on the other side.

The guard in the next room made enough noise to cover the sound of their voices as he continued shuffling papers and banging around.

“My lord?”

“Yes?”

“Your people need you. I want you to escape and go to Jorgen and Odette’s manor house.”

Because of her, he had been humiliated in front of powerful people, some of whom were plotting against him and one who murdered his brother and unborn child. Why did she have to sound so good and kind and sweet?

“I have a question to ask you.” If he were wise, he would not ask. But if Geitbart was going to kill him, it wouldn’t matter anyway. “In the two weeks when I thought you were Lady Dorothea, when you always tried to turn the conversation to Lady Magdalen, I thought it was because you were timid. But it was not. Why were you so afraid to talk to me?”

“I was afraid. I . . . I wanted you to admire Lady Magdalen, not me.”

“Ah.” He should dwell on that. She did not want him to love her, did not feel anything for him.

“I enjoyed talking to you,” she whispered softly. “I wanted to talk to you. But I was afraid if I drew your attention to me, you might . . . that is . . . I knew I could not marry you.”

Could he hear regret in her voice? No, he didn’t want to hear that, did not want to believe the best about her or to think about her pain.

“I would be punished if you chose me,” she went on, “and so would my family.”

For whom she had asked for a goose and a side of pork every month. How considerate and compassionate she was . . . and poor.

“Of course. I understand.” He tried to sound dispassionate and unconcerned.

There was a long pause. Then she said, “I admired you. Very much. So I tried not to talk to you or look at you. I was afraid you would see how much I admired you.”

Her words buoyed him—and twisted the knife in his heart at the same time.

As his eyes had grown accustomed to the low light, he could see her hands were limp in her lap, her head slightly bowed.

“You could have trusted me with the truth about who you were and what Lord Plimmwald had made you do.”

“I know that now. But I could not have known that I could trust you not to be angry and tell Lord Plimmwald. I never wanted to hurt you. But you should not have been so angry with me, and you should not treat your servants the way you do. You yell at them, even when they have not done anything wrong. They may be your servants, but you can at least treat them with respect.”