Lord Hamyn Denderlain held no love of a Sives that was ruled by any other than the house he had married into. And for a little while longer, he could let his father believe he was in control, that he ruled, that his son made his people bow at his feet. Armand shook his head to himself. If his father knew what he was doing whenever he was sent on a mission out there, he would hang. That’s why he rode alone or took only his most trusted soldiers—the soldiers who had already been trusted by his mother.
He climbed off his horse and handed the reins to the stable girl who was on duty in these ungodly hours of the morning. She swished back her braid and gave him a smile then led the horse back into the stables where she took off saddle and bridle and rubbed it down.
Armand watched as she worked, her young hands barely reaching the neck of the horse.
“That one has been restless, Lord Armand,” the girl said as she noticed him leaning at a pillar in the shadows.
Armand followed her gaze to the stall which contained Gandrett’s gelding. The horse stomped his hooves as if noticing the attention.
“Is he sick?” Armand asked, sauntering to the stall, and laid his hand on the beast’s neck. It cringed.
“I cannot tell, Sir, but the stable master says he has been like this for the past two days.” The girl didn’t stop working on Armand’s horse as she spoke but grabbed a fresh piece of cloth and cleaned the horse’s face. The worn, gray fabric turned red as it touched its forehead.
“Not his blood,” Armand commented as her eyes widened with concern. “Not mine either.”
The girl didn’t say a word after that, and Armand made to leave. However, a movement in the stall’s corner caught his eye. A fat crow was hopping along the edge of the wooden feeding trough.
He reached to the side where they kept dried corn for the horses and extracted a fistful.
“Here.” He tossed it past the gelding right into the feeding trough. “Make sure you get some before he,” Armand jerked his chin at Gandrett’s horse, “eats it.” And with those words, he took his leave, giving a short nod at the stable girl.
The guards at Armand’s chambers barked at her when she claimed she needed to speak to the young lord. But Addie Blackwood didn’t let them turn her away that easily. Not once she had made up her mind.
“He’ll want to know about this. Trust me.” She squared her shoulders, ignoring their disdainful looks at her rag-dress.
“Lord Armand had a long night,” one of the guards—the kinder one—said, and it wasn’t amusement on his face but some apologetic frown.
Addie didn’t let her mind wander to what might have kept the young lord up all night—most certainly not Gandrett. She clasped the handle of her bucket more tightly.
If nothing else, their words reassured her that he was indeed behind those black double doors.
She considered her options against the two heavily-armed men and decided words had to do. She wouldn’t stand a chance if she tried to fight her way past them.
“Please, let him know I am here.” Pleading was as much against her nature as it was to pick up a sword and fight, but Gandrett needed help, and her best shot at being able to speak to the young lord was if she convinced the guards this was about life and death—because it was. “Someone who he seems to be quite attached to is in danger.”
The kinder guard, the one with the heavy eyebrows, raised one of the latter. A question and a sign of understanding.
“What does a servant know about the young lord’s… attachments?” the other one asked with a sneer.
Addie considered screaming, but that would only make her less credible. She needed to keep her calm the way she had in the prison in the north when they came to mock her. The more she fought, the worse it would go. Only when she outsmarted them with words did they stop. That might have been the reason why they had handed her over to Lady Linniue eventually. Because she was no fun, as they had called it.
“Tell him his guest is in need of his aid and I know where to find her.” It was all she really had to say.
“You are not the first of our servant girls to try and make their way into our lord’s chambers,” the sneering guard countered, making Addie’s head pound with anger.
“Never,” she said lowly but not weakly. “Never.” And with a motion so quick she was surprised neither of the guards saw it coming, she yanked her bucket back and propelled it between the two gaping men, the iron hitting right between the silver stars on the doors as if she had aimed there.
It clattered to the floor, filling the hallway with the thunder of iron on stone before it rolled to a halt in front of the kinder guard’s feet. His other eyebrow rose while the second guard had already darted for her, one arm restraining her around shoulder and throat.
To all of their surprise, the door sprang open, and a sleepy young lord stood barefoot on the threshold in silken pajamas, face half-hidden by his tousled honey-gold hair. Addie suppressed the urge to stare but focused on the guard behind her who was now pulling her forward and pushing her to her knees before the young lord.
Her kneecaps protested as they hit black stone.
“What’s going on here?” Lord Armand asked, his gaze inquiring with the guards before it fell on the bucket and then on her.
Addie internally cringed. This was not how she had imagined it would go when the young lord noticed her for the first time. Not at his knees, in dusty rags, forced to bow by a guard who tugged her head down by her black braid. Not like this.
“This creature wouldn’t give up,” the guard said to the young lord. Then to Addie, he said, “Here he is. Now take a good look at him while he tells you that he has no interest in scum.” He chuckled by her ear. “It will be the last look you get.”
Addie didn’t dare glimpse the young lord, but she had to. There was no other alternative. Not if she wanted to buy Gandrett a chance of getting out of that cell.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Addie’s heart all but stopped as the young lord spoke to her, voice not harsh as she’d expected, as she had heard him speak to his guards; or arrogant as he spoke to his aunt, Lady Linniue; but a tired, troubled voice that made her cringe all over again. Not from fear but from worry over why the young lord might feel that way.
“Gandrett,” was all she could muster with the breath left in her lungs as he crouched before her, measuring her face.
“What is wrong with Gandrett?” Alarm now rang in every word, and Addie gathered all her courage and looked him in the eye.
His eyes, hazel and gold, a mirror of the emotion in his voice, stared back at her.
“She is in trouble,” the words fell out of Addie’s mouth. “She asked me to come get you before it is too late—”
Armand studied her as if making up his mind whether to believe her or laugh out loud. Then he shot back to his feet and turned on his heels. “Release her,” he said to the guard as he walked back inside his chambers, voice the calm before a storm.
And they did.
All three of them eyed each other—Addie looking at the two guards, and the two guards considering each other and Addie, neither of them having the answer to what was going to happen.
Then the young lord returned, wearing boots this time, carrying a bloody sword in his hand.