his protest, though; the boy was, in truth, the only option at the moment. Trainable, perhaps. He'd raised up many a squire to knighthood; it might be possible to raise a thief to a constable.
Huh—easier to raise the dead.
"Then get yourself and that dagger of yours to the gate, lad, and take your watch."
The boy bristled. "Milady wants the armory put to rights first. Don't you, milady?"
"I do. Perhaps, steward, since the barbican and the armory are nearly in the same place, Dickon may keep his post and make sense of the chaos there at the same time." She was wearing a fiercely motherly frown now, ready to pounce on him if he dared take another swipe at her cub.
But he had a point to make here, a clarification of his power to streamline his efforts to secure Faulkhurst for his wife all the sooner.
All the sooner to be gone.
"I doubt that, madam."
"I could." Dickon stamped his foot on the stone floor. "I bloody well will. I've given my word to my lady to do just as she orders."
Nicholas looked across the table at his wife, feeling himself on trial, with more to lose than he'd imagined. Her respect, for one, and her trust—and that surprised him.
"As you should, boy, but would you give your life in her defense?"
His wife charged in his direction. "Master Nicholas, that's enough."
But the boy pushed past her and barred her way. "I'd fall on my dagger right now, if I she asked me to."
She nearly threw herself in front of the boy and wagged a terrifying finger at him. "You'll do nothing of the sort, Dickon." Then at Nicholas. "And you, Master Nicholas will end this."
He would indeed, just as he'd planned. "Aye, my lad, your lady has chosen well in you."
Dickon's mouth had been open to protest, but he was quick and managed instead a squawking, "Has she? I mean, aye! She has."
"That I have, steward. And you should remember that the choice is mine to make." Eleanor was appalled, unable to understand this baiting Dickon. It was unfair, unseemly, and out of his character—or so she hoped. The boy looked to her with pleading eyes, as though he were defending his soul, not knowing if his judge was devil or angel.
Nicholas was circling the pair of them, glaring first at Dickon, then challenging Eleanor with a gaze that heated her nape and drifted like silk across her lips and made her touch them with her tongue.
"You'll do well, lad, to remember that a castle is a place of defense and constant danger."
"I know that, sir!"
"Doubly so, Dickon, because our lady seems bound to trust anyone at all without cause." The blackguard stopped and stepped closer to Dickon. "Have you noticed that?"
The boy, once her eager champion, was now agreeing fiercely with Nicholas, his brows beetling and his head bobbing. "She won't listen to me. Never has."
"Nor to me. Not a word, lad. Dismisses entirely the idea that someone might wish her harm."
"I never said that, steward."
He cast her a negligent nod and put a confederate's arm around Dickon's shoulder, patting it companionably. "We've trouble on our hands, Master Dickon."
"Aye, we do, sir. Big trouble." The boy had caught up Nicholas's gravity completely and mirrored it gesture for gesture, even shaking his head in masculine sympathy for their entire gender.
"If you mean that I am trouble, gentlemen, you haven't seen the sort of trouble I can be." Oh, but why bother with the pair of them. Next they'd be marking out their territories and telling daring stories of their greatest battles.
"As our lady's seneschal, lad, I am her deputy in all the matters of her estate." Nicholas groaned broadly, as though all his teeth hurt him. "Do pity me for that."
The bloody lout.
"Oh, I do, sir," Dickon said, his loyalty now shifted entirely to her steward. "A pissy chore. I've held it myself for more than a year."
"Aye, Dickon. You've done an admirable job getting her this far safely—considering."
"Considering nothing, steward."
But the man only lifted his wily gaze to hers and spoke
Huh—easier to raise the dead.
"Then get yourself and that dagger of yours to the gate, lad, and take your watch."
The boy bristled. "Milady wants the armory put to rights first. Don't you, milady?"
"I do. Perhaps, steward, since the barbican and the armory are nearly in the same place, Dickon may keep his post and make sense of the chaos there at the same time." She was wearing a fiercely motherly frown now, ready to pounce on him if he dared take another swipe at her cub.
But he had a point to make here, a clarification of his power to streamline his efforts to secure Faulkhurst for his wife all the sooner.
All the sooner to be gone.
"I doubt that, madam."
"I could." Dickon stamped his foot on the stone floor. "I bloody well will. I've given my word to my lady to do just as she orders."
Nicholas looked across the table at his wife, feeling himself on trial, with more to lose than he'd imagined. Her respect, for one, and her trust—and that surprised him.
"As you should, boy, but would you give your life in her defense?"
His wife charged in his direction. "Master Nicholas, that's enough."
But the boy pushed past her and barred her way. "I'd fall on my dagger right now, if I she asked me to."
She nearly threw herself in front of the boy and wagged a terrifying finger at him. "You'll do nothing of the sort, Dickon." Then at Nicholas. "And you, Master Nicholas will end this."
He would indeed, just as he'd planned. "Aye, my lad, your lady has chosen well in you."
Dickon's mouth had been open to protest, but he was quick and managed instead a squawking, "Has she? I mean, aye! She has."
"That I have, steward. And you should remember that the choice is mine to make." Eleanor was appalled, unable to understand this baiting Dickon. It was unfair, unseemly, and out of his character—or so she hoped. The boy looked to her with pleading eyes, as though he were defending his soul, not knowing if his judge was devil or angel.
Nicholas was circling the pair of them, glaring first at Dickon, then challenging Eleanor with a gaze that heated her nape and drifted like silk across her lips and made her touch them with her tongue.
"You'll do well, lad, to remember that a castle is a place of defense and constant danger."
"I know that, sir!"
"Doubly so, Dickon, because our lady seems bound to trust anyone at all without cause." The blackguard stopped and stepped closer to Dickon. "Have you noticed that?"
The boy, once her eager champion, was now agreeing fiercely with Nicholas, his brows beetling and his head bobbing. "She won't listen to me. Never has."
"Nor to me. Not a word, lad. Dismisses entirely the idea that someone might wish her harm."
"I never said that, steward."
He cast her a negligent nod and put a confederate's arm around Dickon's shoulder, patting it companionably. "We've trouble on our hands, Master Dickon."
"Aye, we do, sir. Big trouble." The boy had caught up Nicholas's gravity completely and mirrored it gesture for gesture, even shaking his head in masculine sympathy for their entire gender.
"If you mean that I am trouble, gentlemen, you haven't seen the sort of trouble I can be." Oh, but why bother with the pair of them. Next they'd be marking out their territories and telling daring stories of their greatest battles.
"As our lady's seneschal, lad, I am her deputy in all the matters of her estate." Nicholas groaned broadly, as though all his teeth hurt him. "Do pity me for that."
The bloody lout.
"Oh, I do, sir," Dickon said, his loyalty now shifted entirely to her steward. "A pissy chore. I've held it myself for more than a year."
"Aye, Dickon. You've done an admirable job getting her this far safely—considering."
"Considering nothing, steward."
But the man only lifted his wily gaze to hers and spoke
Similar Books
