Sin and Surrender (28 page)

Had driven him away from her, then and now, she thought sadly. It was far too ironic.

Paul stopped pacing to look at Juliana. She’d gone to the hearth to comb out and dry her hair. He took a moment to take in the beauty of her, to ease his troubled mind. He didn’t understand her ability to put aside what the League had done—didn’t want to understand it. She was wrong.

She glanced up at him. “Tell me you’ve used these silent moments to rethink your plan, Paul. Too much time has passed, and the League is very good at concealing what it must. Let this go.”

“I have one more missive I await, from the League itself,” he said stubbornly.

“You contacted them?” she demanded.

“I did not tell them my true purpose, nor that you were involved. For our current mission, I asked for a list of traitors spanning years—including the year of your father’s accusation and death.”

Her expression softened, even as she rose to her feet and reached to touch his face. “Paul, I would never think you would betray me in such a way. I know you well, and you know me. But you are wrong about this. I need you to let this go.”

He covered her hand with his own and held it to his cheek a moment. “I cannot, Juliana,” he said in a husky voice. “I need you to trust me.”

She searched his face. “I do not know that I can, when you refuse to listen to me.”

He moved away so that her hand dropped from him.

Once they were abed, she remained on her side and fell asleep quickly, while he lay there and held her long into the night and felt alone, as alone as if he’d already lost her.

Timothy was at their door as they prepared for mass. He smiled at Juliana, and Paul thought that some of her wariness eased.

“Paul, might I speak to you in private?” Timothy asked pleasantly.

Juliana nodded. “If you are not at mass, I will see you both in the great hall.”

When she’d gone, Paul crossed his arms over his chest and waited, studying his foster father.

Timothy removed a small folded piece of parchment hidden within his belt. “Late yesterday a missive from the League arrived with the answers to your questions about the traitors.”

Paul hid his tension, cursing his luck that Timothy would be the one to receive it. “I assume you read it. Have our present traitors been suspected before?”

“Only Redesdale, but nothing conclusive. But then that’s not why you sent the missive.”

Timothy’s tone betrayed no anger, but Paul knew that it meant little.

“The years you requested information on included the year Juliana’s father was imprisoned.” Timothy sighed. “It saddens me that you didn’t think you could come to me with questions.”

“I did. You said the League secrecy overrode all else.”

“Paul—”

“And I knew where your allegiance lay—to the League and the king, not to three brothers who needed you, or a lone young woman whose family was destroyed.”

Timothy briefly closed his eyes, then said, “I cannot apologize any more than I have.”

It was Paul’s turn to sigh. “I know. But after I told her what the League had done, you didn’t see her face.”

“The poor girl,” Timothy said softly.

“She doesn’t know of your involvement.”

The other man narrowed his eyes. “Why would you keep that from her? I was a part of the Council deliberations, involved in the decisions.”

Paul rubbed both hands through his hair. “I couldn’t tell her. Perhaps because the problems are between you and me.” But he knew it was more than that.

Timothy seemed to accept his explanation. “Then read the missive.” He held it out.

Paul stared at it in surprise, had thought Timothy meant to confiscate it. He read the encoded letter, then inhaled sharply at the details. “The Duke of Chellaston was the traitor the League was attempting to capture when Juliana’s father was accused.”

His foster father nodded. “Chellaston died within a year of Gresham, quite unexpectedly.”

“Unexpectedly,” Paul echoed with sarcasm. Someone had obviously ordered his death as punishment.

“Chellaston and his sons are cousins to King Henry.”

“But if he was attempting treason against Edward, long dead, why would Henry care? Why has it not been revealed?”

“Because Chellaston’s son, the current duke, is a powerful supporter of Henry—and very proud of his family’s dedication and loyalty to England. He would be humiliated if his father’s secrets were made public. Henry will not sanction the revelation, needing the duke’s support at this crucial time.” Timothy sat down heavily in the cushioned chair near the hearth. “Gresh-am’s death was an accident, but the plan had been to exonerate him and return him to his family. When the king discovered how royal the traitor was—and that Gresham was dead anyway—His Majesty ordered us to maintain secrecy.”

“The League didn’t care about Juliana?”

“We made certain she was safe and protected.” He briefly closed his eyes as if in pain. “I live with the sorrow of these decisions every day. But Paul, Gresham was a Bladesman.”

Startled, Paul sank down on the opposite chair. “A Bladesman? Juliana never knew …”

“Why would she? He volunteered to risk himself and his reputation. He died for his beliefs. He would not have wanted us to put avenging him over the successful outcome of the mission he believed in so much.”

“But Juliana—”

“Does she want you to go forward with your revelations?”

“Nay,” he said. “She is as loyal to the League as her father.”

“Stop now, Paul,” Timothy said, leaning forward with urgency. “This obsession is risking your safety. You aren’t concentrating fully on this assignment.”

Before Paul could become defensive, Timothy finished in a pained voice.

“You could be killed, Paul, and I cannot lose you again.”

Paul felt confused as he realized that his long-held animosity toward his foster father was beginning to fade. But showing the League its mistakes was still important to him. “Will you tell the League what I’m doing?”

“Never, though I understand why you question. But you are as a son to me, Paul.”

Paul stared at him, then looked away. “I will discuss my decision with Juliana.”

After Timothy had gone, Paul sat alone in the bedchamber, trying to make sense of everything. Then Juliana arrived, closed the door and leaned back against it, watching him. He beckoned, and when she approached, he tried to pull her onto his lap, but she resisted.

“What did Timothy want?” she asked.

Calmly, he told her about the missive, and everything Timothy had revealed.

“My father, a Bladesman,” she breathed, her voice full of wonder and pride. “It explains so much.”

He nodded, saying nothing.

She met his eyes. “Now that you know the name of the true traitor—and you see how much would be lost if you revealed it—will you keep the secret my father died for, Paul?”

“For now, Juliana. I cannot promise what my final decision will be.” Timothy had been right—he might become too distracted during this mission, and that could bring harm to Juliana. He couldn’t bear that.

But he saw the way she stiffened.

“Enough, Paul,” she said angrily. “I do not want to hear another word about you pursuing the truth for which my father paid with his life to keep protected. It has nothing to do with you!”

He opened his mouth, and realized he couldn’t disagree. Why was this so important to him, that he’d even go against Juliana?

“You’ve made certain I know that what we have is temporary,” she continued, her voice cold. “I understood from the beginning and accepted it. We’ve taken pleasure in each other, and that’s all we’re meant to have. But now your curiosity is threatening what my father worked for—and I won’t have it!”

He stared in surprise and admiration at her fury, at her snapping black eyes and the way she tossed back her
hair when it got in her way. She was right—they were lovers, nothing more. It was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

Yet he was hurting her, and the pain was like a blade into his own chest. He couldn’t change his mind and do what she wanted. She was wrong—and he was right.

She glared at him. “You aren’t happy, Paul, and you’re looking for something to make you feel right again. I won’t be with you and watch you suffer—and let you make me suffer. ‘Tis finished between us.”

Finished? He’d thought their relationship had to end at some point, but the finality of it suddenly seemed wrong. He frowned. “I’m trying to help you.”

“Are you? I don’t think so.” She straightened. “‘Tis time to show yourself in the great hall. You missed mass, and I saw many guarded looks sent my way. I cannot break my fast alone.”

He stood up and followed her from the bedchamber. She was her usual careful Bladeswoman self, peering around corners. Just as they passed a corridor, Paul felt a breeze behind him, and had his sword unsheathed, parrying the blade aimed at his back.

J
uliana heard the slide of metal as Paul unsheathed his sword behind her. In that instant time seemed to stand still. She knew another Bladesman would be coming up from behind Paul’s attacker.

Other men were running from the opposite way, and she only had this one moment to make a decision.

She threw a dagger, slicing the nearest torch in half, and it guttered out on the floor. The next torch was much farther down the corridor, leaving Paul and his attacker fighting in the shadows, and disguising her own participation. She backed up against the wall, before the next two attackers could register who she was. They ran toward Paul’s back with blades raised.

She tossed another dagger, and it hit the first man in the thigh, as she’d planned. He went down hard, falling in front of his partner, who tumbled right over the top of him. She took the opportunity and used her next dagger on the second man, laying open his arm.

Glancing briefly at Paul, she saw that two men were
taking turns attacking him in the narrow corridor. And he was doing his best not to kill them, or they’d already have been dead. Beyond Paul, another battle raged, but in the murky light, she could not see which Bladesman was involved.

Juliana’s two opponents were moaning and dragging on each other, trying to get away. She let them go. Still clutching her bloody dagger, she looked for an opening to assist Paul. One of his attackers was already on the ground, and Paul took out another by allowing the man to thrust toward him. Paul gripped his sword arm with one hand, yanking him off balance and using his hilt to render the man unconscious.

He was breathing hard when his gaze found Juliana. She gave him a brisk nod, and they both turned to the last battle.

It was already over. Timothy stood over his opponent, his sword yet held in the ready as he stared down the corridor, looking for more.

“Damn, but I hate watching you defend me!” Paul said to Juliana, then hugged her fiercely.

“Cannot … breathe,” she managed, her face buried in his tunic.

He eased his hold. “Brilliant move, dousing the torch.”

She shrugged and pushed away from him. Touching him was too painful. She didn’t meet his gaze, couldn’t
let him see how she cared. Such caring was best put behind her. It wasn’t important enough to him.

Timothy came toward them, and it was then that Juliana saw the blood that stained his chest.

Paul’s face tightened as he went to his foster father. “How badly are you hurt?”

“My shoulder,” Timothy said, reaching to hold his arm against his side. “It looks worse than it is.” He looked at the men moaning on the ground, at the two Juliana had fought, who they could see limping away at the end of the corridor. He smiled at her. “Well done—to you both.”

“I cannot remain such an open target while my people are hurt,” Paul fumed. “After we’ve seen to Timothy, I will speak with the traitors.”

Timothy’s shoulder wound was of the flesh, and once the bleeding had been stopped, Juliana thought Paul’s tension at last eased. She’d never imagined he would feel close to his foster father, and felt relieved to see it.

But her relief gave way to frustration in the great hall, when he had to leave her behind.

Paul crossed the hall, knowing many pairs of eyes stared at him with skepticism or curiosity or wonder. The traitors were scattered about, and he approached Lord Byrd, who had just left a game of dice.

“Lord Byrd, I wish to speak with you,” Paul said between his teeth, hating his subservient role.

Paul expected Byrd to be angry at such a visible request, but the other man barely hid his agitated wariness.

“This is not proper,” Byrd said.

“How can I care for propriety?” Paul asked plaintively. “My men and I were just attacked within these walls.”

Byrd flinched. “You appear unharmed.”

“Due to the skill of my men, of course, and I am grateful.”

“If all is well, why do you risk speaking to me so openly?”

Paul lowered his voice. “It has been several days since you … revealed your plans to me. What more has happened? And when will we declare my identity, so that I’ll have an army’s protection?”

Paul kept waiting for the usual display of anger and arrogance, but Byrd seemed fearful, his beady eyes darting about even as he wrung his hands. Something was wrong.

“When I have news, I will let you know,” the man said brusquely, then hurried away as fast as his bulk would allow.

Paul withdrew from the lance-throwing competition. Juliana had to wait until the midday meal, when the guests were dispersing into various pavilions over
flowing with tables of food, before she could pull him behind the empty stands near the lists.

“Why did you withdraw?” she demanded. “You love to compete.”

“The attacks are growing more frequent, and the traitors are nervous. I cannot let myself be distracted by a game.”

She glared at him. “You mean you can’t tear yourself away from your protection of me.”

He only narrowed his eyes and said nothing.

“Do you think I’m weak? Did I
prove
myself weak this morn?”

“Weak?” he echoed in a low furious voice. “I was
proud
of you. I told you so. But … somehow things are different now. You’re my—” He broke off.