The Beautiful Pretender (A Medieval Fairy Tale #2)(77)

He longed to slam his fist into Geitbart’s face.

“I shall help you find your men,” Avelina said stoutly. “Your people need you to stay alive. You cannot help them if you are dead, and the duke knows he will need to kill you to take Thornbeck Castle. You cannot trust him. I can tell from his eyes that he is cruel and deceitful.”

“You can see that from his eyes?” She was so lovely, it hurt his chest to gaze at her, especially knowing she was courageous and clever too.

“I am a good judge of character. You can see a lot in a person’s eyes. There’s a certain hardness and coldness in the eyes of a person like Geitbart and his daughter. And even though you had a severe look in your eyes when I first met you, a gentleness was also there, especially when you—” She abruptly stopped and turned away, walking to the water pitcher and pouring herself some.

“Especially when I what?”

She shrugged. “When you look at . . . certain people and say certain . . . things.” Her face was turning red. She tapped her fingers on the pitcher and did not meet his eyes.

“I see,” he said, even though he was not sure he did. A sudden urge came over him to stride over to her, put his arms around her, and make her tell him exactly what she meant, and then kiss her like it was his last day on earth.

But he could not do that. She was wise not to elaborate on what she meant. She seemed to remember—more often than he did—that they could not be together.

“You need sleep,” he told her. “But I shall go and find out what has happened to my guards and enlist Jorgen’s help in rounding up a force of men.”

“You don’t know me if you think I will stay here sleeping while you court danger in the corridors of the castle.”

He did know her, and he was not surprised. “Come, then.”



Reinhart used the hood attached to his tunic to shield his face. He took Avelina’s hand and led her down the servants’ stairs to the kitchen to find his guards and supporters.

“This is insane,” Avelina scolded in a whisper. “Anyone could recognize you, even from behind.”

“How?”

“Your back is not like anyone else’s.”

“Is it crooked?”

“Of course not. It’s . . . broad and you’re taller than most.” She pursed her lips. “You have a limp as well. Everyone will know it’s you.”

“I shall risk it.” He brushed past her into the open walkway to the kitchen.

Avelina cried out just behind him.

He spun around. A woman was holding on to Avelina’s arm and holding her finger to her lips. It was Odette.

“Come with me,” she said quietly.

Reinhart and Avelina followed Odette to a small storage room, which was normally locked, next to the kitchen.

As soon as they were inside, Odette did not waste a moment but began to speak.

“Geitbart has a force of men—we are not sure exactly how many—surrounding the castle and even surrounding the town. We have heard that Geitbart sent a missive to Prague, to the king, accusing you of murdering your brother and of weakening the realm by choosing to marry a maidservant instead of a noble lady.” She gave a sad frown to Avelina. “Forgive me, Avelina. It is what is being said by Geitbart’s guards.”

“I understand.”

“They also have orders to throw you in the dungeon if they find you,” she said to Reinhart.

“Where are Jorgen and Sir Klas?”

“Sir Klas has not been seen for the last two days. We suspect he is in the dungeon, which Geitbart’s guards are guarding, or possibly killed. Jorgen is being closely watched, but he has not been approached by Geitbart or his guards.”

“I had hoped to rally some men to fight the duke.”

“That is what Jorgen is doing, but he is having to be very careful. He does not want you to allow yourself to be seen, my lord. Geitbart will throw you in the dungeon, at best, and kill you with very little provocation. They are probably watching me too, so I should go. Give me time to get out of sight.”

He thanked her, then Odette left.

Reinhart stared out the window. He needed a plan. Geitbart had already taken over, with his guards everywhere.

He was trapped inside his own castle.



An angry scowl on his face, Lord Thornbeck was standing by the door of the storage room. She was almost afraid to speak, but he seemed to like hearing her honest thoughts.

“I am very sorry for what Geitbart told the king. I feel to blame.”

“To blame? For Geitbart’s treachery? Oh, you mean about his saying I wanted to marry a maidservant.”

Avelina’s stomach twisted at his offhand mention of her as a “maidservant.”

“Look at me,” he ordered.

She turned and let him capture her with his intense gaze.

“You are not to blame. Geitbart is only grasping for excuses to take Thornbeck. If you had not come, Lord Plimmwald would have sent someone else. But . . . I am glad he sent you. Now let us go. Odette should have had time to get well away.”

He was glad she had come?

She would dwell on that and not on the fact that he could never marry her. But . . . How can I ever be content married to anyone else but him?

“Foolish, foolish girl.” As Irma had scorned her for believing she truly was as noble as a noble-born lady, Avelina had let herself aspire to something that was forever beyond her reach.