Page 32

Chapter 32

Kat

Edvear orders the carriage, which comes round to the front of the mansion. I stand at attention, waiting for instructions as Rahk—wearing a dashing long coat—strides into the sunshine. His eyes find me immediately.

“Into the carriage with you,” he orders.

Clifford, who drives, shoots me a sidelong glance as I hurry to obey.

“Is your ankle troubling you much?” Rahk asks as he settles across from me. “You still favor your leg.”

I’ve been sneaking out to soak it in the freezing cold creek early each morning, which has helped with the pain management. But last night, I removed the stitches, so the pain is reinvigorated.

“Only a little,” I lie.

He doesn’t say anything else as we drive. He has his chin propped up on his fist, his elbow on his thigh as he stares out the window.

“Where are we going?” I venture after several minutes of silence.

“To sort out the matter of whether I shall be wed soon,” he says, and I’d almost think there was a note of dry sarcasm in the statement.

“Oh,” I say stupidly, focusing my attention on my hands in my lap. Horse hooves clip-clop on the cobblestone streets. I watch out the window, noting the familiar streets and houses. That’s the Fairfax manor. Two streets over, the Ludlum family has their beautiful estate with enough grounds to make one forget they were in the city.

It occurs to me that I likely know which family he intends to marry into. I’m probably acquaintances with the girl. I want to ask, but force myself not to, in fear I might give away knowledge a boy of my supposed station shouldn’t have.

“Mary’s situation is nearby,” I say absently.

“Perhaps we can visit after our business is settled.”

I shake my head. “She’ll be far too busy, but she’s promised to visit me soon.”

“As you wish.”

We sit in silence, and when I look up, I find him watching me intently yet again. His scrutiny makes me shift awkwardly in my seat.

The carriage comes to a halt. I peer out the window.

What I see nearly makes me go blind in panic.

That is the trimmed shrub of a rearing stallion. A stallion I know better than my own name.

“It looks like we’re here,” says Rahk, stretching his legs as the footman opens the carriage door for him.

Is this some terrible joke? Is this a horrible nightmare I’m about to wake up from? Has he found out every one of my secrets and intends to force my hand in the cruelest of ways?

But when I look at Rahk, there is not a shred of understanding or significance on his face. No gloating “Aha! I’ve got you now!” —not a single smidge of it. If anything, his expression shifts very slightly to concern when he looks back into the carriage and sees I haven’t followed him.

“Come along then,” he says.

I could plead ill. I could claim my leg is thunderously painful. I could—

All of my options create more problems. I am in disguise. Perhaps my disguise is enough to fool my stepfamily? I could slip in, stay at the back, and slip back out again. No one will be the wiser.

I draw in a deep breath and climb out of the carriage, hiding the flash of pain that shoots up my leg at the effort.

I hang back among the footmen, but Rahk waves me to his side as he strides up to the front of the manor I’ve lived in all my life. My mind races faster than a galloping horse. Mary is here. She’ll recognize me for sure. Perhaps she can pull me aside, away from the prying eyes of my stepfamily.

“Lord Rahk,” says Charles at the door, bowing. “Lady Duxbury Vandermore has been expecting you. This way.”

I finally process the reason for this visit.

“I haven’t met her yet. I’ve tried on multiple occasions, but she has always been out. Her family was willing to accept my proposal on her behalf.”

I stagger slightly, but I’m situated behind Rahk so he doesn’t notice. Charles’s gaze snaps to mine, however, and at once his eyes go wide with recognition. I hold up one finger to my lips, silently pleading with him not to reveal me. He swallows and quickly looks away.

I’m the bride Rahk is considering. I’m the woman he’s been trying to see.

I stare in shock at the broad expanse of his back, the way his coat swishes with each purposeful step. Am I . . . engaged?

The parlor is as I remember it, though it suddenly feels very cramped with Rahk taking up so much space.

“I know you’ve been eager to meet Lady Vandermore,” says Agatha, all smiles and ease as she receives Rahk into the parlor. She wears one of her nicest dresses—a raspberry colored silk. “I am happy to inform you that she is here.”

My head whips up in shock. But Agatha isn’t looking at me. She gestures to Bridget, whose curls are groomed to lush perfection, wearing the same spring-green gown I wore to the ball where Lord Boreham told me his intent to propose. It is far too fine for a morning reception—as is Agatha’s dress. Are they trying to flaunt their wealth to Rahk?

Bridget rises, smiling beautifully as Rahk bows over her hand and kisses it.

I could vomit.

“Lord Rahk, may I present Lady Vandermore,” says Agatha.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Rahk straightens and releases Bridget’s hand.

“Likewise,” says Bridget.

“Please, be seated and make yourself comfortable.” Agatha gestures to the bench drawn up near the empty fireplace. “I’ve rung for tea, so you must stay as we discuss the terms of the marriage.”

Rahk clears his throat. “I do not intend to stay long. I came to—”

“But you must stay! Sit at once. We have much to discuss that cannot be delayed.”

Rahk subtly glances my way in irritation, and either his glance is so short or my playacting at not being utterly panicked is excellent, because he doesn’t give a second glance of concern at my expression. He sits, hiding his annoyance under a silent, blank mask.

I hang against the back of the room where I desperately pray neither Bridget nor Agatha notices me. My hands and feet have turned ice cold.

“I’ve drawn up the papers for the bride price,” says Agatha as Mary enters with a tea tray. She must have heard the news that I am here, for she does not look at me a single time but focuses on pouring each cup of tea with grace and efficiency.

Meanwhile, it takes everything inside me not to gape in shock. Bride price? We don’t do bride prices—we have dowries. The husbands get paid to marry us, not the other way around. There hasn’t been a custom of bride price in this kingdom for hundreds of years.

I stare, utterly dumbfounded. They’re trying to hoodwink Rahk because he does not know our customs. They’re trying to benefit from my fortune, which gave me influence, and thus made me a prize for Rahk—and then they won’t give him any. They will steal his money in return.

I cannot even listen to the conversation as it plays out before me. Do they intend to have Bridget marry him under the guise of my name?

Suddenly, something hits me with such clarity, my knees almost buckle.

Somehow—in a way I cannot know or understand—my marrying Lord Boreham came as a benefit to my stepfamily. There’s no other reason Agatha would work so hard to make that marriage come about. Perhaps there is an agreement that Lord Boreham would pay some of my fortune to them if they persuaded me to marry him before my twenty-first birthday. And if that is the case . . .

Agatha is trying to kill two birds with one stone. She is trying to farm my fortune from me by Lord Boreham’s payment, and by fooling Rahk into paying a bride price.

I cannot let her do this.

I will not let her do this.

“As you can see, this is a very reasonable bride price for a woman of such standing as my stepdaughter.” Agatha passes the papers to Rahk, who shows not a shred of emotion on his placid face.

He takes the papers and reads them. “Twelve thousand crowns?”

My jaw falls open. I shove off the wall and slip out of the room. I hear the shift in Rahk’s seat as he glances at me, but he does not stop me as I leave. Heart pounding, I rush out to the carriage, where I pace for the count of thirty, trying to bide enough time to fool my stepfamily.

“Kat!” Mary hisses, her voice cracking as she rushes to meet me. “What are you doing here?”

“They’re trying to trick Rahk—Lord Rahk! They’re charging him a bride price! I’m going to go back in one moment and tell Lord Rahk that a missive came with urgent business. Once we are gone, I will explain the situation to him.”

“Explain what situation?” Mary demands, a single strand of red hair standing out of place. “The situation about your identity? The situation that you are a woman? The situation that you are—”

The Ivy Mask.

“No, just that they’re trying to fool him because he doesn’t know any better.”

Mary clicks her tongue, a sound of disapproval at the back of her throat. “You’ve got to be careful. This is your life on the line. So what if Agatha tricks the fae out of a significant portion of his wealth?”

I grind my teeth. I cannot explain this to her. So I only grab her hand and squeeze. “I’ll be careful.”

Then I run back into the house, my leg throbbing, and I don’t even have to pretend to be breathless when I barge into the parlor. I drop to my knee beside Rahk’s bench. His attention swivels to me at once.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Your steward sent a courier to bring urgent news from home. My lord, we must go at once.”

He stands, reading my signal. “Lady Duxbury Vandermore, I’m afraid our meeting must be cut short. I shall send you word tomorrow of my answer to the proposal. Lady Vandermore, it was a pleasure to meet you.”

But Bridget is staring at me, her hand pressed against her mouth. “Katherine?”

It is like the entire room swivels its attention to me.

Agatha shoots to her feet and catches herself on the mantle. Bridget takes in my clothes, my haircut. “What . . . are you doing?”

Rahk glances between the three of us, puzzled. “You know Kat?”

Kat. How does he know my nickname? And why does he not seem shocked that I have been called by a woman’s name?

He knows. He knows I’m a woman. He has known.

I stand frozen. A dozen terrible scenarios play out before me. Rahk will hand me over to Agatha, and she will make me marry Lord Boreham. I’ll be forced to wed a man I cannot respect and give him my fortune. Or Rahk won’t hand me over—he’ll chop me to pieces for deceiving him.

Rahk’s hand comes toward me—most likely to take my elbow—and I panic. My panic mobilizes my feet, and I turn on my heel and bolt down the hallway as fast as I can.

There is no room for rational thought in my head. All I know is that I am the prey, and everyone in that room is a predator.

I careen down the hallway, shoving past Matthew and Viola in the kitchen, and fly out the backdoor. Escaping through the front lawn and into the city isn’t likely to work, so I throw myself toward the hedge in the back. Every step, my wound pounds with agony.

Heavy footsteps pursue me. It’s Rahk.

I shove myself faster.

“Kat!” he shouts. “Kat!”

His use of my nickname only makes me run harder. I approach the hedge, hoping that at least will slow Rahk down. There’s the hole I use to crawl through for my raids. I dive for it now.

My wound jars with impact when I slam my knee into the ground and haul myself through the hedge. My shirt gets caught, held fast. I yank as hard as I can and hear a rip. I pull harder, determined to make it through the hedge and on to freedom.

A large hand catches the ankle of my good leg. The shriek that leaves my mouth isn’t at all dignified. I kick hard, but Rahk is stronger. Vastly stronger. He drags me back through the hedge, no matter how hard I struggle.

And then, suddenly, I’m lying on my back in the lawn, staring up at Rahk as he pins me.

“What are you doing?” he demands. His gaze falls to my chest and quickly looks away, the muscles of his throat jerking.

Several of the buttons of my shirt ripped, and I look down to find that much of my chest binding is visible through the gaps in my shirt. Mortification overcomes me. I sag, looking anywhere but Rahk’s penetrating gaze as he studies my face. To my horror, tears gather behind my eyelids, pressure building in my throat. He’s got my arms pinned above my head with one hand, the other planted firmly on my hip to keep me from rolling to my feet and running.

More running footsteps pound behind us. Agatha’s voice, turned unusually shrill, calls out, “Oh I’m so glad you found my daughter! I’ve been so worried about her! Katherine Vandermore, what has gotten into you?”

Rahk twists toward my stepfamily who hurries across the lawn. Then his gaze returns to me. I watch, helplessly, as full realization sinks into his face. Grimness overtakes everything else. His face shutters, and I watch the exact moment he closes me out—just like he did with my stepfamily. I can almost feel the fury rolling off his shoulders, though who it is directed at, I cannot know.

My leg throbs from the exertion, and out of a desperate need for relief from his gaze, I twist my face into his arm and swallow obsessively to keep from weeping.

It’s Agatha’s voice calling my name that brings sense back into my muddled brain. Rahk is about to turn me over to them, isn’t he? He cannot just keep me as his servant now that he knows who I am.

I cannot marry Lord Boreham. I cannot have endured everything of these past several weeks for nothing. If Agatha punished me for refusing his initial advances by selling Bartholomew, what will she do to me now?

“Please,” I gasp, pleading, clenching my fingers in his grip. “Please don’t give me back to them.”

His black eyes devour me, like a pit I have fallen into where only death awaits me. I want to remind him of Fool’s Circle, of our dip in the creek, all the long conversations. But there is nothing I can do but wait.

Rahk releases my wrists abruptly, getting to his feet. His movements are brisk but careful when he pulls me to mine. He doesn’t look at me now. Not as he removes his coat and sweeps it around me. Covering what my shirt doesn’t.

Then, he takes me very firmly by the shoulders and, despite how much I try to resist, pushes me toward my approaching stepfamily. When he speaks, his voice reminds me at once of that cold, icy tone he used in the Nothril Court. “This is Lady Vandermore.”

It’s not a question.

Sweat glistens on Agatha’s brow, her perfect hair falling out of its careful arrangement. I’ve never seen her so disheveled. “Yes, Lord Rahk, I’m afraid she is. Please forgive the deception. We could not find her, and we knew she would have wanted to accept your proposal of marriage, so we concocted the deception to keep both of you happy.”

I want to snarl at her. How dare she? How dare she try to—

“I will marry her.”

Rahk’s voice brings all my thoughts to a sudden and shocking halt. My attention whips to him, but he still refuses to look at me. His fingers dig into my shoulders.

“I will accept the terms of the proposal,” continues Rahk, “on two conditions.”

Agatha’s neck cranes, a note of surprised optimism entering her voice. “Yes?”

“First, that one of my servants inspects her today and the day of the wedding, to ensure she is an unblemished virgin.”

Unblemished virgin?

My whole body goes hot with anger at the humiliation of those words. Is this Rahk’s most important quality in a wife? What happened to our conversation last night, when he said he would be thinking of the bride’s comfort in the arrangement? Instead, he bargains for me like chattel!

“And second,” Rahk says, “the wedding will be moved to tomorrow.”