his?
He swallowed the lump that swelled in his throat, chiding himself for allowing an unexpected attack of grief. A long swig of ale eased his throat but a little.
He’d tucked away memories of his family long ago, unable to bear recalling the day his parents and siblings perished, of the blood and fire and horrific carnage. His hand shook as he put down the mug and again took refuge in his vow to avenge the deaths he hadn’t been able to prevent.
The man responsible for burning a small village in Flanders had died before Darian could seek direct revenge, so he did the next best thing—in the name of justice, he rid the world of men who murdered innocents for sport.
Men like Edward de Salis.
Except someone had already slain de Salis and sought to put a noose around Darian’s neck in the process.
William patted Emma’s hand. “I realize helping your sister is important to you, but first we must free you and Darian from this unfortunate turn of events.”
“Of course,” she said, but he heard her impatience at the delay. Emma would rather attend to her sister’s problem than her own, put her own well-being behind that of someone she loved. A noble and unselfish sentiment.
A foolish sentiment.
One must always take care of one’s own neck first before someone took advantage of said exposed neck.
He no longer had a family or home because the villagers near Bruges hadn’t done enough to protect themselves. Having escaped the carnage by luck only, blessed with William’s patronage, Darian had made his own way in the world, never forgetting that important lesson. With the exception of being accused of de Salis’s murder, he’d done a good job of taking care of himself thus far. And would again when the murderer was caught.
The earl rose from his seat, signaling the end of supper. As the servants cleared away the bowls and refuse, everyone walked away to attend late-afternoon chores or see to evening duties.
William walked Emma over to the stairs, her hand resting on his arm, her head bent toward him to better hear whatever he was saying.
Lady Emma should marry the earl. Or some other man of his rank and wealth.
Darian ignored a burst of revulsion, wishing the idea hadn’t popped into his head upon realizing how comfortable Emma and the earl were with each other. They might be years apart in age, but age made no difference in noble marriages. The two of them had far more in common than he and Emma.
When the two of them drifted up the stairs—and he knew William would only fetch Emma’s letters, naught else—Darian reined in his unwarranted jealousy, turned around, and nearly tripped over a wolfhound.
Rose must have been sitting behind him all through supper, awaiting a tidbit he’d never tossed her way.
But there were no tidbits left on the table. And the responsibility for feeding the hound wasn’t his.
He left her there and stalked off to fetch the ale he’d refused earlier and join the other mercenaries—where he belonged.
The chamberlain claims he never set eyes on your petition. I fear you must write another.
Emma rolled the parchment and laid it beside her on the bed, hoping Julia de Vere hadn’t considered it necessary to bed the chamberlain for such unsatisfactory information.
Damn. She shouldn’t have to compose another petition for Nicole’s release from the abbey, but write it she would. Surely, parchment and quill and ink might be found somewhere in this castle. And perhaps the earl would agree to take the petition back to London when he returned.
And perhaps—heaven be merciful—perhaps Earl William might be willing to present it directly to King Stephen, thus bypass the odious clerks and an unhelpful chamberlain altogether.
Emma liked Earl William. He’d been attentive and friendly all through supper. She truly appreciated his efforts to be hospitable, unlike Darian, who’d been very quiet, almost brooding.
Had something the earl said irritated him? Or was he upset at
He swallowed the lump that swelled in his throat, chiding himself for allowing an unexpected attack of grief. A long swig of ale eased his throat but a little.
He’d tucked away memories of his family long ago, unable to bear recalling the day his parents and siblings perished, of the blood and fire and horrific carnage. His hand shook as he put down the mug and again took refuge in his vow to avenge the deaths he hadn’t been able to prevent.
The man responsible for burning a small village in Flanders had died before Darian could seek direct revenge, so he did the next best thing—in the name of justice, he rid the world of men who murdered innocents for sport.
Men like Edward de Salis.
Except someone had already slain de Salis and sought to put a noose around Darian’s neck in the process.
William patted Emma’s hand. “I realize helping your sister is important to you, but first we must free you and Darian from this unfortunate turn of events.”
“Of course,” she said, but he heard her impatience at the delay. Emma would rather attend to her sister’s problem than her own, put her own well-being behind that of someone she loved. A noble and unselfish sentiment.
A foolish sentiment.
One must always take care of one’s own neck first before someone took advantage of said exposed neck.
He no longer had a family or home because the villagers near Bruges hadn’t done enough to protect themselves. Having escaped the carnage by luck only, blessed with William’s patronage, Darian had made his own way in the world, never forgetting that important lesson. With the exception of being accused of de Salis’s murder, he’d done a good job of taking care of himself thus far. And would again when the murderer was caught.
The earl rose from his seat, signaling the end of supper. As the servants cleared away the bowls and refuse, everyone walked away to attend late-afternoon chores or see to evening duties.
William walked Emma over to the stairs, her hand resting on his arm, her head bent toward him to better hear whatever he was saying.
Lady Emma should marry the earl. Or some other man of his rank and wealth.
Darian ignored a burst of revulsion, wishing the idea hadn’t popped into his head upon realizing how comfortable Emma and the earl were with each other. They might be years apart in age, but age made no difference in noble marriages. The two of them had far more in common than he and Emma.
When the two of them drifted up the stairs—and he knew William would only fetch Emma’s letters, naught else—Darian reined in his unwarranted jealousy, turned around, and nearly tripped over a wolfhound.
Rose must have been sitting behind him all through supper, awaiting a tidbit he’d never tossed her way.
But there were no tidbits left on the table. And the responsibility for feeding the hound wasn’t his.
He left her there and stalked off to fetch the ale he’d refused earlier and join the other mercenaries—where he belonged.
The chamberlain claims he never set eyes on your petition. I fear you must write another.
Emma rolled the parchment and laid it beside her on the bed, hoping Julia de Vere hadn’t considered it necessary to bed the chamberlain for such unsatisfactory information.
Damn. She shouldn’t have to compose another petition for Nicole’s release from the abbey, but write it she would. Surely, parchment and quill and ink might be found somewhere in this castle. And perhaps the earl would agree to take the petition back to London when he returned.
And perhaps—heaven be merciful—perhaps Earl William might be willing to present it directly to King Stephen, thus bypass the odious clerks and an unhelpful chamberlain altogether.
Emma liked Earl William. He’d been attentive and friendly all through supper. She truly appreciated his efforts to be hospitable, unlike Darian, who’d been very quiet, almost brooding.
Had something the earl said irritated him? Or was he upset at
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