Page 32

Across the hall, she glimpsed the pale, round face of Lord Barnaby, his wolfish eyes following her every movement. A servant bustled forward, pouring rich claret into the elegant silver goblets arrayed before each guest. She accepted hers absently, anxiety twisting in her stomach.

Lord Barnaby’s voice rose from his seat, smooth and outwardly jovial, cutting through the general thrum of conversation.

“A toast!” he declared, lifting his own goblet, his round cheeks flushed with wine and triumph.

“To Mistress Anderson, whose... remarkable insights have brought such light and fire to London.” The laughter that followed was brittle, unkind, tinged with unease.

Beth scanned the table nervously, and her fingers tightened unconsciously around the stem of her goblet.

Beside her, Eleanor glanced over, eyes shining with gentle encouragement, unaware of the malicious undercurrent.

At the far end of the table, the queen watched impassively while Jacquetta, next to her, raised a questioning brow, her gaze sharp.

“Well, my lady,” Lord Barnaby prompted with cold menace, the expectant eyes of the court bearing down on her. “Will you drink, or does your philosophy forbid it?”

Her throat tightened painfully, heart racing beneath the elaborate gown, the goblet cold in her hands.

She could not refuse without reinforcing their suspicions, but she knew better than anyone how treacherous this place had become.

Self-conscious, she lifted the claret to her lips, swallowing a small mouthful.

For a moment, the rich taste filled her senses, fragrant and heady.

Then, her lips grew strangely numb, and panic speared through her chest with icy clarity.

Her tongue tingled alarmingly, her throat prickling as though pierced by a thousand tiny needles.

She gasped in stunned horror as the burning sensation spread rapidly downward, constricting her airways.

The goblet slipped from her fingers, clattering to the stone as darkness seemed to swim around her vision. Calls of alarm erupted from every side, and through blurred eyes, she saw Baldwin rising with desperate speed.

She felt herself falling, pitched sideways toward the cold, polished stone.

“Beth!” Baldwin’s voice rang like shattered crystal as he lunged forward, catching her limp form just before her head hit the floor. Strong arms cradled her, rough fingers brushing her cheek, searching her face for answers, but darkness pulled at the edges of her consciousness.

“Poison... belladonna.” She whispered.

“She’s been poisoned,” he roared, fury and fear breaking through the usual self-control in his voice. “Lock the doors! No one leaves until we find the traitor responsible!”

The king was on his feet, face contorted in outrage, bellowing orders, while chaos washed the court into turmoil all around them.

Baldwin didn’t spare a thought for appearances as he scooped up Beth into his arms, her body dangerously slack against his chest, and bolted from the hall with a speed born of desperation.

The next hours passed in a blur of panic and torment. In Baldwin’s chambers, Beth lay pale and shuddering, her breathing shallow as poison ravaged her body. The royal physician hovered, pouring over vials, tests, and half-whispered Latin.

Milk. Beth’s memory fought through the numb haze. She knew the toxin. “Milk,” she gasped weakly, drawing Baldwin’s urgent gaze. “Fat... slows poison...”

He seized her limp hands, and his voice was ragged, tortured. “Find milk!” he barked sharply to the attendants hovering by the chamber door. And when it arrived, he gently lifted her head, coaxing it down her throat himself, speaking quietly to keep her focus on his voice.

“Stay with me,” he implored softly. “I cannot lose you … not now … not like this.”

Her breathing steadied slightly as the antidote worked slowly, her vision growing clearer with each painful gasp. When exhaustion finally claimed her, Baldwin pressed a gentle kiss to her hand, utterly heedless of the physician’s interested gaze.

“Go,” Baldwin growled softly to the physician, voice thick with barely controlled emotion. The physician bowed and left in a whirl of black robes, leaving them alone.

Baldwin dropped his head, resting his brow against Beth’s cool hand, his voice barely audible. “This should never have happened. I promised to protect you, yet?—”

Eyes fluttering open, Beth attempted a weak smile. With a soft murmur, she whispered, “So, are you going to finally kiss me now?”

Baldwin chuckled hoarsely, lifting his gaze to meet hers. “You ask me now?”

Icy fingers brushed his cheek, trembling but firm. “Well...if it means anything...to you, Baldwin, you’re worth almost dying for.”

His heart gave a painful jolt at her words, at the truth shining behind them. He tenderly brushed her hair away from her pale face. “When you are well,” he promised softly, voice shaking slightly, “and if you still wish it, I promise to kiss you... until your knees give out.”

Her eyelashes swept down, closing as exhaustion took hold, but a small, peaceful smile lingered on her lips.

As he settled himself beside her, keeping quiet vigil, he knew the threat was not yet over. Barnaby and his ilk had escalated their schemes into deadly territory. This would not be the end. Yet, as he gently held her hand, Baldwin silently vowed that nothing and no one would harm her again.

In his heart, he knew with absolute clarity that loyalty to Glenhaven, to the king, would never be strong enough to take precedence over the fierce protectiveness he now felt for her.

His jaw tensed as he raised his gaze toward the shuttered windows where London’s darkness loomed beyond. “This is far from over,” he murmured grimly, conviction ringing through every word.