A Knight's Persuasion (16 page)

Forced to look up at the wooden trusses overhead, Edouard struggled to glance sideways at Veronique. Her amber eyes glittered beneath the fall of her lashes as she halted beside him, then breathed out a thoughtful sigh. Her gaze glided from his mouth, to his jaw, to his throat where he felt his pulse leaping in a wild rhythm, then down to his chest.

“Mother,” Tye muttered. “Beware.”

“He will not hurt me.” Veronique’s breath warmed Edouard’s cheek as she leaned in and trailed the fingers of her left hand along his jaw. “He knows better than to try.”

How tempted he was to kick her. His legs, after all, were unfettered. The knives were so close to his skin, though, he’d be cut. Then Veronique might turn her dagger on Juliana, just to spite him.

Refusing to acknowledge Veronique’s taunting laugh, he remained still. Remote. Emotionally detached . . .

Her fingers brushed the front of his tunic, over his belly.

He jolted, unable to control the instinctive reaction. One of the knives pierced his skin and he winced. Sticky warmth moistened his neck.

“He is bleeding!” Juliana shrieked.

“A small cut. Not deadly.” Veronique clucked her tongue. “Look what you have done, Edouard.”

“What
you
have done,” Edouard snapped.

“Please, stop.” Juliana moaned. “Surely there is another way to search him.”

“Mmm,” Veronique purred, her hand moving again, even as Tye spoke to Juliana, words Edouard couldn’t hear. Again Veronique touched his stomach, this time in a probing caress. Was she looking for a weapons belt strapped beneath his tunic? She wouldn’t find one.

Her lashes lowered a fraction, and then her palm slipped beneath his tunic to touch his bare skin. A shudder rippled through him, and she smiled. Her palm slid up his belly to the indent between his ribs, then to his shoulders, as though memorizing his physical form.

“You are a strong man,” she breathed, while her hand continued to explore. “Such large muscles. You have spent long days practicing swordplay.”

Edouard gritted his teeth.

“Your body is akin to your father’s, when he was younger.”

Did she expect him to respond to that statement? She likely wanted to tell him, in sordid detail, how she’d pleasured his sire when she was his lover. But Edouard had no wish to hear that, or invite more of her taunts. Thus, he kept quiet, despite her fingernails biting into his chest.

Her hand slid out from under his tunic, then grabbed a fistful of it. Leaning forward to nibble his chin, she said, “Let us see just how much you resemble your father.”

The straw pallet shifted at Edouard’s feet. Veronique disappeared from his view.

She’d dropped down in front of him.

He tensed. What was she planning to do?

The mercenary behind him snickered.

Nausea welled inside Edouard as Veronique lifted up the hem of his tunic to bare his hose underneath. He fought the urge to flinch. Never had he felt so naked.

“Well, now,” she said, and Edouard felt her gaze upon his privates. He swallowed, closed his eyes, anticipated her groping touch—

“Stop,” Juliana cried. “What you are doing . . . ’Tis not right!”

“Shut her up, Tye,” Veronique snarled.

“I swear to you,” Edouard growled, “if he hurts her—”

Juliana shrieked.

If only he could see what was happening!

“You will not hurt him,” she sobbed, her voice ragged and desperate. “You will not.”

Edouard’s gut twisted. “Juliana!”

A scuffle. A gasp.

Silence
.

“Juliana?” Fear pounded at Edouard’s temples. “Answer me.”

***

On her knees on the pallet, Veronique glared at her son, standing a few paces from the wooden stool. Her gaze shifted to Juliana, slumped forward in Tye’s arms that encircled her waist from behind. She looked as boneless—and lifeless—as a cloth toy.

“What has happened to Juliana?” Edouard demanded.

“She just . . . collapsed,” Tye said. “When she struggled, and seemed unsteady on her feet, I tried to get her to sit down—”

Veronique spat a curse. “All I asked was that you keep her quiet. We need her alive.” With Landon dead, Juliana was the only one who might know the whereabouts of the jewels Mayda had hidden, including the gold ring from Geoffrey—when, that is, Juliana’s memories returned.

If she died . . .

Tye huffed, an expression of annoyance. “I did my best, Mother.”

His best
. Wretched child. He’d do his best when he finally killed his father and brought about the life she expected for them both.

“Fetch the healer,” Edouard said. “If you want Juliana to live, you need to treat her, as soon as possible.”

What arrogance, for him to issue orders, especially when he was a prisoner. He was right, though, about Juliana. If she died, that ring might never be found.

Concern tingled through Veronique’s mind, even as her focus returned to the tantalizing swells and outlines beneath Edouard’s hose. She stifled a frustrated groan and stood, ignoring the pop of her aging joints.

Edouard’s gaze locked with hers. Relief shone in his eyes, before they narrowed with hatred.

A mocking chuckle welled in her throat. “Another day, Edouard, I will have my way with you.” She looked at the two mercenaries. “Finish searching him. Bring whatever you find to the solar.”

“And Juliana?” Edouard asked.

Turning her back on him, she scowled at Tye. “Take her to the solar. Watch over her, while I find Azarel.”

***

Juliana woke slowly. Her foggy mind discerned that she lay face down in a shadowed, warm place, her cheek resting on downy softness. Trying to sharpen her perceptions, she inhaled a deep breath. She smelled . . . roses.

Her mind raced, memories galloping one after another. The sun-drenched chamber. Edouard in chains. Veronique tormenting him.

Juliana’s whole body jolted, and she shoved up on her forearms, causing whatever she lay upon to
creak
. Dizziness turned her surroundings into a blur of dark shadows. Blinking several times, she forced her whirling mind to steady.

A skein of hair had tumbled over her cheek. When she slipped her tresses behind her ear, she realized they felt soft, not thick with grime. Drawing a fistful of hair to her face, she inhaled, and caught the hint of lavender.

Unease trailed through her. Someone had washed her hair. Glancing down at her arm, she noted her chemise wasn’t mud-stained, but snowy white. Her skin, too, was scrubbed clean.

What else had taken place while she was unconscious?

A lump lodged in her throat as she looked about her surroundings. She reclined on a wide, rope bed in a chamber far larger than the one where Edouard was imprisoned. In the darkness to her left, she saw a doorway to an adjoining room. An antechamber?

A sudden awareness nudged at her consciousness. The antechamber was familiar to her. Why?

The sputter of a candle drew her gaze to the nearby trestle table cluttered with pots and other items. When she glanced farther down the room, she saw the wooden shutters at the window were closed against the daylight, and a low fire glowed in the hearth. Veronique crouched by the flames, poking at the embers to start burning new logs.

When she stood, Juliana dropped her head back down upon the coverlet. Closing her eyes, she feigned sleep.

Silk rasped as Veronique approached the table. A soft
thud
: she’d dropped a cloth item on the tabletop. Then she muttered under her breath, before a hollow clatter echoed, the sound of small, hard objects landing on the wood.

Juliana dared to open her eyes a little. Vivid red hair flowing down her back, Veronique peered at the tabletop. Muttering again, she ran her hand over the wood to gather up whatever lay upon it.

She stilled, her fingers curling into a fist. Her head turned, a gesture that not only implied she sensed Juliana watching, but that she’d expected Juliana to rouse.

“’Tis good to see you awake.”

For a fleeting moment, Juliana thought of pretending to still be asleep, but Veronique was too clever to be fooled by such a ruse. Opening her eyes, Juliana pushed up to a sitting position.

“What place is this?” she asked.

“The solar.”

“Why have you brought me here? What have you done to Edouard?”

Veronique chuckled. “So many questions.”

Questions Juliana wanted answered. When she last saw Edouard, he’d stood with knives against his neck, forced by Veronique into indignity. Ignoring the cautioning cry inside her, Juliana said, “Is he all right? That much you must tell me.”

Veronique faced the bed, and the full force of her piercing gaze settled upon Juliana. She scooted toward the edge of the mattress, fighting the spinning in her head and an awful sense of entrapment. As Juliana swung her legs over the edge, Veronique strolled forward, closing the distance between them.

“Calm yourself, Juliana. I will not harm you.”

The lump in her throat hardened. “How can I be certain?”

A smile curved Veronique’s painted mouth. “I had the healer care for you while you slept. She bathed you, washed your hair, dressed you in a clean chemise, and tended your wound.”

“Th-thank you, for arranging such.”

“I was glad to do so, for I am not your enemy, Juliana. I am your friend.”

Juliana pressed her lips together. She might not remember her past association with Veronique, but she knew, purely by instinct, that this woman wasn’t, and never had been, her friend.

As though attuned to Juliana’s unease, Veronique said gently, “How is your head?”

“A little better. Thank you.”
Liar
, Juliana’s conscience shrilled. Indeed, she’d be standing now, on a level with Veronique, if her head didn’t pound like a drum.

Still, if Veronique thought her well enough, would she let her return to Edouard?

“Juliana, do you remember the first time we met?”

“The chamber where Edouard is chained.”

Suspicion filtered into Veronique’s gaze. “We had met before then.”

“I . . .” Juliana struggled to recall. The blankness in her mind refused to yield. “I do not . . . remember.” Disquiet coursed through her, for there must be a reason for Veronique’s question. “What took place, at our first meeting? I would like to know.”

A hard gleam lit Veronique’s eyes. “This chamber. Do you remember it?”

“It seems familiar—”

“Aye?” Veronique leaned forward, as though to snatch each word.

“Yet I do not know why.”

“You lived here for many months. You were Lady Ferchante’s closest friend.”

Juliana frowned and took another glance about the room. That explained the sense of familiarity, but not the feeling that something was . . . wrong. “Why is she not here now? May I see her? Mayhap, if I speak with her . . .”

“She is dead.”

“Dead,” Juliana whispered. Her mind shot back to the blood on Veronique’s sleeve. She’d killed the lord of his keep; had she murdered the lady, too?

“Surely you remember the night she perished.” Veronique’s words held a distinct edge. “You were there. You saw.”

“I did?” Juliana trembled. Her ladyship’s death . . . ’Twas clear from Veronique’s tone that Juliana should remember the crucial event. But she didn’t.
She didn’t!

Veronique reached out and smoothed a hand down Juliana’s hair. “I did not mean to upset you. I know ’tis difficult, not remembering your past. The healer, however, believes your wound will heal and your memories will return.”

Juliana fought the revulsion roused by Veronique’s caress. She didn’t dare wrench away.

“Since we are friends, Juliana, I will do all I can to help you heal and reclaim your past. I trust, in exchange, you will help me?”

“H-how?”

Veronique’s fingers slid under Juliana’s chin, tilting it up so their gazes met. “When your memories return, you will tell me right away. Agreed?”

“My memories . . . are important to you?”

“Some of them, aye. They will help forge the days ahead.” A cackle broke past her lips, and Juliana fought a shudder. What knowledge could she possibly have that would influence the future?

“Agreed?” Veronique said again.

If she said nay, would Veronique refuse to treat her wound? How very much Juliana wanted to remember who she was. To be complete again. “A-all right.”

“Good.” Veronique’s hand dropped from Juliana’s face. A muffled clatter, a sound akin to what Juliana had heard earlier, came from the shifting of Veronique’s curled fingers. A hard intensity tightened the older woman’s features, a look that suggested she saw beyond Juliana’s answer to the coming days.

Curiosity nagged, stronger than Juliana’s inner warning to beware. “How can you know,” she asked carefully, “what might take place in the days ahead?”

Veronique’s stare focused when it returned to her. “Circumstances surrounding me and my son Tye have been unfolding for years. Those, I know well. I also have these.” She threw out her arm and objects scattered on the coverlet with a soft
tap, tap, tap
.

Bones. Bleached white, polished, and of various sizes. They looked to be the size and shape of . . . Juliana’s hand flew to her mouth. Surely not.

“Human bones,” Veronique said. “Fingers, cut from prisoners in a French dungeon. They are so beautiful and straight.”

“W-why—?” Juliana couldn’t find her voice. The nearest bone lay near her hip and she edged sideways, hoping the shifting mattress wouldn’t bring the vile object even closer.

“Why were the fingers taken?” Veronique picked up a bone and trailed her bent finger over it in a reverent caress. “These belonged to criminals, the most treacherous of villains. They would not tell the French king’s warriors what they were entitled to know. So the king’s loyal subjects had no choice but to start cutting off the prisoners’ fingers, one by one, to get the information.”

The men had been tortured. Juliana could only imagine the terror and suffering the captives must have endured as the fingers were severed, which made Veronique’s possession of the bones even more grotesque.

“How did you get these bones? W-why would you want them?”