Page 31

T he morning sunlight spilled through the leaded windows of the great hall, catching motes of dust that danced above the polished stone floor.

Long tapestries swayed faintly in the breeze from the open windows, their embroidered scenes of battles and hunts casting shifting shadows across the gathered courtiers below.

Beth wished she could disappear into those shadows.

Every eye seemed to fix on her as she entered beside Baldwin, her steps faltering under the weight of so many scrutinizing gazes.

The hall was noisy with the sound of clinking goblets, murmured conversations, and the rich timbre of laughter, but it all stilled as word of her arrival rippled outward, drowning even the light trill of a lute in the far corner.

She fisted the folds of the deep blue velvet gown in her fists.

Eleanor had chosen the dress for her this morning, weaving her hair into an intricate braid threaded with a ribbon of silver silk.

Despite these efforts, Beth couldn’t shake the feeling she looked more like a lamb in borrowed finery than a lady.

Despite the cold day, sweat dripped down her back.

Beside her, Baldwin wore a tunic of green damask that hugged his broad shoulders and tapered perfectly along his lean frame.

Gold embroidery traced the edges of his collar, catching the light in flashes.

He kept her hand in the crook of his arm, his presence a bulwark against the whispered insults she half-heard.

Around the hall, courtiers watched and waited like predators scenting blood on the breeze.

Lord Barnaby Skeffington, cousin to Cedric, stood apart from the cluster gathered near the dais, casting long, appraising glances toward her.

His doublet, sharp-edged and the color of claret wine, made his round face seem softer than it was, but his calculating smirk darkened the illusion.

His eyes gleamed with malice as he whispered something to the woman beside him, who covered her mouth with delicate fingers as her gaze darted toward Beth.

At the high table, King Edward lounged comfortably, his doublet of cream and gold brocade practically glowing in the sunlight.

His golden hair gleamed beneath a pearl-studded cap, and his laugh rumbled warmly as he listened to the queen, who sat beside him, resplendent in pale blue damask trimmed with ermine.

Jacquetta sat to the queen’s left, her silver hair coiled into an intricate coronet of braids. Even seated, she commanded an almost predatory grace. She observed the room with cool dispassion, her sharp eyes missing nothing as they moved from Beth to Baldwin.

“Lord Baldwin,” Edward called, his voice cutting effortlessly through the murmurs. “You bring your interesting ward to us again. We are pleased to see you both, and so soon after your most singular performance in the courtyard.”

Beth resisted the urge to wince. Beside her, Baldwin inclined his head, his voice even as he said, “Your Grace, the Lady Eleanor and I remain your humble servants, as does my companion, the widow Anderson.”

Before Edward could respond, Lord Barnaby stepped forward, his polished boots clicking against the stone floor.

“Your Grace, what is most singular, I think, is the manner of the lady’s.

.. philosophy. It raises questions among those who serve you.

” He twisted to give a smile too sharp to be polite. “Questions about where it is rooted.”

Her pulse spiked. She stared at Barnaby, stomach knotting, deciding that she’d been wrong. It wasn’t fun to be smack dab in the middle of history.

“She is skilled,” Baldwin answered coolly before the king could reply.

His voice didn’t waver, but Beth could hear the steel threaded beneath it.

“As I have said before, her talents lie in understanding nature’s mysteries, which are beyond the average person’s understanding.

Surely we would not punish a mind eager to learn. ”

Barnaby’s smirk widened. “No punishment intended, my lord. Only... observation. Knowledge unchecked can become dangerous in careless hands.”

The subtle derision in his tone pulled a murmur throughout the room like dry leaves in a soft breeze.

The king’s expression darkened, though his good humor barely flickered. “Barnaby,” he said, and his voice was a blade. “We tire of these tedious insinuations. Should you doubt my judgment in permitting the lady’s presence, I suggest you take the matter up with her protector.”

Baldwin’s piercing look could have skewered Barnaby where he stood, and Beth felt a small flare of relief.

Jacquetta waved a languid hand. “The Lord Cedric’s absence leaves such matters poorly represented.

” Her voice was smooth as honeyed wine, but Beth caught the undercurrent of something sharper beneath it.

“In his stead, my daughter and I shall study the matter further. Perhaps Mistress Beth would do me the favor of joining me this afternoon in my chambers.”

Jacquetta’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.

Beth’s throat tightened. “I would be delighted, Lady Rivers.”

Baldwin’s hands curled into fists as he stalked the edges of the hall after they were dismissed. The whispers followed Beth like smoke, curling around her even now. Damned Barnaby, with his smug insinuations. Cedric’s absence hadn’t defanged his cousin, for he was still plotting from afar.

And Beth. Saints above, she made things worse by standing there too proud, too exposed, her very presence a challenge to anyone brave or foolish enough to test her.

He glanced over his shoulder and found her lingering near the courtyard, her hands fluttering over her gown as if seeking purchase in unfamiliar folds of velvet. Eleanor had joined her, but Roland had yet to appear, and he couldn’t risk her standing there alone for another moment.

“Beth,” he barked, closing the distance in three long strides. She flinched at the tension in his voice but turned, her brows drawing together.

“Yes?”

“Walk with me,” Baldwin snapped, offering her his arm.

She hesitated, but slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. He ignored the slight tremor he felt through the fabric of his tunic, leading her toward a narrow alcove just far enough from the hall to grant them privacy from prying eyes.

Her voice low, she whispered, “You’re angry?—”

“I am furious,” Baldwin growled, wheeling to face her.

Her head jerked back slightly, her eyes widening. “With me?”

“With everyone,” he hissed through clenched teeth, stepping closer. “With the queen for summoning you here to satisfy her curiosity. With Barnaby meddling where he does not belong. With myself for every second that I’m unable to shield you from this... this cesspit.”

Her lips parted slightly, her breath hitching when she replied, “I don’t need shielding. I’m not some fainting damsel. I can handle myself!”

“Handle yourself?” The words erupted before he could stop them.

He took a breath, fighting to regain control, his voice dropping to a fierce, anguished whisper.

“Do you not understand the danger? These people will not hesitate to brand you a witch, to strip from you all you have, all you are, and it will be my fault.” His voice lowered further still. “And I would never forgive myself.”

Her eyes searched his, wide and vulnerable in the dim torchlight, her breathing quickening, the silk ribbon of her braid trembling slightly against the hollow of her throat.

Ever so gently, her hand rose to the embroidered edge of his tunic, fingers brushing the rich damask, then settling.

Baldwin’s breath caught sharply, the gentle pressure of her touch seeming to settle directly over that ragged wound deep inside his chest. The one he refused to admit existed.

“My lord?” Jason’s voice echoed hesitantly from nearby, breaking the encroaching intimacy. “The royal feast is soon to begin. They’re asking?—”

Baldwin clenched his jaw, leaning slightly away from her warmth, the sudden withdrawal feeling as though he were tearing sinew from bone. He turned away slightly, his voice thick as he commanded, “We will be there presently.”

As Jason’s hurried footsteps faded, Baldwin faced Beth once more. “Take care with your words,” he murmured, softer this time but no less urgent. “I ask you to trust me.”

She gave a slight nod, eyes glistening. “I do trust you.” Her voice softened. “But trust moves both ways. You have to trust me too.”

He studied her face, so earnest in the shifting torchlight, and felt his barriers falter, his defenses crumbling beneath the gentle truth in her gaze.

He let out a slow breath, his fingers twitching with the urge to reach for her, to brush his thumb softly across her cheek and soothe the hurt he’d placed there. But he could not. Not here. Not now.

“Come,” he said roughly. “The king is waiting.”

The feast was fit for a king indeed. Westminster’s great dining hall had been transformed, banquet tables groaning beneath delicately roasted pheasants, pies dusted with gold leaf, and platters piled high with sugared fruits and candied flowers.

The air was rich with roasted meat, honey, spices, and the burning tallow candles that illuminated the faces of London’s nobility.

Beth felt the weight of everyone’s gaze heavy as stones upon her back, her heart fluttering anxiously beneath the layers of velvet and brocade Eleanor had arranged so carefully that morning.

She sat at Baldwin’s side, grateful for the protective proximity he maintained, his solid warmth a reassuring presence beside her.

Yet she could feel him drawing away, even as he spoke with great intensity to Roland and shared a wry comment with Eleanor.

The space between them filled with unspoken words neither seemed ready or able to say.