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Chapter Seven Chivalry is all well and good, but cursed inconvenient at times

The girl from the castle was absolutely, breathtakingly mesmerizing.

Gwen, head spinning and thoughts whirling, found herself

clutching her drink and trying not to stare.

She was beautiful, sure, but it was Isobelle’s sheer force of will that kept

robbing Gwen of her good sense.

Every time Gwen thought of an objection to her lunatic plan, Isobelle had an answer.

Every

time Gwen thought she’d gotten her feet steady again, Isobelle swept the rug out from under her.

And, worst of all, Gwen’s heart was swelling with that same dangerous, euphoric feeling of hope that had surged through her

when she’d knocked Sir Evonwald off his horse.

She thought she’d stamped it out after she’d gotten home.

Gwen swallowed hard and finished the cocktail Isobelle had ordered.

“So if— if —I agree to this... what happens next?”

Isobelle’s eyes lit with delight, glowing like miniature sapphire stars.

“Oh, Gwen—”

“I said if !” Gwen interrupted, trying desperately not to smile like some spell-charmed idiot in response to the other girl’s giddy relief.

“Wipe that grin off your face.”

Isobelle made a token effort to sheathe her dimples.

“Well, you come to the castle in the morning, and we’ll get you settled

in, and then—”

The door of the tavern banged open with a loud, shuddering crash.

Gwen started to her feet, but she couldn’t see what was happening through the crowds of people on the dance floor.

The fiddle music petered out, the dancers halted, conversation and laughter and cheers evaporated into tense, frightened silence.

The crowds began to shrink back from the door, revealing a posse of half a dozen intruders.

Men in matching armor bearing the red-and-bronze emblem of Darkhaven, their swords drawn.

The castle guard.

Their leader, a short but burly man with a large, bushy blond mustache, addressed the crowd.

“Break it up, girls—go home quietly.

We’re not here for you.”

No one moved.

The man scowled slightly and glanced around at the now-silent crowd.

“What a circus.” He strode a few more steps into the

room.

“We’re here for the woman claiming to own this place. Where is she?”

Isobelle started to rise, her body tensing.

Gwen, her heart shriveling at the phrasing of the guard’s demand, put a hand over

Isobelle’s.

One of the waitstaff who’d been helping to deliver drinks stepped forward, her chin lifting.

“She ain’t here,

mister.”

The mustachioed guard snorted, eyeing the girl with disdain.

“Here or not, we’re shutting this place down. Unlicensed hedge

witchery on the premises.”

This was too much for Isobelle, who lurched to her feet despite Gwen’s warning.

“Hedge witchery?” she sputtered.

“On whose

say-so?”

The guard’s gaze traveled toward Isobelle and his eyes widened as he realized he was speaking to a noblewoman.

“That’s confidential, my lady. But it’s obviously true. Here, look at that list of potions there.” He jerked his chin toward the board bearing the list of cocktails.

“Those aren’t potions!” Isobelle objected, her eyes blazing.

“They’re drinks!”

The guard seemed to find Isobelle’s gaze nearly as difficult to withstand as Gwen, but he managed, gritting his teeth.

“If

the woman called Jinna is not here, we’ll take this one in her place to speak for her,” he said, reaching out to take the

arm of the waiter who’d spoken earlier.

“Enough!” Jinna made her way through the crowd, her eyes flat, her lips set.

“Enough, let her go. I’m the one you’re after.”

The guard looked her up and down, matching her up to some mental description.

“You’re to come with us.”

“This isn’t about my license or lack thereof,” said Jinna, folding her arms as she came to a stop between the guard and her

waiter.

“I know who your informant was—my dear brother-in-law, isn’t it?”

The mustachioed guard stepped forward, shifting his grip on his sword menacingly.

“It’s up to Lord Whimsitt to arbitrate his

claim of inheritance on your late husband’s property. Come with us peacefully now. No one needs to get hurt.”

Gwen could see Isobelle vibrating with fury, could feel the echo of that fury in her own breast—mingling with the awful dread

she’d lived with ever since she began taking over her father’s smithy.

This was what happened to women who did men’s work.

Jinna had earned her place owning and running this tavern by herself, but what did that matter to the men who ran this world?

All they saw was a woman who dared set foot in their territory.

Who dared dream for herself.

Jinna was standing there, her face serene, but her eyes as flat and hard as obsidian.

Then, lifting her head, she said, “All

right. I surrender.”

The words had barely left her lips when a cry rippled through the gathered crowd.

The waiter on whose behalf Jinna had intervened

surged forward, shouting, “Here, now, you can take her over my cold, dead—”

The head guard let out an oath as she flew at him, and with one sweep of his arm, he knocked her down.

The smattering of outrage turned into a deluge.

The crowd surged forward, engulfing the guards, tables and chairs overturning.

Gwen lurched to her feet and caught hold of Isobelle’s hand, desperate not to lose her in the melee.

The other girl met her

gaze, her eyes wide with shared fear and anger and shock.

And then someone grabbed her and pulled her out of Gwen’s grip.

The crowd buffeted Gwen away, and it took her several long, heart-stopping breaths to find Isobelle again.

She was being held

by the arms firmly, but respectfully, by a familiar-looking man not in the livery of the castle guard, but a simple, well-made

doublet and hose.

A flash of memory provided Gwen with a name: Orson, the handsome young knight who’d accompanied Isobelle

at the market.

The one who didn’t want to marry her, but would anyway.

“How dare you become involved with this,” Isobelle was shouting at him, trying to free herself.

“She’s an innocent woman, all of this

is—”

“I know!” Sir Orson cut her off, his face grim, brows drawn in with concern.

“Isobelle, come on, I know that. We can look for a way to help her later, but I need to make sure you’re okay first. I only came along because I knew you’d be here—I’ve got to get you back to the castle before anyone realizes you were here.”

Isobelle stopped struggling and stood panting, body still rigid with fury.

“I can see myself back,” she snapped.

Orson groaned. “Izzie, please . I have to see you back safely. For my sake, allow me to escort you, so I know you’re okay.”

Gwen bit her lip.

Chivalry was all well and good, but cursed inconvenient at times.

She’d been tense, ready to launch herself at Isobelle’s captor—but now there was nowhere for her fighting instinct to go.

The guards had Jinna in irons and had gotten her to the door of the tavern, and the riot of her patrons had been very neatly

quelled.

Gwen felt Isobelle’s eyes before she saw them—lifting her head, she saw the other girl craning her neck as Orson walked her

toward the door, one arm protectively around her shoulders.

For an instant, Isobelle’s eyes met Gwen’s.

In that moment, Gwen would’ve wrested a sword from one of the guards and gone after her, if Isobelle’s eyes had demanded it

of her.

Instead, in Isobelle’s face there was a single desperate question.

Will you still come?

Gwen shifted her weight, feeling the crunch of the shattered cocktail glass under her boot.

She nodded, and Isobelle vanished into the night.