He glanced over his shoulder and found her lingering near the courtyard, her hands fluttering over her gown as if seeking purchase in unfamiliar folds of velvet. Eleanor had joined her, but Roland had yet to appear, and he couldn’t risk her standing there alone for another moment.
“Beth,” he barked, closing the distance in three long strides. She flinched at the tension in his voice but turned, her brows drawing together.
“Yes?”
“Walk with me,” Baldwin snapped, offering her his arm.
She hesitated, but slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. He ignored the slight tremor he felt through the fabric of his tunic, leading her toward a narrow alcove just far enough from the hall to grant them privacy from prying eyes.
Her voice low, she whispered, “You’re angry?—”
“I am furious,” Baldwin growled, wheeling to face her.
Her head jerked back slightly, her eyes widening. “With me?”
“With everyone,” he hissed through clenched teeth, stepping closer. “With the queen for summoning you here to satisfy her curiosity. With Barnaby meddling where he does not belong.With myself for every second that I’m unable to shield you from this... this cesspit.”
Her lips parted slightly, her breath hitching when she replied, “I don’t need shielding. I’m not some fainting damsel. I can handle myself!”
“Handle yourself?” The words erupted before he could stop them. He took a breath, fighting to regain control, his voice dropping to a fierce, anguished whisper. “Do you not understand the danger? These people will not hesitate to brand you a witch, to strip from you all you have, all you are, and it will be my fault.” His voice lowered further still. “And I would never forgive myself.”
Her eyes searched his, wide and vulnerable in the dim torchlight, her breathing quickening, the silk ribbon of her braid trembling slightly against the hollow of her throat. Ever so gently, her hand rose to the embroidered edge of his tunic, fingers brushing the rich damask, then settling. Baldwin’s breath caught sharply, the gentle pressure of her touch seeming to settle directly over that ragged wound deep inside his chest. The one he refused to admit existed.
“My lord?” Jason’s voice echoed hesitantly from nearby, breaking the encroaching intimacy. “The royal feast is soon to begin. They’re asking?—”
Baldwin clenched his jaw, leaning slightly away from her warmth, the sudden withdrawal feeling as though he were tearing sinew from bone. He turned away slightly, his voice thick as he commanded, “We will be there presently.”
As Jason’s hurried footsteps faded, Baldwin faced Beth once more. “Take care with your words,” he murmured, softer this time but no less urgent. “I ask you to trust me.”
She gave a slight nod, eyes glistening. “I do trust you.” Her voice softened. “But trust moves both ways. You have to trust me too.”
He studied her face, so earnest in the shifting torchlight, and felt his barriers falter, his defenses crumbling beneath the gentle truth in her gaze. He let out a slow breath, his fingers twitching with the urge to reach for her, to brush his thumb softly across her cheek and soothe the hurt he’d placed there. But he could not. Not here. Not now.
“Come,” he said roughly. “The king is waiting.”
The feast wasfit for a king indeed. Westminster’s great dining hall had been transformed, banquet tables groaning beneath delicately roasted pheasants, pies dusted with gold leaf, and platters piled high with sugared fruits and candied flowers. The air was rich with roasted meat, honey, spices, and the burning tallow candles that illuminated the faces of London’s nobility.
Beth felt the weight of everyone’s gaze heavy as stones upon her back, her heart fluttering anxiously beneath the layers of velvet and brocade Eleanor had arranged so carefully that morning. She sat at Baldwin’s side, grateful for the protective proximity he maintained, his solid warmth a reassuring presence beside her. Yet she could feel him drawing away, even as he spoke with great intensity to Roland and shared a wry comment with Eleanor. The space between them filled with unspoken words neither seemed ready or able to say.
Across the hall, she glimpsed the pale, round face of Lord Barnaby, his wolfish eyes following her every movement. A servant bustled forward, pouring rich claret into the elegant silver goblets arrayed before each guest. She accepted hers absently, anxiety twisting in her stomach.
Lord Barnaby’s voice rose from his seat, smooth and outwardly jovial, cutting through the general thrum ofconversation. “A toast!” he declared, lifting his own goblet, his round cheeks flushed with wine and triumph. “To Mistress Anderson, whose... remarkable insights have brought such light and fire to London.” The laughter that followed was brittle, unkind, tinged with unease.
Beth scanned the table nervously, and her fingers tightened unconsciously around the stem of her goblet. Beside her, Eleanor glanced over, eyes shining with gentle encouragement, unaware of the malicious undercurrent. At the far end of the table, the queen watched impassively while Jacquetta, next to her, raised a questioning brow, her gaze sharp.
“Well, my lady,” Lord Barnaby prompted with cold menace, the expectant eyes of the court bearing down on her. “Will you drink, or does your philosophy forbid it?”
Her throat tightened painfully, heart racing beneath the elaborate gown, the goblet cold in her hands. She could not refuse without reinforcing their suspicions, but she knew better than anyone how treacherous this place had become. Self-conscious, she lifted the claret to her lips, swallowing a small mouthful.
For a moment, the rich taste filled her senses, fragrant and heady. Then, her lips grew strangely numb, and panic speared through her chest with icy clarity. Her tongue tingled alarmingly, her throat prickling as though pierced by a thousand tiny needles. She gasped in stunned horror as the burning sensation spread rapidly downward, constricting her airways.
The goblet slipped from her fingers, clattering to the stone as darkness seemed to swim around her vision. Calls of alarm erupted from every side, and through blurred eyes, she saw Baldwin rising with desperate speed.
She felt herself falling, pitched sideways toward the cold, polished stone.
“Beth!” Baldwin’s voice rang like shattered crystal as he lunged forward, catching her limp form just before her head hit the floor. Strong arms cradled her, rough fingers brushing her cheek, searching her face for answers, but darkness pulled at the edges of her consciousness.
“Poison... belladonna.” She whispered.
