Ayla was just trying to figure out how not to faint from the feeling of Reuben's lips on her fingers when she heard a noise from the thing used to enter the room. What was it called again? Oh yes, door. Trivial details like that were so hard to focus on with the heat of Reuben’s mouth on her hand. And the noise coming from the door was called…
Reuben's lips slowly moved up her fingers, caressing, worshiping. It was so hard to concentrate.
A knock! That's what it was called! A knock. Somebody was knocking at the door.
So what? She didn’t have to let them in, did she?
“Ayla,” Reuben murmured against her skin. Her name, whispered against her skin, was the most intoxicating thing she had ever felt.
“Milady?” Burchard’s voice came from outside the room. The knock came again. “Are you in there?”
She opened her mouth, trying to reply “yes.” However, the weak noise that came out of her mouth wasn't very coherent.
“Milady? Why are you moaning? Are you sick?”
“Err…not really, Burchard. I…ohhh…”
“Milady? What's the matter? I'm coming in!”
Some survival instinct in Ayla made her snatch her hands from Reuben's grasp and fall back into her chair. It was just in time. At the other end of the room, Burchard thrust open the door and peered into the room, his mustache twitching suspiciously.
Reuben bent to her ear and whispered, “That old walrus has the worst sense of timing of anyone alive!”
Ayla had to work hard to suppress a grin. Finally, Burchard's gaze fastened on her reddened cheeks.
“What's the matter with you?” he demanded. “You look flushed. Are you sick?”
What could she tell him? What could she possibly say?
I think I have fallen in love, for the second time in my life, and it's the same man I fell in love with the first time. Why twice, then? Well, he lied to me and robbed me, which kind of made me despise him for a while, but we've got that straightened out now. He's not going to betray me. At least, I hope so…
No. That would definitely not go over well.
Determinedly, she kept her eyes off Reuben and answered, “I'm just upset about this business of the traitor.”
She didn't mind that her voice sounded low and breathy. She had said she was upset, hadn’t she? For all Burchard knew, she might have been crying buckets. Out of the corner of her eyes, she chanced a quick glance at Reuben. Her heart nearly stopped at the sight.
“Well, I can understand that,” Burchard replied. But Ayla wasn't listening anymore. She was only seeing Reuben.
He was glowing. His fierce gray eyes were alive with a fire that was just as ferocious as the fire of battle she had seen there before, or even more so. If he had looked glorious before, he now looked sublime. What had happened?
The answer to the question presented itself so clearly that Ayla was terribly afraid it might be the wrong one.
What had changed?
She had given him a sign of her love. That had.
Could it really be that her love had lifted him to such levels of intimidating ecstasy? Well, his love had certainly done the same for her.
“…and I came to ask you…” Burchard was still talking. But somehow, although he still technically was in the same room, he seemed a thousand miles away. Ayla was still looking at Reuben out of the corner of her eyes.
Suddenly, she felt a surge of hot emotion course through her. Was it anger at the Margrave? No. It wasn't anger. She had felt anger before, and this was different. She had felt anger for him wanting to attack her people, for him wanting to take what was not rightfully his.
But now, she felt hate. She hated the Margrave for daring to want to take this man from her. This man whom she loved.
I won’t let that happen! she vowed to herself. I’ll do everything in my power to see that we come out of this alive, and together.
With enormous effort, she wrenched her eyes off Reuben and turned her attention back to Burchard. He was talking about important matters—probably—and she was neglecting her duties as the mistress of the castle. When they were safe, if they ever would be safe again, she could indulge in daydreams. Not before.
“I’m sorry, Burchard,” she interrupted her steward. “My mind was somewhere else. What were you saying again?”
Burchard's bushy eyebrows drew together in a frown. They looked at least as suspicious as his mustache did.
“Very well, Milady,” he said, rather gruffly and stiffly. “One of the guards told me what Hans confessed, Milady. I'm not here to disturb you for long. I just wanted to ask you one thing.”
“Yes?”
“When,” Burchard inquired grimly, “is Hans’s execution going to be?”
Ayla felt the world crumble beneath her.
*~*~**~*~*
“But must he be condemned to death?”
Pleadingly, she looked at Burchard, her father's steward, the man who had cared for her since she was a child, who had taught her how to ride and told her bed-time stories.
He stared back, his expression as immovable as stone. She was a child no longer.
“Milady, he is a traitor. He must pay for his crimes.”
“Yes, but with his life? After all, nobody died in the two incidents he’s responsible for, and…”
“That was pure chance, Milady!” Burchard cut her off. “If the Margrave's men had succeeded in capturing you or opening the gates to the castle, hundreds would have died. You know this as well as I do. Because of that traitor, you yourself had a knife at your throat!”
“It wasn't a very big knife…”
“Milady!”
“Reuben saved me, anyway.”
“That does not change the fact that you could have been killed! The intent is what matters, not the outcome. Hans must die!”
“But his poor wife…” Ayla looked around for help. Burchard, Reuben and she had been joined in Ayla's temporary audience chamber by the other commanders. When it became apparent to Burchard that Ayla wasn't simply going to put her father's seal on the execution order, he had insisted on Captain Linhart, Sir Rudolphus, and Sir Waldar joining them in order to convince her. She had happily agreed, thinking they might convince him.
Judging from the expression on Captain Linhart's face, though, that was not going to happen. He shook his head.
“I have to agree with Burchard, Milady. Personal considerations should not influence you in your decisions when it comes to justice. His life is forfeit.”
Never in her life had Ayla condemned anyone to death before. In fact, as far as she remembered, nobody had ever been condemned to death at Luntberg Castle. The mere idea of her having to do it, having to order the ending of another human being's life, made her skin crawl. Desperately, she looked for support at Sir Waldar—who burped loudly.
“Oops. Sorry, Milady. I say, off with his head!”
Ayla's pleading eyes wandered to Sir Rudolphus. His big ears drooped sadly.
“The proposal outlined by Sir Waldar does seem like the wisest course of action,” he admitted.
Ayla's shoulders sagged.
That's what you get for swearing to do everything to achieve victory, she thought sadly. You actually have to do everything, no matter how horrible..
“This is what you all advise?” She looked around. “You all say he must die?”
Burchard, Linhart, Sir Waldar, and Sir Rudolphus nodded.
Ayla took a deep breath.
“Very well,” she whispered. “I will…”
“Perhaps,” said a firm voice from behind her, “we should exercise clemency.”
Ayla turned around in her chair to stare. She wasn't the only one. Everybody stared at the figure of Sir Reuben Rachwild, who had uttered those words. They stared at him as they would have stared at an executioner who proclaimed he was firmly opposed to corporal punishment.
“Um…Reuben?” Ayla inquired. “Are you quite well?”
Without answering her, he strode off to one of the embrasures that lined the wall. Peering out over the castle, he muttered, “The trajectory would be just right…the space is perfect. Yes! Yes! Why haven't I thought of it before? Satan's warty prick! I'm the most miserable excuse for a knight that has ever been born!”
“What is the matter with you?” Ayla demanded. “And what is a 'prick'?”
Burchard cleared his throat, but nobody else noticed. Reuben didn't answer Ayla's question. Instead, he strode to another embrasure and looked out of that one, too.
“Opportunity,” he muttered. “It is all about opportunity and the element of surprise. The killing fields…yes, we must use the killing fields!”
“Reuben?” Rising from her seat, Ayla took a few tentative steps towards him. “Please, you're beginning to worry me! Are you well?”
He whirled around to face them all. His eyes were only for her.
“Oh yes!” Reuben's eyes were burning with gray fire. The sight nearly knocked the breath out of Ayla. What was the matter with him? Was it love? No. Not even love could induce such a crazed fire.
“Oh, yes!” he repeated, savage satisfaction in his voice. “I am definitely very well. In fact, I am better than I have been for ages. Because I have just thought of a plan to save the castle, end the siege, and triumph over our enemies!”
“What?”
The shout didn’t come from just the Lady of Luntberg. It came from all their throats. Ayla rushed forward, coming to a halt, breathless, only a few inches away from Reuben.
“Reuben, do you mean that? Do you honestly mean that you have found our salvation, or is it a bad joke?”
“I only ever make good jokes. And your life is not a subject for those.”
Eagerly, Ayla grasped him by the shoulders. Her heart was beating just as wildly as when he had pressed his lips on her hand, because now, there was light! There was hope! Hope that they might live, that Reuben would have the chance to kiss her again, on her fingers, her hand, and…other places. There was hope for life and love!
“Then what is it?” she demanded, trying to shake him—which, of course, didn't work. She only ended up shaking herself while holding onto his rock-solid form. “What is this spectacular plan you've thought of? Well? Spit it out!”
Reuben smiled his most devilish smile and looked at her, triumph gleaming in his gray eyes.
“You want to know what the plan is, Milady? The plan that will save us all?”
“Yes!” Not just Ayla was on her toes now. They all surrounded Reuben, staring at him with a wild mixture of fear, mistrust, awe, and desperate, desperate hope.
“It's simple,” he declared with relish. “Very simple indeed: We open the gates and let the enemy in.”