The Beautiful Pretender (A Medieval Fairy Tale #2)(78)

They went toward the castle. Two of Geitbart’s guards were standing at the back entrance. Would they recognize Lord Thornbeck? They were talking to each other and did not even look at Avelina or Lord Thornbeck as they went inside.

They passed to the servants’ stairs and started up.

“I want to get my sword from my room,” he said in the deserted stairwell.

“What if the door to your chamber is locked? You don’t have the key, do you?”

“No.”

“Then come with me first to my chamber, if it’s not guarded. I have something that might help us get in.”

They reached the floor of Avelina’s bedchamber. They both slipped inside. She went to take a small bag out of the trunk against the wall. From inside it she withdrew a metal rod that had a crook at one end. “I may be able to get into the room with this.”

He had a confused look on his face, so she said, “I am rather good at getting into locked rooms and locked trunks. It was sometimes necessary, especially when Lady Dorothea wanted something her father did not want her to have.”

“I see.”

They left and made it nearly to his room when she saw two guards clad in red and black standing near his chamber door.

“Stay here,” she whispered to Lord Thornbeck. Before he could protest, she hurried up to the guards. “Oh, please help! My friend was cleaning in the west wing and she fell. She’s hanging off the burned-out balcony and I can’t pull her up. If you don’t hurry, she will lose her grip and fall to her death.”

Avelina’s high-pitched, panicked voice must have convinced them, because they hurried in the direction of the west wing.

As soon as they were out of sight, she started working at the lock on Lord Thornbeck’s door with her little tool. In a matter of moments she had it open.

Lord Thornbeck rushed toward her, his limp barely even noticeable, and entered his room. She closed the door behind them. With God’s favor, the guards would not even realize the door had been opened.

Lord Thornbeck stopped short. The room was turned upside down, with furniture overturned, his bedding slashed. When Lord Thornbeck went to find his sword, it was not there.

His face was thunderous and he clenched his fists.

Suddenly they heard a herald’s bugle.

Lord Thornbeck went to the window and threw open the shutter, letting in the cold air. Avelina went to stand beside him, and they both peered out.

A man wearing Geitbart’s livery blew upon his bugle, loud and long. The Duke of Geitbart was standing beside him. The herald shouted, “Attention all! His Grace, the Duke of Geitbart.”

In a booming voice, his head high, reminding her again of a rooster, the duke said, “Listen to me, residents of Thornbeck Castle! The Margrave of Thornbeck killed his brother, your rightful lord! Find him and bring him to me and no harm will come to you. But if he is not surrendered to me in one hour, I will begin executing his guards, starting with his chancellor, Jorgen Hartman.”

Two of Geitbart’s guards dragged Jorgen into view in the small courtyard while he kicked and struggled. Something, a cloth, was stuffed in his mouth, preventing him from speaking.

Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach.

Lord Thornbeck stood beside her watching the scene below, his face a mask of stone.



Reinhart watched Jorgen being dragged into the courtyard, and his blood changed from a steady boil to cold as ice. “I cannot allow him to slaughter Jorgen and the rest of my men.” He turned away from the window and started toward the door.

Avelina grabbed his arm and held on. “Please, let us think. Perhaps there is a way. You have an hour.”

He turned his body to face hers and looked into her eyes. “You should leave here as soon as possible. You will be safer in Plimmwald.”

The way her eyes caught the light, the desperation in them . . . he wanted to memorize every nuance of her expression, every curve of her beautiful face. While they had been alone together in the tiny room, if it had not been too dark for him to see her, he surely would have kissed her . . . too dark to see how beautiful she was while he was holding her in his arms, while she was lying against his chest and clinging to his tunic, while he whispered in her ear, his lips touching her hair.

He took her face in his hands, caressing her silken skin with his thumbs. She lifted her face to his.

“Please say you forgive me for deceiving you,” she whispered. “I could not bear it if you did not forgive me.”

“I forgive you.” He was so close he could see the depths of her blue eyes, the tear that trembled on her lashes, and feel the breath that escaped her slightly parted lips. “Will you forgive me? For my gruffness and my anger?”

“Yes.”

Her eyelids drooped low. He could resist no longer. He bent and pressed his mouth to hers. He kissed her softly at first, making sure she did not want to pull away.

Her hands clung to his shoulders, then entwined around his neck. He kissed her more urgently then, kissed her as if he could erase every cruel memory of life as a maidservant, kissed her as if he was a knight going off to battle.

Kissing her was achingly sweet. But he did not want to hurt her any more than he already had. He forced himself to end the kiss, then held her tight as she buried her face against his neck.

“I must go.”

She clung to his shoulders for a moment before letting him go.