Page 10

Chapter

Eight

Grahame

G rahame yanked his arm free as the burly man beside him gave him a shove out of the huge room.

He caught himself before he fell flat on his face, doing his best to breathe through his nose to calm the temper that raged.

If it came to blows, he would likely be knocked to the ground with one meaty fist. Instead, he ground his teeth and kept his eyes ahead.

Lit sconces peeked between thick tapestries colored in patterns of reds, browns, and creams. The scent of cooked venison, rosemary, wool, and woodsmoke filled the place. It was a welcome reprieve from the wet that still drenched him. Grahame suppressed his shudder at the glowing warmth.

Yrsa was in a cold dungeon somewhere deeper in the godawful house and here he was, choosing comfort because he could not stand Adara’s vengeful presence. Shame rolled up his neck.

The guard pushed open the second door on the left.

A bed twice the size of his own lined the left wall, a table for two sat along the north side of the space, while a wide chest he assumed was for clothing squatted along the right wall, a small shelf beside it.

Grahame noted the tapestries in this room were grimmer.

Tones of burnt vermillion and dark crimson made him wonder if the previous occupant enjoyed the color of slaughter.

His bag had been rifled through, the damp clothes laid out to dry overtop the closed chest. The food his mother gave him had been neatly arranged on the table. So much for privacy.

“Since I am not a prisoner, I suppose I am allowed to come and go?”

The guard smirked and hooked his thumb over his shoulder, “Privy is through the back. Knock if you have to be let out.”

“Leaving so soon? I hoped you’d be the one emptying my chamber pot,” Grahame said, stepping into the room as if he owned it. Meekness would not do in the face of such a man.

The guard chuckled, scratching a dark eyebrow with the back of his thumb.

Grahame briefly wondered how he received the scar that decorated the left side of his face.

His frame swallowed the doorway. “This is the part where I’m supposed to threaten you behind my lady’s back.

But, now that I’ve seen you, I’m not worried. I’ll come to collect you for supper.”

He left, the door’s wood smacking against the frame as it closed.

Grahame let his chin fall to his chest. He hooked his hands on his hips, despair a seed that had been planted as soon as the gates had closed on his friends. He blew out a long, unsteady breath. They had been lied to. Tricked. Adara’s treachery knew no bounds.

How was he supposed to oppose her?

At the exchange, she sat like a queen atop her horse.

In the great room, while the blonde woman had undressed him with her eyes, Adara remained so…

cold. Had their bond that summer meant so little?

Clear, grey eyes rimmed in dark lashes had skimmed over him as if he had been any other man.

As if she and Grahame hadn’t shared their first kiss in a flower-peppered meadow beneath a cloudless sky, or walked the fields with his sheep, fingers intertwined for hours.

Grahame placed a hand on his chest where it felt as if his heart would beat through his ribs.

After all the years apart, Adara’s dismissal sliced worse than he could have ever imagined.

That summer, after her father had summoned her home—after his utter and complete heartbreak—Grahame had built up careful walls to ensure no woman got so close.

Once he got a taste of Adara, no one else could compare.

If that made him hopelessly soft, so be it.

Yet, now, he was just a pawn. As if their young love had meant less than dirt.

Grahame shoved the heels of his hands into his watering eyes then took another look around the room.

He sniffed as he removed his sopping cloak while searching for an escape.

Of course, the room was a wooden box; not even a ring of firestones or roof vent graced the corner.

Though the bed boasted a thick quilt, the room was certainly not made for comfort, considering the wealth of the house.

A threadbare rug covered only half the planked floor.

Of the plentiful sconces, only three were lit.

It was apparent that whoever usually used the room was not a favorite of Adara.

Grahame paced as he mulled over how he could free Yrsa.

Somehow, he had to convince Adara to let her go, to leave Hyrstow be.

An impatient rage at Adara’s trickery itched in his hands.

He was tempted to throw the food from the table just because he wanted to break something.

However, sense prevailed when he thought of the way Adara could starve him if she wanted.

Fisting the back of his tunic, he shucked it off, then his trousers.

The clothing laid out over the chest was mostly dry, the worst of the wet clinging to the left shoulder of his fresh tunic.

As he redressed, he wished for a drink. Lacking, he settled for sitting on the mattress, stewing in his rage over Adara’s cruelty.

As time inched toward the supper hour, Grahame did something he never allowed himself to do: he dove head first into his hate and let it grow.

The guard retrieved him some hours later.

Ridley’s shouts intermittently echoed in the distance as Grahame was brought to the great room.

The ragged sounds sank into Grahame’s gut.

This far past Guston, the men of Hyrstow were not in comfortable territory.

If Ridley had planned an alternate form of attack, Grahame did not know of it.

And why would he? He was the one to go into the lion’s den.

Plans were withheld in case he was broken by those who kept him.

“Here he is,” the pretty blonde woman said upon his entry.

A large table laden with food stood on the left, the fireplace roaring with flame to the right. Grahame had not noticed before, but windows bracketed the fireplace. The Claytons were truly wealthy if they could afford such an extravagance.

The hulking guard tossed a glare over his shoulder.

“Oh, stop it, Hagan,” the woman admonished.

She stood on the other side of the table, a smirk curling her lips.

Her hair was a mass of bushy curls that encircled her head like a halo of gold, not tamed in the coiled manner customary of a noblewoman.

The scoop of her neckline gaped, allowing for an eyeful of cleavage.

Hagan ignored her, gesturing forward so Grahame could step fully into the room.

He had discarded his armor though the light-brown tunic he wore did nothing to detract from the threat he imposed.

The way the material stretched across his broad chest reminded Grahame he would not stand a chance against him in hand to hand combat.

Adara sat in a butter-colored cushioned chair before the fire.

Her hands were still in her lap, her eyes locked on the flames.

She had also changed her attire. The rich velvet of her amethyst dress brought out the rose shade of her lips, the sheen of her raven hair.

It was unbound, coursing down the back of the chair in lush waves.

Something stirred in him to see her pensive.

For all the days and months and years that had passed, she looked the same yet completely different.

She still harboured dark, shapely brows though she wore her nose now, rather than it wearing her.

Grahame felt utter madness at the melting together of the two versions of her he knew.

As he stepped forward, she turned, those eyes like liquid steel locking on him.

There were no words for the lust that shot through him.

It twisted his insides. She was beautiful.

Not in the pretty way of the village women back home.

Adara held a regal confidence, something that came from birth and conditioning.

He had seen glimpses of it when they were younger, but she now exuded a quiet power that Grahame didn’t know if he could fight.

She was utterly, frustratingly breathtaking.

To cover his gawking, he smirked and let his eyes go dead. For a moment he thought she startled, but then she was up and moving to the table, gesturing for him to sit. Her dress, cinched at the waist, followed her about the room, lapping leisurely at the floor as she walked.

“Come, sit. Enjoy a warm meal.”

The words were a command wrapped in pretty dressing. Grahame obeyed. He didn’t know when he would eat next and knew he needed his strength if he was to make any sort of escape with Yrsa.

Except Adara did not sit at the head of the table. She shuffled into one of the chairs beside the blonde woman then gestured for the guard standing behind Grahame.

“Hagan, come. It will get cold.”

The guard lumbered over to the chair beside where Grahame stood, the seat creaking as he settled. Stupidly, Grahame looked between the three of them as if their heads were put on upside down.

“Sit, Shepherd. It’s just us. I trust you have questions, and I am prepared to answer them. However, I have much to do so this may be your only chance,” Adara said.

She reached for a slice of meat with her table knife as she spoke.

He sat, noting the weapons available to him.

A table knife and spoon. A goblet, heavy brass pitcher, ceramic plate that he could break into shards.

Not for the first time in his life, he wished he’d paid more attention to Ridley’s incessant defense lessons.

“Don’t even think about it,” Hagan snarled beside him.

Grahame picked up his knife, then leaned back in his chair, twirled the end of the blade between his fingertips. He stuffed his emotions down deep, allowing them to simmer but not boil. Any hope of survival lay in his ability to remain unaffected.

“What?” he asked, innocently.

With a grin, he leaned forward to scoop a bun onto his plate then served himself a hefty portion of meat as Adara had done.

They watched him as he pretended he was around a table with his friends, helping himself to every morsel.

He grabbed the pitcher last, pouring himself whatever was in it, then held his drink aloft with a raised brow.

Hagan remained still for a heavy moment, then his lips inched upward, the skin beside his brown eyes crinkling. “He might well work, Adara.”

“I know,” was Adara’s response.

She eyed Grahame with mirth overtop the rim of her brass goblet. Something eased in the set of her features and, like a tulip springing from coarse dirt, the edges of her lips curled upward.

“What are you not saying? Why will I work?” Grahame asked.

He cut himself a bite of meat. Let them think he was settling in for a long meal, that they’d tricked him into whatever they were planning. Acting happy and proper was what everyone expected of him. He’d been doing it for years.

“Well, I am the best player of the bunch and am not yet convinced. He had his heart on his sleeve earlier, all full of hate and anger for you,” the blonde woman nodded at Adara, her curls bouncing, “and even now, I think it’s fake. He’s trying to gain our trust.”

Grahame shoved a bite of meat into his mouth and chewed. It was well seasoned and had been cooked slow though he refused to acknowledge another mark of Adara’s prowess. She had too much on him already.

Beside him, Hagan was nodding around a bite of bun. “It does not matter if he is fake. What matters is that we get more men on our side before Adara makes the journey.”

Grahame looked back to Adara, trying to keep up.

She didn’t seem to notice Hagan’s uncouthness or that the blonde kept leaning on her elbow, drink in one hand and food untouched.

The three of them spoke as if they were some merry band of thieves.

And Grahame hated the fact that he had somehow been brought into their schemes.

“Pardon me, but is someone going to tell me why I’m here?”

For once, Adara’s eyes widened. It reminded him of the first time she’d seen his sheep flock towards her. As if she wanted to turn heel and run but doing so would make them chase her. In a blink the memory was erased as she straightened.

“I will tell you. But you must swear upon Yrsa’s life your loyalty to my cause.”

Grahame nodded his assent.

“You agreed to that rather quickly,” she observed.

Grahame lifted a shoulder in a shrug as he spoke around another mouthful of meat. “You will continue to hold her safety over my head, and I will continue to do what is asked to ensure it. So get on with it, Lady.”

Hagan reached out with a broad hand and smacked the back of Grahame’s head. He lurched forward, bracing his hands against the table in order to not face-plant into his plate.

“Hagan, please,” Adara admonished.

Hagan appeared unperturbed.

“He disrespected you.”

Grahame straightened, ignoring the blush that swamped his cheeks at being treated like a child.

Rather than issuing a retort, he drained his goblet.

Adara set down her knife, placed her hands on either side of her plate.

She seemed to be pondering her words, as if reluctant to speak them aloud.

Then her eyes snapped to him. Grahame’s heartbeat quickened beneath her silver stare.

“I would like you to marry me.”