My father didn’t die from a sudden illness.
John poisoned him—I’ve spent the last three years trying to discover why he assassinated his dearest friend.
It’s also when my fight against the bastard began.
“More ale,” the girl repeats with a nod at Quinn. Her blue eyes are wide, and a complacent grin lifts her plump lips. “Of course,” she stammers. “I won’t make the mistake again.”
“No, you will not.” Quinn releases her arm with a shove.
Dax catches the woman and steadies her. She fills their cups, her hands trembling. Quinn’s roughness left a red mark around her wrist. “Will there be anything else?”
Leave it to Dax to smooth over a tense situation. He slides a hand down her back, tracing his fingers over her blue bodice. “Don’t you worry about Quinn, sweetling. He’s full of hellfire, but if you stay out of his path of fury, you’ll be fine.”
She arches her back against his touch but turns a blistering shade of red. “Dax Stafford, if you don’t remove your hand from my person, I’ll march upstairs and tell your mother you’re manhandling me.”
Dax takes his time complying, stroking his way to the small of her back before retreating. “Snitch.”
She slaps his hand. “Lecher.”
“Damn right,” he drawls with a wink. He tugs at her cream-colored skirt to pull her back when she attempts to walk away. He wraps an arm around her waist and hugs her against his massive body, forcing her to hold her jug high. When she gifts him with a smile, he answers with his typical depravity. “Meet me upstairs later. I’ll show you real manhandling.”
Talia untangles his arm from around her waist, having already lost the battle against Dax’s charm. “Promise you won’t tell your mother.”
All the man need do is crook a finger, and women run to him. It’s his pretty face and striking gray eyes. The disheveled mop of brown hair doesn’t hurt. Women can’t resist him. Also, his merry disposition makes him seem deceptively harmless when I’ve witnessed him kill men with less care than when a person crushes an insect.
Dax slaps a hand over his heart. “It shall remain our secret, dear Talia.” He shoots a devious look at Quinn and me. “Unless you’d like it to remain between the three of us.”
“Cheeky bugger,” she scolds him, then turns to me. “Another bottle for you, Wren?”
“I’m good.” Actually, I’m far from good. I’m piss-drunk and angry because I hate this fucking day.
As Talia strides away, I blink against the faint glow of the wall sconces. The light cuts the smokey interior, and when the wooden door flies open and a mountain of a man storms in, he slams it shut behind him. He joins a small group of tradesmen at a nearby table. But above all, the aroma of roasting pig overpowers the stink of sweat from the unwashed bodies gathered here.
Mine included.
Dax, Quinn, and I are, ourselves, fresh off the road. We delivered Hubert Yardley to the constable and collected the middling bounty. What happens to the horse thief now is up to the law. Given how Lansing handled such a crime in the past…
Yardley will get a light slap on the wrist, at best. But at least we got paid, and the horse he stole was returned. Win for everyone.
The Cup and Cross thrives because of Lansing’s relaxed take on lawlessness. It’s one of many villages whose exuberant taxes buy the king’s indifference. It’s the perfect marriage of John’s greed and the people’s desire for freedom. Unfortunately, it also makes Lansing a beacon for the less scrupulous, which makes its streets unsafe.
I finish the last of my ale in a single swallow and settle into a comfortable numb. My limbs are heavy, my mind slow, and when I catch pieces of a conversation, it’s a chore to make sense of what I hear.
“A girl,” someone says. “…captive by a witch.”
“What did you say?” I demand of Dax, thinking it’s my friend who spoke.
The blonde warrior points at himself. “Me? I was telling Quinn how I think my left testicle is larger than my right.” He stands and begins to unlace his breeches. “Here, I’ll show you.”
“Pull out your cock, and this time I’ll chop the fucking thing off.” I swivel on the bench, the action sending the room into a spin. I need to slap my palm on the table to steady myself when I stand. “Who the fuck mentioned a witch?”
The tavern goes silent. Serving wenches skid to a stop. Every eye focuses on me, but I’m too deep in the bottle to give a damn.
“Sit your drunk self down, Wren.” Quinn points to the bench, growling. “Before you end up on your ass.”
“I’m steady enough.” To prove I’m sure of foot, I pull the dagger from its sheath at my left hip and do a slow turn. “If I have to ask again, I start cutting throats until I get an answer.”
“What’s this?” Adele comes pounding down the stairs, her ample bosom almost smacking her in the face with each footfall. With its gold trim, the blood-red tunic must be held by God’s hand to keep those breasts from spilling out. And then I realize I’m ogling Dax’s mother’s bosom and swiftly look away. “Wren, why are you wielding a weapon in my tavern?”
