Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(98)

“Is it the truth you cannot bear? There were always rumors about Queen Emiloh. When she was the young duchess of Vexin, younger even than I am, she fell in love with one of her knights and carried on an affair with him before she married Devon’s father.”

His mind blazed with rage that he was listening to gossip intended to injure the queen. He urged the horse into a trot, which made them both start to bounce in the saddle. She gripped him more tightly to keep from falling off.

But at least it stopped her from speaking, from filling his mind with doubts. He pushed the horse to the edge of its endurance, wanting the ride to end as soon as possible. Noemie just clung to him, pressing her cheek against his back. He wore his armor still, but he could feel the pressure of her, and his willpower failed him enough that his mind conjured wild imaginings. He shoved them aside, one by one, determined to honor his promise to himself and to Devon.

The horse was lathered by the time they reached the palace, exhausted by the punishing pace of the ride. There were a few servants awaiting them in the courtyard. One of them tried to help Noemie off, but she collapsed in a faint as soon as her feet touched the ground. The servants murmured worriedly as Ransom swung off the saddle.

“I’ll send for a healer,” one of them said.

“No, no,” the princess said, blinking rapidly. “I merely swooned. Sir Ransom will take me to my rooms.”

“Are you certain you don’t want a healer?” the servant asked. “It would be no trouble at all.”

Ransom stared at her with a feeling of disgust.

“I am weary, that is all. I will be well soon enough. Sir Ransom will take me.” She looked at him with an expression of defiance. It would be beyond rude of him to deny her—indeed, he could not do so without creating more gossip—and she knew it.

She swayed a little as the servants helped her back to her feet, which nearly made Ransom snort. Then she gripped his arm and began to walk tentatively.

The servants took the horse to the stables as they shuffled forward. “I don’t believe any of this,” he said in a low voice.

“I really do not feel well,” she said, grimacing.

He shook his head, feeling pricks of doubt in his chest. Was she playing with him? Or was she truly feeling unwell? Distrust battled with real concern, the dichotomy making him feel even more ill at ease.

With Noemie gripping his arm as if she might faint again—or for the first time—at any moment, they walked side by side down the corridor. They didn’t pass a single servant, but perhaps that was not so odd. Most of them were probably enjoying the festivities of the tournament. The marble tiles shone with the warm sunlight spilling in from behind silk curtains. When they reached the door, he opened it for her. Her pace slowed, and he noticed a sheen of sweat on her forehead. Could such a thing be faked?

“Help me to the couch,” she mumbled.

As they started to shuffle toward the couch, her legs gave way again, and she sagged against him. Her head lolled, and he noticed her skin had become pale. Worry began stabbing him more earnestly.

“I’m getting a healer.”

“It’s too late for one,” she said, panting.

Ransom lifted her up effortlessly, and this time her head sagged against his chest. He carried her to the couch and set her down on the cushions. The feelings of dread intensified.

What if Noemie died on his watch?

What if she was an even better actress than he’d thought, and this was all a pretense?

“Get me a cloth, dip it in cool water,” she whispered. “I’m . . . I’m burning up.”

He rose and looked around the room. He’d planned to leave the instant they arrived, but he couldn’t walk away now, not when she seemed so ill.

He knew there’d be a pitcher of water in the adjoining bedroom, so he hastened to retrieve it. There was also a bowl, empty, and a towel. He poured water into the bowl and picked up the towel with his other hand. As he heard the waters splashing against the ceramic, a trickle of power shot through him. A warning.

He turned his head just as Noemie followed him into the room and shut the door behind her, blocking his sight of the chamber beyond. She slid a bolt into place. Her eyes looked feverish and dangerous.

“I’ve barred the other door too, Ransom,” she said, her strength remarkably improved. “The servants won’t come. We’re alone.”

He crumpled the little towel and tossed it aside. It clearly was not needed. He set down the pitcher of water.

“You will not reject me this time,” she said, leaning back against the door, shaking her head.

He still wore his dust-spattered armor and had yet to remove the sword strapped to his waist, but he’d never felt so afraid, so helpless. The pulse of warning began to fade. He turned back and poured more water from the pitcher, filling the bowl. The sound of it was soothing. He breathed out slowly.

“I order you to do this,” she said. “Trust me when I tell you that it will save your king’s life.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and set down the pitcher. It had all been another ruse, a lie—even her talk about the threat to Devon.

Turning, he looked at her. “Trust you? I don’t, Your Highness. What you ask of me is wrong. I am loyal to your husband.”

She pressed herself against the door, shaking her head. “If you are loyal to him, you will do this. I command it. The guilt be on my head, not yours.”