“Are ye ready?” Jerome fixed Elaine with a searching look beneath his furrowed brows.

They had reined their horses off the road only a mile or so from Château de Hélicourt to go over their story one last time.

They’d managed to cover the distance from Paris to Picardy, which had taken them three days with King Philip’s slow caravan of wagons, in only a day and a half, thanks to their strong horses. They’d spent much of that time crafting the tale they hoped would get them inside Hélicourt’s walls—and in front of Edward Balliol himself.

Elaine swallowed against a tight throat. “De Soules got sick. He entrusted you to take his place in the effort to oust the Bruce.”

“Because of my father’s history of support for the Balliols and Comyns,” Jerome added in an even voice.

She knew it must pain him to have to play the part of a traitor, to unearth the terrible truths of his past as if they hadn’t left invisible wounds on him, yet he was surprisingly calm.

“And I am your…”

“Mistress.”

Despite all the times they’d gone over it, the word still stuck in her throat. They hadn’t spoken of the fact that they’d made love, and everything had been such a frantic scramble ever since that they’d barely touched, let alone been intimate again.

Elaine knew what lay in her heart for Jerome, and she believed he felt the same. But pretending yesterday morn before King Philip to be heading to Scotland for a hasty marriage, only to act tonight for Balliol as if she were merely Jerome’s whore, left her reeling.

Would there ever come a time when there was no more pretending, no more lying and carrying on a charade between them? Would they ever have the chance to simply love each other, be together for no one else’s benefit but their own?

She shoved aside the thoughts and the ache that accompanied them. If ever such a time existed, now was not it. They had to sell their story to Balliol convincingly enough to win his confidence. The stability of the Scottish throne depended upon it.

Drawing in a steadying breath, she gave Jerome a curt nod. “I’m ready.”

He squeezed her hand before snapping his reins lightly, setting his horse into motion once more. They continued down the road until a narrow dirt path branched off to the right, just as the innkeeper in the nearby village had told them it would.

The path was only wide enough for them to ride one at a time, overgrown as it was with tall weeds. Jerome took the lead, his back reassuringly solid before her.

Dusk had begun to fall, and the darkening trees lining the path seemed to stare menacingly down on them as they rode on. Elaine kept her horse close behind his but forced herself to remain calm. Now was not the time to let her imagination run away with her, no matter the gooseflesh pricking her skin beneath her gray riding dress.

Ahead, the path widened into an open field, though what was likely supposed to be a close-cropped spread of grasses had been left untended and was instead filled with more weeds. The dark outline of a large building sat in the middle of the overgrown expanse. The chateau.

In the failing light, Elaine made out two squat stone towers on either side of a low keep. Each tower was capped with a conical roof in the style of the French and slitted with arrow loops for defense. Still, no stone wall or even a wooden palisade protected the chateau’s exterior, and Elaine had yet to see a guard patrolling the keep or the grounds.

When they were nearly all the way to the keep’s double doors, two men materialized from the shadows with pikes angled toward them.

“Arrêtez!” one shouted, adjusting his metal helm.

Jerome held up his hands. “We mean no harm, mes amis,” he said carefully. “We are here to seek an audience with Edward Balliol.”

The guards exchanged a look. One shrugged, lowering his pike slightly. The other muttered something in French but lowered his pike as well.

Jerome dismounted then helped Elaine down. Since there was naught to tie their horses to, they simply dropped the reins, trusting that the well-trained animals would happily remain where they were and work on the overgrown weeds. One of the guards pushed his side of the wide keep doors open and motioned them inside.

Within lay a dark, ill-kept hall lit only by a single torch. Elaine moved inside, close on Jerome’s heels. The only sound as they entered was the crunch of the crumbling, old rushes beneath their feet.

“Lord Balliol!” One of the guards had stepped into the hall behind them, his shout for his master making Elaine jump. Without waiting for a response, the guard slipped outside once more and closed the door behind him.

A shuffling sounded from what Elaine assumed was the kitchen attached to the back of the hall. The door swung open and a tall, thin man carrying a trencher emerged. He halted, staring at them across the hall.

It took Elaine a moment to realize that he was not another guard or servant, but Edward Balliol himself. Though his clothes were on the threadbare side, he wore an ermine-trimmed cape around his shoulders—the sign of nobility—and a red tunic with what appeared to be a family crest on the chest.

The man angled his pale orange head at them, the faint red mustache above his lips turning down with a frown.

“Who are you, and what are you doing in my chateau?” he demanded in an accent that sounded more English than Scottish.

Blessedly, Jerome spoke for both of them. “Sire,” he said, bowing deeply. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Jerome Munro, son of Owen Munro of the Highland Munros.”

“And her?” Balliol demanded, his dark gaze flicking to Elaine.

“My companion,” Jerome said, making his voice drip with dismissive contempt. Elaine had to swallow against the bile rising in her throat.

“What business do you have here?” Balliol asked. He still stood rooted in place, his trencher of food in hand.

Jerome fixed Balliol with an even stare. “William de Soules sent me.”

Balliol’s shouldered tensed, and for a long, terrible moment, Elaine feared all was lost, but then Balliol lifted a ginger eyebrow at them. “Come. Sit.”

Balliol took up the single carved chair on the raised dais facing them. Playing the part of obsequious co-conspirator, Jerome sat on a bench just below the dais so that he had to look up at Balliol while he began to eat the roasted meat on his trencher. Elaine lowered herself next to Jerome, concentrating on pretending to be invisible.

It seemed de Soules’s name alone wouldn’t be enough to earn Balliol’s trust, for he pinned them with a hard stare as he set about his meal.

“De Soules mentioned your name once—you are part of the envoy to deliver King Robert the Bruce’s declaration of freedom.”

“Aye,” Jerome responded casually. “For all intents and purposes, that is how de Soules and I ken each other. But I’m surprised ye havenae heard my name beyond de Soules—or at least my father’s.”

“Why should I have?”

“News of Owen Munro’s actions fourteen years ago traveled,” Jerome replied. “For he was given a traitor’s death. He supported the Comyn and Balliol bloodline against the Bruce—and would have turned the entire clan in his favor if it hadnae been for Laird Donald Munro.”

Now Balliol’s eyes sparked with interest. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “I do recall hearing something of that many years ago.”

“Aye, well,” Jerome said. “I am that man’s son.”

Elaine was close enough to see the tick of Jerome’s jaw muscle, yet he kept his voice smooth.

“And the apple doesnae fall far from the tree, if ye ken my meaning.”

“I think I do, Munro.” Balliol eyed him for another moment. “Why did de Soules send you to me?”

“He fell ill in Paris.” As they’d discussed, Jerome would omit any mention of the palace or Lady Vivienne’s involvement for her protection, but if de Soules and Balliol truly had been conspiring, Balliol would already know that the King had escorted them into the city.

“Ill?” Balliol asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Aye. Glued to the garderobe. Must have been something he ate.”

Balliol paused mid-chew, his eating knife poised in the air with a hunk of meat skewered on it. He gave Jerome a nonchalant look.

“And why would he think to send you all this way, Munro? What possible reason might there be for you to arrive at my chateau?”

“Beg pardon, sire, but let’s cut the bullshite.”

Balliol’s eating knife clattered to the table. Elaine sucked in a breath, but before Balliol could speak, Jerome barreled on.

“I’m no’ one to dance about with fancy words and coded language,” Jerome said, stretching his Highland brogue. “So let me get to the point. De Soules trusted me enough to bring me in on this scheme of yers. He fell ill. So he sent me in his place to ensure that all went smoothly.”

For one who claimed not to have a way with words, Elaine noted how carefully Jerome framed their situation. He’d hinted to Balliol that he knew much more than he actually did about the plot, while still remaining vague enough to leave himself some room to wiggle if necessary.

Balliol blinked, shock flickering across his features. “I’m not accustomed to speaking so frankly with strangers.”

Spoken with the arrogance of a man whose father had once been a King—albeit briefly.

Elaine realized abruptly that Edward Balliol wasn’t so wicked that he enjoyed skulking in the shadows of this dilapidated chateau—nay, he was a proud man, used to a far finer life. It must tweak his vanity to no end to be marooned here in the French countryside, his keep nigh crumbling around him and not enough money to maintain a proper suite of guards and servants.

A man full of pride could be easily controlled by it. Balliol likely wasn’t the nefarious mastermind behind the scheme to dethrone the Bruce after all—nay, he was a pawn for de Soules, de Brechin, and whoever else conspired with them to accomplish their goals.

She dared a glance at Jerome. From the quick look he shot her, he’d realized the same thing.

“Forgive me, sire,” Jerome said, making his voice conciliatory. “De Soules gave me little information to go on, but it was my understanding that ye’d ken how to direct me once I arrived. And dinnae mind her.” He waved dismissively at Elaine. “She’s naught more than a doxy, trained to keep her mouth shut and her legs open.”

Elaine bit back a gasp at the crude description, but they’d agreed it would be best to make her seem as unimportant as possible. It riled her to have to play the part she most despised—that of no more than a foolish female—but she would not allow her ego to thwart their aims.

Balliol shifted in his seat, watching them down the length of his prominent nose.

“I’m committed to the cause to be rid of that usurper the Bruce and put ye in yer rightful place, sire,” Jerome offered when the silence stretched. “I only need to be pointed in the right direction.”

Those seemed to be the words that lowered Balliol’s guard, because he sniffed and nodded. “My rightful place is on the Scottish throne,” he said tartly. “Not crushed under the weight of bloody King Philip’s taxes and without the aid of King Edward of England.” He waved at the dilapidated hall to illustrate his financial hardship.

“King Edward hasnae assisted ye in yer claim?” Jerome tsked in a show of sympathetic disgust.

“You know, Edward’s father and mine had an agreement—one which my father honored until his death.” Balliol’s mouth curled in disdain behind his orange mustache. “But Edward is a fool. He’d rather make war against Scotland than support my claim, even knowing I would be a willing partner in peace with him.”

On the bench between them, Elaine saw Jerome’s hand close around the wood so hard that his knuckles blanched. Somehow, he managed to keep his features easy, though.

“Edward isnae the man his father was—and Scotland’s the worse for it. While the Bruce poisons the people’s minds with thoughts of freedom, what we need is a leader who kens that peace often requires bowing before the stronger force.”

“Exactly,” Balliol said. “It’s what my father tried to do—and what I will do once the Bruce is removed and the Balliol line is restored to its rightful place.”

“De Soules was wise to send me in his stead, for it seems we are of a like mind,” Jerome commented. “I only wish he’d given me instructions beyond coming here.”

Jerome waited for Balliol to walk into their trap and tell them what he knew, but to Elaine’s surprise, the man sighed and sat back.

“I doubt I’ll be much help. I know he has associates, but I only ever spoke directly with de Soules. Why didn’t he tell you what you were to do after you spoke to me?”

Jerome shrugged casually. “He said something about keeping each player in the scheme isolated enough that no individual’s capture or failure would destroy the entire effort.”

Balliol nodded thoughtfully at that. “Sound reasoning. No wonder he never told me who else supported me or how they planned to do it. All I know is that I am to remain here until I am sent for—once the Bruce is dead.”

The words hit Elaine like a blow. The room dimmed for a moment as her mind tried to comprehend what Balliol was saying.

“Once the Bruce is…” She heard Jerome clear his throat beside her. “Dead.” He cleared his throat again. “Aye, of course.” His voice sounded strained and distant in her ears, yet he was at least attempting to cover his shock. She could only pray her face hadn’t given her away already.

Balliol was saying something about how after the Bruce was gone, he’d promised to reward de Soules and his compatriots with grants of land—which they apparently felt they’d been denied under the Bruce. Elaine trained her gaze on the floor, but inside her mind, a storm raged.

Why hadn’t they considered the fact that any attempt to dethrone the Bruce might involve his assassination? Somewhere between learning of de Soules’s contact with Balliol and realizing that it most likely meant an overthrow of the crown, Elaine hadn’t considered what would actually happen to the Bruce.

And from Jerome’s tight voice, neither had he. They’d both been so focused on unraveling de Soules’s plot that they hadn’t contemplated the obvious—that the easiest way to be rid of a King was to kill him.

Balliol droned on with his complaints about his birthright being stolen and all he would accomplish as King of Scotland. At the first possible break in his musings, Jerome interjected.

“We’ve taken up enough of yer time, sire,” he said, rising. “Besides, if we are to get ye on the throne, I’d best return to Scotland and see how I can help with the cause. Surely I’ll be able to find our other allies using de Soules’s name.”

The pretender-King rose, pushing aside his trencher. “I appreciate your loyalty, Munro, and the sacrifices your family has made in my name.”

Jerome bowed to hide the way his lips curled back in disgust.

“I only wish I could provide more guidance,” Balliol said. He paused. “De Soules always said ‘The unicorn will fall to the lion,’ if that is any help.”

Elaine fought to keep her features smooth even as she internally grimaced at the saying. It made sense, of course. Growing up in the Borderlands, she was all too familiar with the symbolism. The lion, proud and fierce, was thought to represent England. The unicorn, a mystical, noble creature, was considered the natural enemy of the lion—and the adopted symbol of Scotland.

De Soules and his conspirators clearly hated the Bruce so much for supposedly slighting them when it came to distributing lands that they were willing to ally with an English-sympathizing ruler to bring their own country to its knees. Elaine swallowed against another wave of disgust.

“I willnae fail ye, sire,” Jerome said with another hasty bow. He began backing toward the hall’s doors, gripping Elaine by the elbow as he went.

“Farewell, and best of luck,” Balliol called after them, his voice bouncing off the bare stone walls as they retreated.

Jerome pushed open the doors, his face a mask of indifference as they strode past the two guards. Yet his fingers bit into her arm where he held her.

“Jerome,” she breathed as his pace increased toward the dark outlines of their grazing horses.

“Hush,” he hissed. “The guards can hear us.”

When they reached their horses, he gripped her waist as if to lift her into the saddle, but instead he lowered his head until his breath brushed her ear.

“There isnae time to gather more clues or hunt down de Soules’s associates,” he whispered. “The Bruce is in grave danger, and only we ken it.”

Elaine nodded, frightened tears burning her eyes. She blinked them away, commanding herself to maintain her composure.

“We’ll ride through the night to Calais and board the first ship bound for Scone,” Jerome continued, his voice so low it was barely audible even right against her ear. “I…I need ye to be strong, Elaine. I cannae do this alone. We are in this together, remember?”

His words sent steel into her spine. They’d made it this far. Now, with the King’s life hanging in the balance, she couldn’t succumb to fear, for she and Jerome were the only ones who might stop this traitorous scheme.

“Aye,” she replied, giving him a nod.

He hoisted her into the saddle and mounted his horse, snapping the reins and leading them back down the overgrown path.

Elaine followed, her mind filled with a single prayer.

Please, God, let me be strong enough.