My Lady Imposter by Sara Bennett - My Lady Imposter Page A

love.
    “Kathryn,” Ralf breathed, when the servant had gone. “You have sealed our victory.”
    But her speech had drained her, and his words gave her no pleasure. Instead there was a spark of shame, that he could use her heartfelt words for his own treacherous ends.
    Beside her, Ralf and Richard had begun to whisper. Kathryn felt stifled; de Brusac being hers was suddenly a weight dragging her to her destruction, and she needed to be alone. She had not realized before what being the lady of such a place would mean.
    She ate little, and when Wenna rose to retire was glad to follow her without protest. But it was not to bed after all. She must keep vigil, it seemed, by the old man’s body. She had to sit and kneel and pray and cry, while a withered little priest performed the rites and said prayers for the old man’s soul.
    She remembered little of it. She slept in between the rising and sitting. The murmur of the priest’s voice soothed her fears and doubts. It seemed like a dream.
    When Wenna came in the morning, sharp tongued, to harry her to her bed, she could hardly stand. She slept until afternoon, and woke refreshed and hungry.
    The girl, Emma, brought food, eyes alight as they rested on Kathryn with an emotion she realized, uneasily, was love. Her speech, it seemed, had won her loyalty, but it had also won her the love which was less often its partner. She allowed herself to be reverently dressed, and went down to the hall, still wondering at her conquest.
    The room was crowded. As she hesitated uncertainly upon the stairs, Wenna came hurrying up to her with a whispered, “The mercenaries are returned! Mind your tongue, girl, and don’t gawk!”
    Grim men, tough and warlike. She scanned them, noting the tools of their trade, the swords and axes and daggers. They had seen her too, and silence fell over them like a cloud, as they turned to look at her. Her legs didn’t move. She had the sudden, sharp presentiment that she would not be able to go through with it.
    And then Richard was striding towards her, parting the crush as he came, his spurs striking the stone floor so determinedly, so confidently. “My lady,” he said, his voice loud and clear, and reaching the bottom of the stairs, held out his bare hand.
    She came down lightly, almost running, and her fingers clung to his. He stooped to kiss her hand, and in a whisper said, “They are not so eager as Sir Piers to believe in you. Guard yourself well!” He had straightened almost immediately, and, still retaining her fingers, led her towards one of the men at the forefront.
    Broad shoulders, a face hardened with battle and treacherous work. The man bowed to her only slightly, almost insolently, and his pale eyes scanned her suspiciously.
    “This,” Richard murmured close behind her, “is Sir Damien, your commander-at-arms.”
    “Sir Damien,” she repeated. “I hope you will accept me in my grandfather’s stead.”
    The man bowed again, murmuring some civility, but he was not happy. He had obviously hoped for de Brusac as his own, perhaps he meant to act as proctor for the king, and now she had taken it from under his very nose. He hated her, and she hadn’t the heart to blame him.
    “My lady?” Richard had her hand again, drawing her from this man to that. She kept her smile on her mouth, though she ached to turn and run. But his hand held hers, and for some reason she could not turn coward, with him there so smooth, so seemingly untroubled by the danger.
    When it was done, he led her across the hall and out into the garden. She took a sharp breath of the air, lifting her face to the warmth of the sky. For a time they were silent, and when at last he spoke to her it was without his usual humor.
    “My Lord Ralf fears you cannot be left alone here, Kathryn. Damien is a problem, and must be kept under the thumb. You know nothing of guarding a place like this. You realized, did you not, that you would not be left to rule alone, despite your