Lord Of Danger Stuart, Anne (classic fiction .TXT) 📖

a good deal of her chemise was visible above the drooping dress. She needed her sister, and she needed her now.

When Simon woke he was alone in the bed. It still smelled of her, musk and roses and soft skin. He was so hard he almost reached down to take care of it himself when something stayed his hand. He could lie on his back, think of Alys, and bring himself some ease. But that would only increase her hold over him.

Besides, he had more important things to attend to. He had to destroy that foul draught and the written page of instructions he’d inserted in his herbal before anyone could get their hands on it. His decision was finally clear, and he wanted no chance to change his mind. He pushed himself out of the tumbled bed, reaching for his abandoned clothes, and headed for the work table and the silver vial of precious liquid.

It wasn’t there.

He didn’t bother searching the room—it would have been a waste of time. He didn’t summon Godfrey to question him—Godfrey wouldn’t have the answers. Simon already knew the truth. This time Richard the Fair had chosen the proper tool. Someone had made his or her way into the wizard’s forbidden room and stolen the sleeping draught, and Simon had either been too enmeshed in his sleeping bride to notice or foolishly asleep himself.

And if he didn’t do something about it, a child would die. There was enough of the draught in that vial to kill at least half a dozen people, and he had no doubt Richard would use it sparingly. Six more people on Simon’s conscience, when it had already been so heavy-laden that it had snapped and broken.

Somehow it had rebuilt itself. Somehow he had regained a troubling sense of honor. He could keep his mouth shut, knowing that Richard would say nothing, knowing that his future was, for the time being, secure. Chief advisor to the king of England was a position that was both powerful and dangerous. He was afraid of nothing—surely this would fill his needs.

Unbidden, the memory of Alys of Summersedge came to him. Alys of Navarre, with her trusting eyes and her fierce nature. She deserved a peaceful life, a home in the countryside, surrounded by trees and flowers and children. She would be a good wife, a good mother, a kind and fair lady of the manor.

But she needed the proper husband for such a blissful future. She needed a country at peace. She was unlikely to get either of those rare commodities.

He had to find her. To find out what she remembered about last night, and whether she suspected anything untoward in the silver vial that had rested on the work table. He had no illusions about Lady Alys—if she realized the vial was dangerous she would take it, and it was far too lethal to fall into the wrong hands.

He could taste her on his mouth. Feel her skin against his hands. He could hear her muffled, shocked cry when he made her climax.

He cursed himself. That damnable stuff had seemed to work as an aphrodisiac on his shy wife—and he must have inhaled too many fumes himself. Sex was the least of his worries. Alys’s soft, plump body was of no particular importance. Even if he couldn’t stop thinking of it. Of taking her, again and again and again, until they were both too weary to do more than sleep. And then wake, and do it again.

He had to find Alys, and he had to make certain the vial was in Richard’s hands. Dangerous hands, undoubtedly, but at least Richard would know the power of the liquid. There would be no tragic mistakes, only deliberate ones.

He had to find Alys. He had to make certain she was safe. And then he could start the arduous task of rearranging his life.

Chapter Nineteen

She’d been a fool to run away, Claire knew it deep within her heart, as much as she wished to deny it. It had been ridiculously simple—without Sir Thomas to watch over her, escape was easily arranged. Richard’s stable men were stupidly lax, and her glowering guardian hadn’t warned them that she was adept at getting her way. All she had to do was distract Madlen, send her off on a fool’s errand, and she was away before anyone realized she had left.

It was growing late now, stormy. The wind had picked up, swirling the dry dead leaves around Arabia’s delicate feet as she picked her way deeper, ever deeper, into the forest. Claire had been riding for hours—she’d lost track of time, and only as the sky grew darker did she begin to realize she might have been a bit hasty in running away.

She wondered if they even knew she was gone. She’d smiled sweetly at the guards who watched over the drawbridge of Summersedge Keep, and they’d stared at her with the same besotted expression they or their compatriots had shown the first time she ran off. She’d belted up her petticoats and jumped onto Arabia’s back the moment she thought it was safe, and there had been no cries of alarm. And now she found herself wishing that there had been.

Alys had tried to warn her against her impetuous nature, and Claire had never listened. Alys’s prudence had landed her in the bed of a monster. Claire’s foolishness had probably led her to her death.

She’d never realized how very tall the trees were. It was dark in the forest, but whether it was from the storm, the approaching night, or the thick growth of greenery, Claire couldn’t tell. She only knew she was frightened.

It was an entirely unpleasant sensation. She had spent most of her young life relatively fearless. She was brave and reckless when it came to horses and her own safety, and if she ran into trouble her sister was always there to extricate her, to plead with the nuns, to take the blame