“Remember,” Hugo continued relentlessly, “this is the same man who gave his mother’s silver to buy medicines for Cook’s fever. Who takes in every stray animal and starving villager who appears at his gates. Who worked himself near to death trying to restore prosperity to lands that had been neglected for years.”
Hugo leaned forward, his eyes intent. “The week before Westminster, do you know what he told me? Said he was going to court you the proper way when this business was finished. Bring you gifts worthy of a lady, ask formally for your hand. He spent hours planning what spices he’d use for your betrothal feast.”
The words made her chest ache with longing for those stolen moments in the kitchens—Tristan’s hands guiding hers as they worked ingredients into something magical, the way he’d looked at her like she was worth wooing with exotic treasures and careful courtship.
“Well, that’s over now,” she said, trying to inject finality into words that tasted like ash. “Even if we clear his name, even if we prove Guy was behind the poisoning, things between us... There’s too much damage. Too many things said that can’t be taken back.”
“Is there?” Hugo asked mildly, but his eyes had sharpened with the focus of someone who’d spotted something interesting. “Or are you just afraid to fight for what you want?”
Before she could answer, commotion erupted near the inn’s entrance—the sound of spurred boots on wooden floors and a voice that made her blood turn to ice water in her veins.
“Ale,” the voice commanded with the casual authority of someone accustomed to instant obedience. “And whatever passes for food in this godforsaken establishment. I’ve traveled far and require sustenance ere I continue my journey.”
Guy de Montague.
The color drained from her face as she recognized the smooth, cultured tones that had pronounced her guilt so eloquently at Westminster. Hugo had gone rigid beside her, his hand dropping instinctively to his sword hilt. Across the room, Tristan’s head had snapped up like a wolf scenting danger.
Guy swept into the common room with the fluid grace of someone who’d never met a situation he couldn’t manipulate to his advantage. He was everything Rachel remembered from Westminster—devastatingly handsome in that polished way that spoke of good breeding and better tailors, with golden hair that caught the light and a smile that could probably charm court ladies out of their dresses before he’d even finished removing his boots.
What she hadn’t noticed before was the calculating coldness in his pale eyes, the way they cataloged every face in the room with the thoroughness of someone evaluating potential threats or opportunities.
“Hugo,” Tristan said quietly, his voice carrying across the room despite its careful modulation. “Pay our reckoning. We leave. Now.”
But Guy’s gaze had already found them, and his perfect features arranged themselves into an expression of delighted surprise that would have won awards for its apparent sincerity.
“Sir Tristan!” he called out, his voice carrying the warmth of old friendship tinged with just the right amount of concern. “And the lovely foreign lady who caused such... excitement... at Westminster. How fortuitous to encounter you here.”
The entire common room had gone quiet, patrons sensing drama the way vultures sensed carrion. Rachel could taste the metallic tang of danger on her tongue, could smell Guy’s expensive perfume—something with notes of sandalwood and ambition—cutting through the inn’s general atmosphere of unwashed humanity and spilled ale.
“Guy,” Tristan replied with deadly calm, rising from his bench with movements that spoke of coiled violence barely held in check. “What brings you so far from court?”
“Business,” Guy said easily, settling onto a bench with a casual elegance that made the rough tavern furniture look like it belonged in a palace. “His Grace has interests that extend beyond Westminster’s walls, as you well know. Or knew, before your… unfortunate circumstances.”
Tristan’s mouth curved, though his eyes narrowed. “Unfortunate, aye. Yet I’ve always admired how swiftly some men transform disaster into opportunity. Like weeds thriving in ruined soil.”
Guy’s brows lifted in mock surprise. “Weeds? Surely you do me too little credit. I prefer to think of myself as ivy—rooted, persistent. And not easily torn away, no matter how stout the wall.”
“Perhaps,” Tristan said, the single word edged like steel. “And left untended, ivy will bring the wall down.”
The smile never left Guy’s face, but his fingers brushed his satchel, the movement quick, telling. “Then perhaps we must agree that walls—and the men who guard them—should be made stronger.”
Tristan leaned forward slightly, his voice pitched low, almost amiable. “Or that ivy must be cut back before it strangles the entire house.”
Guy tilted his head, as if conceding the point. His smile deepened, knife-sharp behind the civility. “Indeed. But one should take care. In trimming ivy, it is all too easy for the gardener’s blade to slip—and draw his own blood.”
The tavern’s din seemed to hush for an instant, the polished malice of his words lingering like smoke between them.
“Perhaps we should—” she began, but Guy’s attention shifted to her with laser focus that made her words die in her throat.
“Ah, the mysterious lady speaks,” he said with false delight that made her skin crawl. “I confess, I remain fascinated by your... unique... background. Such interesting knowledge of herbs and their... varied... applications.”
“Travel broadens one’s education,” she said carefully, trying to keep her voice level despite the way her heart was hammering against her ribs. “Different lands have different... traditions... regarding the culinary arts.”
“Indeed, they do,” Guy agreed with predatory interest. “Though some traditions prove more... dangerous... than others when introduced to civilized society.”
The threat was clear now, all pretense of casual conversation abandoned. Guy rose with a flourish, satchel shifting—and with it, several papers slipped free, scattering across the tavern’s floor. Some landed face down, but others revealed glimpses of seals and neat, official script. Guy cursed under his breath, dropping to gather them with movements too quick, too frantic to maintain his earlier composure.
“Allow me,” Hugo said with false helpfulness, reaching down with his great paw.
