Lord Of Danger by Stuart, Anne (android based ebook reader .TXT) 📕

up at him, and he knew that what he’d once felt for Gwyneth had been a boy’s foolish fancy, tempered by the promise of a sensible marriage. Richard had offered lands and gold to the man who married Gwyneth, and Gwyneth had promised wondrous fleshly delights sanctified by the church.

In the end, neither had been enough. In the end, he wanted nothing more than to run away with the slender, beautiful, tiresome creature who confronted him, her beautiful mouth quivering, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

There was a storm brewing. The wind whipped her golden hair, catching it up and hurling it toward him. Overhead lightning spat through the sky, and he could smell the rain approaching.

“Let me take you to your solar, Lady Claire,” he said stiffly. “Your women will stay with you, and I’ll keep watch. No one will harm you.”

“But what about my sister?”

“She has her husband to guard her.”

“It’s her husband I’m most afraid of.” She pushed the hair away from her face. “Can you do nothing, Thomas?” Her voice was so gentle and plaintive that he wanted to slay dragons for her.

“Nothing, my lady,” he said.

She glanced up toward Grendel’s tower, her eyes troubled. A dim light pooled outward, but there was no sign of movement within. “If he hurts her, I will cut out his heart.”

“I’ve heard that he doesn’t possess one, my lady,” Sir Thomas said.

She turned to look at him with devastating calm. “A problem that afflicts most of the men in this castle, Sir Thomas.” And she started ahead of him, toward the east tower.

It was done. He had no idea of the hour, he only knew his back hurt, his neck was stiff, and his eyes were stinging from concentrating too hard. He stretched, glancing over to the darkened alcove where his bride slept so peacefully, her gown twisted around her sweet young body.

There were other places he could sleep. A trundle bed, a pallet in the anteroom where Godfrey usually kept watch. He was going to do neither. He would lie beside his bride in the big, fur-covered bed, and he wouldn’t touch her.

He glanced down at the clear purple liquid. There was enough in the small stoppered bottle to kill a number of times over. It was a potent draught, and it only remained to be tested. Two drops would promise deep, restoring sleep to a large man. Four drops would kill him.

Or at least, that’s what he presumed. He had every intention of testing it first, and this time he didn’t dare use one of the servants, not for an experiment that could lead to high treason. He would drink it himself, and sleep beside his young bride totally oblivious to temptation.

He measured two careful drops into a wine goblet, then splashed some warm red wine on top of it. He was about to carry it to his lips when a noise beyond the door caught his attention. He set the glass down again in complete silence and moved stealthily toward the door, his right hand curled protectively against his side.

Richard de Lancie stood in the hallway, swaying slightly, his face flushed from drink, but Simon didn’t make the mistake of underestimating his opponent. He slipped through the door, closing it behind him, closing it so that Richard couldn’t crane his neck and see what lay beyond.

“Did you swive her?” he demanded in a piercing whisper. “Did you get between my little sister’s legs and show her what a man is for? Show her what she’s got to look forward to for the rest of her life?”

“It’s hardly your business, my lord,” Simon said with mocking politeness.

“Then again, perhaps she won’t have to put up with it much longer. If you were to die, perhaps I’d let her go back to the convent. She’d be happier there, and God knows she’s no prize like Claire. You were lucky enough to get her, but some of the more powerful barons around here wouldn’t be quite so eager. I could get her into a nunnery with less expense.”

“Not while I’m alive,” Simon said with deceptive calm.

“Ah, but life is short. We both know that. Who’s to guess when an assassin will turn up, with an ancient grudge? Or a piece of bad shellfish could finish you off.”

“I have no fondness for shellfish,” Simon said. “As for ancient enemies, they don’t exist.”

“You mean to tell me that there’s no one on this earth who wants to kill you?” Richard scoffed. “No one who wants nothing more dearly than to cut your throat?”

“No one left alive,” he said gently.

Richard made a faint choking sound. “I want the sleeping draught, Grendel,” he said abruptly.

“It’s almost ready.”

“You said that before.”

“Then you should learn not to waste your time repeating questions. The draught will be in your hands very soon. Once I test it.”

“You’re going to kill someone to see if it works? Let me make a few suggestions…” Richard’s voice was eager.

“It is a sleeping draught, my lord,” Simon corrected in a reproving voice. “A dangerous one, taken in the wrong dose, but when properly used, absolutely harmless. I intend to try the dosage on myself.”

“You’re mad, Grendel!”

Simon smiled. “So you’ve always said, my lord.”

“I want it by tomorrow. If you’re dead beside my sister then I’ll search your rooms till I find it.”

“I won’t be dead,” Simon said.

“Harrumph!” Richard’s disapproval was extreme. “Bring it to me tomorrow whether it works or no. We can always try it on Sir Hector when he’s being particularly annoying.”

Simon waited until he was out of sight, down the circular stairs, before he went back into the solar. The fire had died down, but the room was warm, almost overheated. The smell of spices and wine lingered in the air, the smell of perfume and flowers and crushed, dried rose petals. He looked at the bed and saw Alys sitting up, a goblet of wine in one slim white hand.

“I wondered where you were,” she said