“You are not coming with me.”
Wrapped in her blanket, Magdalen matched Cyn’s glower. God’s bones, but he was the most stubborn, infuriating man she had ever met.
’Twas the morning of the twenty-first, and if she hadn’t woken to find him gathering his weapons, preparing to leave, he would have ridden off to The Merry Hen without her.
“You are not leaving me behind, Cyn.”
Shaking his head, he secured a knife to his leather belt. “’Tis too dangerous. I have arranged for some men that I can call upon as sheriff to be there, but I cannot protect you every moment—”
“I can protect myself.”
His narrowed gaze skimmed over her. Beneath the blanket, she was still wearing one of his shirts, because despite Borden’s best efforts to clean her chemise and gown, she’d finally had to admit that the bloodstains and dirt were not going to wash out. There was no point trying to repair the tears in such badly damaged garments; she’d have to buy new ones.
Gesturing to her bandaged leg, which had greatly improved but still hurt now and again, Cyn said, “Your wound puts you at a disadvantage. I would never forgive myself if you were hurt again.”
“Why not give me one of your knives?”
His dark brows rose. “Do you know how to use one?”
Oh, the nerve! She tapped her foot, barely holding at bay her rising temper. “It cannot be that difficult.”
He sighed. “Regardless of your skill with a knife, there are more obvious concerns—”
“Such as?”
“Such as,” he said firmly, “the fact that you do not look like a woman who belongs in a tavern.” His mouth eased into a lazy, lop-sided grin as he glanced down at her bare legs. “You certainly cannot go dressed like that.”
She raised her chin. “How should I be dressed, then? I would love to know, since you seem to be an authority on what women wear while frequenting taverns.”
Borden, kneeling by the hearth with Perceval at his side, chuckled and grinned at Magdalen before continuing to load fresh logs onto the fire.
A flush colored Cyn’s cheekbones. “’Tis not…what I meant.”
“Whether I am wearing the right garments or not, whether you grant me permission or not, I am going to The Merry Hen. You cannot stop me.”
“Magdalen.” Now he spoke as if she were a silly little girl who was tugging on the very last thread of his patience.
“I am not being foolish. If the black-haired man I witnessed in the town with William is at the tavern, I will recognize him. I may recognize others, too. That, surely, would be useful to you and your men?”
“The lords might recognize you, jeopardizing all.”
Regrettably, ’twas true. Edwina and William had entertained many local noblemen at feasts held at Glemstow. “I will wear a disguise. No one will recognize me if I am in peasant clothes, and if I wear a hooded cloak that hides my face.”
Cyn scowled and cursed under his breath.
He could fume all he wanted; she was not going to yield, not in this instance. “Do you not want to capture the men involved in the arranged murder, to find out what other treachery they are plotting? Are you willing to risk them escaping tonight?”
Cyn’s hand tightened on the hilt on his dagger. “You know damned well I want to capture them.”
“Then take me along.”
“Very well.” His attention shifted to Borden, brushing bits of bark off his hands as he stood. “Go to the town. Fetch Dyane. I want her here as swiftly as possible.”
***
With brisk tugs, Dyane straightened the moss-green linen gown she’d pulled over Magdalen’s head. Earlier, the woman—who had brazenly flirted with Cyn from the moment she’d arrived—had shooed Cyn and Borden out of the room, stripped off Magdalen’s shirt, and then had tightly bound strips of linen around her breasts, to push them up and create more cleavage.
Magdalen dared to glance down at the gown’s low-cut bodice. Holy Mother of God. She’d never imagined that her bosom could be made to look so…provocative.
“What’s wrong?” Dyane asked with a frown. “Are the bindings too tight, milady?”
Magdalen shook her head, all too aware that Cyn was likely listening to the conversation. She wasn’t going to give him one reason to leave her behind. “They are fine.”
Dyane wrinkled her nose, muttered to herself, and then ordered Magdalen to sit and have her hair braided. Then Dyane picked up a cloak from the side table. She draped the garment over Magdalen’s shoulders, stepped back, and looked her over from head to toe. Nodding, she shouted, “Milord!”
He strode through the doorway. Magdalen caught her breath as his gaze fell upon her. His eyes widened, his strides slowed, and he whistled softly.
“What?” A heady thrill, chased by mortification, wove through her. How she longed to snatch at the cloak and hide her bosom, but if she showed any aversion to her disguise, he might refuse to take her with him.
His gaze shifted to Dyane and then back to her. “You look…perfect, Magdalen.”
“Of course she does.” Grinning, Dyane winked at him. Her ample hips swaying in invitation, she crossed to his side. “I borrowed the gown and cloak from a maid who works in me brother’s tavern. I do know what I’m about.”
Cyn smiled back. “Of course you do.”
She laughed, the sound deep and throaty, as she brushed against him, practically thrusting her bosom in his face. “Ye did say ye’d reward me well fer me services, milord.”
Magdalen quickly glanced away. Jealousy crackled in her veins, but she vowed to ignore the foolish emotion. While Cyn had confided his dark secret to her, kissed her, and slept beside her, he hadn’t made her any promises for the coming days. He was free to accept Dyane’s seduction if he chose.
Magdalen retrieved her leather bag and checked through it to ensure she had all that she needed for the journey ahead.
Footfalls warned her that Cyn approached. Dyane, still in the room but looking disgruntled, was now with Borden, who handed her a tied leather bag that clinked as it settled in her palm.
Magdalen met Cyn’s gaze.
He handed her a small, sheathed knife. “Tuck this into your gown.”
“Are you sure I will know how to use it?” she asked, more tartly than she’d have liked.
“I am sure.” The corner of his mouth ticked up. “I trust that is not jealousy I hear in your voice?”
Magdalen scowled. She thought of lying, but she and Cyn had developed a special trust, and she’d rather not ruin that confidence. “Dyane was speaking very coyly with you—”
“—as she always does. However, she well knows that she and I will never be lovers.”
“Does she?”
Chuckling, Cyn shook his head. “Later, Fair Maiden, we will discuss this matter at greater length. Right now, you are to hide this knife within easy reach. We must be on our way as soon as possible.”
***
A lively melody of lute and pipes drifted on the breeze wafting down the narrow dirt street of two-story buildings, leading Cyn and Magdalen to The Merry Hen situated on the outskirts of the town.
Magdalen tightened her hands on the reins of the dappled gray Borden had loaned her. Her belly fluttered with disquiet, for she had an awful feeling the evening wouldn’t unfold as expected; yet, she wasn’t going to turn back now. As she’d promised Cyn, she’d do all she could to stop the attempted murder and ensure the traitors were captured.
Her gaze rose to the tavern’s painted sign a short distance ahead. She’d never been to The Merry Hen before; respectable ladies didn’t frequent such haunts. She’d heard of the place though. Rumored to have the best ale and fare in the county, ’twas situated close to a main thoroughfare and also offered rooms for nightly rent, and was thus was a favorite stop for travelers.
Cyn slowed his horse so that her mount came alongside his. He, too, was garbed in a plain cloak with a deep hood that was raised to conceal his features. As their gazes locked, he asked, “Changing your mind?”
She forced a bright smile. “Not at all.”
His face in shadow, he studied her. “You do not have to prove your courage to me. I know how brave you are.”
“Good. Then you also know I will not fail you this eve.” At least she’d have plenty of excitement to convey in her next letter to Aislinn. “I do hope all will turn out well,” Magdalen added.
“I, too, hope for a good outcome, although I realize it may not be so.”
Sadness flickered across his face. She knew how much Cyn hoped William was still an honorable man; the truth would be revealed tonight.
A bang and a loudening of the music snapped her attention to the tavern door, now directly ahead on her right. Several drunkards staggered out into the street. Cyn spurred his horse to a trot, putting himself between her and the men. Always the gallant hero.
She followed Cyn into an alley that opened into a dirt yard between the tavern and the stables, a large enough area to park several wagons if needed. The earthy smells of straw and horses wafted to her as Cyn dismounted, handed his mount’s reins to the stocky stable hand, and then helped her down from the gray, his hand securely around her waist so she could lean on him and not have to put her full weight down on her injured leg.
As the stable hand took her horse’s reins, Cyn asked, “Can you tell me who else has arrived? I am curious to know if our friend is here.”
“Are ye now?” the man said, a hint of suspicion in his eyes.
Cyn tensed against her, but the stable hand couldn’t know he was speaking with the local sheriff. Reaching into his cloak, Cyn drew out a few pieces of silver and handed them to the man. “I heard that Lord Redmond, one of the King’s men, was going to be staying the night.”
The lackey took the coins. “If so, ’e ’asn’t turned up yet. ’E usually arrives with ’is men near twilight.”
Relief washed through Magdalen. Cyn had hoped to reach the tavern before Redmond.
As the man took their horses into the stable, Cyn helped her toward the tavern’s main entrance. The building looked fairly well maintained, its walls painted and the thatched roof in good repair. Shouts and bawdy laughter carried from inside though, and the sounds reminded her that their night’s adventure was only just beginning.
She silently thanked Cyn again for the dagger, which she’d tied to her bandaged lower leg with extra strips of linen; the ankle-length gown kept the weapon hidden. Still, she couldn’t ward off misgiving as they approached the weathered front door banded with iron. Cyn opened the tavern door and helped her inside.
One step over the threshold and Magdalen’s eyes began to water from the hazy smoke from the fire across the room and the burning candles on the tables. The tavern, its floor no more than hard-packed dirt covered with straw, was crowded with all manner of folk: farmers, shopkeepers, and travelers. Musicians seated near the hearth launched into another jaunty tune.
She limped alongside Cyn, until they reached the shadows at the far end of the room where he helped her to a small table. As she sat and stretched out her bandaged leg to rest it, a red-haired serving wench strolled to them and asked if they wanted drinks.
“Two mugs of ale,” Cyn said, his gaze flicking down to the woman’s generous breasts.
The wench smiled, revealing the gap between her front teeth. “Is that all ye want?”
“For the moment.”
As the woman sauntered away, Magdalen huffed.
“Do not be annoyed with me. I am only playing my role. Do you see anyone you recognize?”
She fingered aside the edge of her hood to better view the room. Some areas were too shadowed and smoky to clearly see the folk sitting there; once she’d rested her leg, she’d suggest that she and Cyn take a short walk about the interior.
The red-haired wench returned with the ale and, after setting it down on their table, wandered off to serve other customers.
Magdalen sipped her drink, the brew strong and bitter. Cyn draped his arm around her, and in hushed tones, pointed out his men, some at tables by the musicians, others near the tavern door.
Over the robust melody, Magdalen caught a noise drifting in from outside through cracks in the wall: laughter.
Her misgiving furrowed deeper, for she recognized that laugh.
She tugged on Cyn’s sleeve, but before she could say a word, the tavern door opened, and the smoky haze in the room shifted on an incoming draft.
In strode William and two of his men-at-arms.
***
Magdalen’s face had paled.
A warning buzz spread through Cyn’s skull, just as William walked in, accompanied by armed guards.
Cyn’s anger flared, obliterating the part of him that had hoped—prayed—that William wouldn’t follow through with the wretched plan. The damned fool! How could William risk his hard-earned reputation, not to mention the welfare of his wife and child? Why would he, when the King had granted him so much?
Meeting Cyn’s gaze, Magdalen’s eyes flared with anxiety, before she dipped her head and studied her ale. William’s gaze swept the room, and Cyn dropped his attention to the marred table top. He slowly counted to ten, allowing William to complete his assessment of the interior.
Daring to steal a glance, Cyn saw that William had crossed to the bar. He and the barman were talking, but their words were drowned by the music.
William stood in profile, candlelight playing over his twilight blue cloak, one arm resting on the bar’s polished wooden surface. He drummed his fingers. In the light of nearby candles, his brow glistened, as though he was sweating.
Cyn’s lip curled. For the dishonor William was bringing upon himself, he deserved to be uneasy. If he had any sense, he’d walk out now, while he still could—
Magdalen tugged on Cyn’s sleeve again. “The black-haired man to our left, moving his chair. He is the one I saw in the town.”
Cyn glanced in the direction she’d indicated. “Lord Northcliff,” he murmured. Northcliff had just risen from one crowded table and joined another. Cyn’s jaw hardened, for while he’d broken up a few late night brawls involving the young lord, who enjoyed his drink and had a short temper, Cyn had never imagined him to be a traitor.
The tavern door opened again. A corpulent, gray-haired man strode in, his cinnamon-colored cloak, embroidered in black thread at the collar and cuffs, drifting as he walked. Two armed guards followed. Seeing William at the bar, the man grinned and raised his hand in greeting.
“Lord Redmond,” Magdalen whispered.
“Aye,” Cyn muttered. “Earlier than expected.”
“Oh, God.”
Picking up his mug of ale, Cyn rose, his chair scraping the floor. “I must get closer. I need to hear what they are saying.”
“Be careful, Cyn.”
“You too.” Keeping to the shadows, he made his way toward the hearth, where men had gathered to watch the musicians. Cyn leaned against one of the vertical wooden posts supporting the roof, where he was partially blocked from William and Redmond’s view but could still see what was going on—and keep watch on Northcliff’s table.
“—did not expect to see you here,” Redmond was saying. He signaled for his guards to stand watch from a discreet distance. “What brings you to The Merry Hen?”
Good. Redmond was doing just as Cyn had asked in the missive he’d sent to London after his conversation with William; Redmond was acting as though he had no prior knowledge of tonight’s plot to kill him.
“—to see you, of course,” William said.
Redmond appeared puzzled. “I do not recall your name on my list of meetings. Did my clerk make a mistake?”
William eased away from the bar, his stance nonchalant, yet his broad smile seemed forced. “I heard you would be in this part of Derbyshire and hoped to have a chance to speak with you. I hope ’tis all right?”
“Of course.” Unfastening his cloak, Redmond caught the bartender’s gaze and motioned to the nearest table, cleaner and less battered than most of the others. The bartender swiftly shooed away the folk already sitting there. After he’d wiped up some spilled ale, the man bowed and motioned for Redmond to be seated.
“I reserved yer favorite room upstairs, milord,” the barman said. “Would one of yer guards like ta check all is ta yer satisfaction?”
“Aye. Give one of them the key.” The older lord tossed his cloak over a vacant chair and sat. William took the chair opposite. He hadn’t unfastened or removed his cloak. The vial of poison must be inside the garment, within easy reach.
Cyn’s white-knuckled grip on his mug tightened. He was going to have to get that vial. Somehow. Moreover, he’d told his men that he wanted the traitors captured, not slain, for he had no doubt the treachery extended to far more men than those in the tavern. A good job he’d learned at a young age how to fight well with his fists as well as his weapons.
As one of Redmond’s guards climbed the staircase to the upper level, the busty red-head strolled over to Redmond, bent, and kissed his cheek. Redmond beamed and kissed her back, and Cyn’s brows rose. The renowned food and drink were obviously not the only reasons why Redmond stayed here.
“Yer usual ale, milord?” She straightened slowly to prolong his view of her cleavage.
Redmond nodded. “Bring us a pitcher and two mugs.”
“’Twould be me pleasure, milord.” The woman walked away, her hips swaying. Redmond watched her bottom until she disappeared behind the folk gathered near the hearth.
“What is the latest news from your estate, then?” Redmond asked, and Cyn listened as William talked with obvious excitement about the birth of his son and adapting to becoming a father. With each glowing account of Timothy’s progress, the knot in Cyn’s belly tightened. ’Twas madness for William to risk his family that he clearly loved.
The serving wench returned with the pitcher and mugs. She set them down, poured out some ale, and then went to another table to take an order.
Redmond’s bright-eyed gaze followed. So did the gaze of Redmond’s remaining guard.
Clearly taking advantage of the distraction, William slipped his hand down to his waist. Cyn stepped around the post to better see. A leather bag was tied to the right side of William’s sword belt. A pulse of warning raced through Cyn as William lifted his hand, now curled into a loose fist, cloth poking out between his fingers. Was he holding a handkerchief?
Open your hand, Cyn silently commanded. Let me see what you have.
Redmond was still watching the wench. Warning again rippled through Cyn, for he sensed movement a short distance to his right; Northcliff had risen from his chair.
As Cyn glanced back at the London official, still ogling, William dropped the handkerchief on the table. There was most definitely still an object in his hand.
A vial.