Page 22

S ir Etienne pulled the healer’s door carefully to, then drew himself back into an alcove.

He stood silently in the shadows and watched as a man and a woman left said healer’s quarters and made their way to other amusements.

He would have stroked his chin thoughtfully, but his entire face hurt like a company of demons had been using it to dance upon for a fortnight.

And he knew just whom to blame for that.

Sir Henri.

Or, as he might be more commonly known, the lady Aliénore of Solonge.

Smiling hurt his face as well, so Sir Etienne settled for a snort of pleasure.

To think all this had come about thanks to the ministrations of the Butcher of Berkhamshire.

Sir Etienne enjoyed the irony of that for a moment, then relived the delicious moments that had led up to his standing where he was at present.

He’d gone to seek Blackmour’s private healer on the advice of a more disreputable-looking member of the garrison, though he’d been warned in very strong terms that the woman was more than she seemed. Healer, witch, he hadn’t cared what she was. She would have herbs to dull his pain and his wits.

He’d been prepared to use whatever tactics were necessary to persuade her to give him what was necessary. To his surprise, he’d been making his way down the chamber only to see her leaving ahead of him. How fortunate for him that he would be able to paw through her stores without her in attendance.

He’d slipped inside the chamber only to hear weeping coming from the curtained alcove. He’d suspected some silly wench was about some sorry tale, and that had concerned him not in the least—especially since such weeping would cover any unplanned noises he might make himself.

After finding enough willow bark to send himself into oblivion for a se’nnight, he’d listened to the weeping in the alcove cease and more conversings begin.

And it was then that he realized he would leave the chamber with more than just herbs.

He’d listened in open-mouthed astonishment as the lady Aliénore of Solonge had laid out her life before that overindulged, pampered brat from Artane.

He’d been hard-pressed not to shout with laughter.

Two years of hiding, two years of pretending to be a knight wasted, and all because at the moment of crisis, she couldn’t keep her mouth closed.

So like a woman.

Well, at least he now understood why she was such a pitiful excuse for a knight.

He leaned back against the wall and wondered how he might use his newfound knowledge.

For gain, surely, but what kind of gain and for how long?

She’d said she had coin. Was she wearing it, or had she hidden it?

He would have done the latter, but there was no telling what a foolish wench might do.

He would just have to follow her closely and watch.

No doubt she would either count it on her person or return to its hiding place to make certain it was still there.

Should he demand her coin and leave her helpless? Or should he just exact other, more personal gifts from her?

The mind reeled at the possibilities.

He would bide his time, watch how things progressed, and see what else he could discover, what he could use ruthlessly for his own ends.

It was almost enough to make up for the condition of his nose.