“Help!” she screamed. “Help!”
* * * *
Padraig saw the men-at-arms when he was yet some distance from Darlyrede’s grand entry, the snow turning them into hazy, dreamlike figures beneath the miniature suns above their heads. There had been no guards at the doorwhen he’d left.
Padraig’s gaze traveled up at the façade of the estate, the glowing windows highabove the moat.
“Iris,” he whispered, her name being manifest on the icy air for an instant before disappearinginto the night.
He thought it likely that the guards would admit him, and nearly spurred his horse forward, but then reconsidered. It was safer for everyone if Hargrave believed Padraig had left Darlyrede and was gone; if the men-at-arms had been stationed there to alert the lord of Padraig’s return, it could set into motion things not yet begun. Better to let Hargrave continue to think Padraig had shaken Darlyrede’s dustfrom his boots.
And yet, how then was he to get inside the fortress and findIris and Lucan?
The question was answered for him in the next moment, as the guard to the left gave out a sudden cry and then crumpled to the ground. His comrade drew his sword, shouting something unintelligible at that distance into the quietly falling snow. But Padraig saw the arrow find its mark in the opening beneath the man’s helm, and then that soldiertoo collapsed.
Padraig held his breath as slinking shadows separated themselves from the storm, creeping stealthily toward the entry—more than a score of them, from what he could tell, carrying bows. Some of them appeared to be wearing helmets or…
“Masks,” he breathed in the shelterof the trees.
The last pair of robbers paused before disappearing into the hold, taking time to ensure that each of the fallen guards was dead, and then relieve them of their weapons. In a blink, they had rolled the two men into the moat and then closed the tall doors after them.
Padraig let out the breath he’d been holding. The stakes had just gone up in this mission to warn Iris and Lucan Montague. Padraig wasn’t certain what the thieves intended for Darlyrede House, but their mission had already proved deadly, and would only likely become more so the deeper into the hold the band managed to penetrate.
He swung down from his mount and left it in the shelter of the trees before running as fast as he could across the open expanse of ground before the hold. There were likely only so many moments he could count on the distraction of the bandits, and he took advantage of every spare bit of strength he possessed, ignoring the strain in his ribs and shoulder as he pulled up, breathing hard, before the doors. He grasped the handle and eased the door open the slightest crack, peering through the slitand listening.
The entry was empty, but somewhere deeper inside the castle—the hall, he thought—Padraig heard shouts, asingle scream.
He slipped through the door and ran at a crouch toward the sounds of commotion. He flattened himself against the stones as the hall doors came into sight, closing before his eyes. In the next moment the sound of the heavy beam being slid into place sealed the fate of those within the hall. Padraig approached carefully, peering through the crack while holding his breath. Lucan, Hargrave, and Lady Caris—butwhere was Iris?
Padraig turned away from the door and ran back through the entry toward the right-hand corridor, leading deeper into the castle. As he passed beneath the portraits towering over his head, he had the eerie sensation that Euphemia Hargrave was watchinghis every move.
* * * *
Lucan sat at the lord’s table, his throbbing foot propped on the tufted stool Lord Hargrave had so courteously provided. Although in truth he wished to be anywhere but in Darlyrede’s hall, Hargrave had so pressed Lucan to attend, and the man seemed in such a pleasant humor and behaved so accommodatingly—the seat at the lord’s table, the servants to wait upon his every wish—Lucan knew that something potentially calamitous was stirring.
A handful of the more cautious noble guests had departed Darlyrede posthaste at the news of Lord Paget’s death, and yet far more of the attendees had remained, their thirst for gossip proving stronger than any fear for their safety. Lucan sat at Hargrave’s right, and he noted crossly that Iris was nowhere to be seen. And while he hoped that she was with Padraig, somehow convincing him of their sincerity, it was more likely that Lady Caris had made more demands than usual upon his sister’s time and sympathy, while Padraig had simply deigned it unnecessary to attend the feast.
Padraig was angry. And hurt. And Lucan understood that he bore responsibility forthose injuries.
Lord Hargrave, however, appeared as though there was nothing at all wrong in the world. In fact Lucan couldn’t remember a time in which the man had appeared more contented, and with each passing moment, each smile, each shout of laughter, Lucan’s unease increased.
Father Kettering entered the hall then, and cast a pointed, questioning look toward his injured foot.
All right?
Lucan nodded. He was well enough, he supposed, for having been shot clean through his boot and then exposing himself as a would-have-been traitor to Thomas Annesley.
Where have you gone to now, Thomas?Lucan thought crossly to himself.
But then Vaughn Hargrave stood, clearing his throat genially and looking about the hall with a broad, sparkling smile.
“Good evening,” he said crisply. “Let us first have the blessing.” He nodded toward Father Kettering, who obliged with an unusually brief but seemingly heartfelt prayer. After Kettering’s final “amen,” Hargrave pickedup his chalice.
“And now, let us remember our friend, Lord Adolphus Paget, who lost his life in a senseless act of cowardice and treachery. I vow that I will do everything in my power to rid our lands of this pestilence once and for all, and avenge the death of so great and honorable a man.”
Lucan had to steel his face against a reactive expression. Everyone gathered knew Adolphus Paget to be a greedy, boot-licking lecher.
Hargrave raised his chalice. “To Lord Paget.”
