The boundaries between liege and subject thinned as Ambrose clutched his arm. “Are you sure, Ballard?”
“She was my margravina. By virtue of marriage she is of Ketach Tor.” Ballard clapped him on the shoulder. “She’s past caring where she rests anyway, my friend.” He left Ambrose on the landing, the sorcerer’s warning following him down the stairs.
“Don’t count on it.”
CHAPTER ONE
372 Years Later
“Isn’t there anything else he should be doing besides bothering Cinnia? Has he no duties?” Louvaen Hallis Duenda scowled at the couple seated together on the garden bench outside the kitchen door.
For the fourth time in as many days, her sister Cinnia entertained the young swordsmith newly hired at Monteblanco’s armory. Like every male in a six-league radius, Gavin de Lovet, only son of Lord Ballard de Sauveterre, had been taken with Cinnia’s beauty and set to courting her. To everyone’s surprise—and no small amount of envy in some cases—Cinnia had enthusiastically accepted his courtship. For three months they’d spent every free moment together, usually under Louvaen’s watchful eye. People already made bets as to when they’d hear a betrothal announcement. Right now the pair huddled in their cloaks, heads bent, too engrossed in each other to notice the light drifting of snow powdering their shoulders.
Mercer Hallis left his seat at the table to join his oldest child at the doorway. His low chuckle made Louvaen scowl even harder. “By the look of her, I’d say he’s more of a pleasant distraction than a bother. He’s a decent enough lad, and he makes her smile. What don’t you like about him, Lou?”
Louvaen abandoned her post at the door to put a kettle on the hot grate for tea. “I never said I didn’t like him.” Were he not sniffing at her sister’s skirts, she’d be very fond of him. Over the weeks, de Lovet had impressed her with his honest manner and polite interaction with her family. She especially admired his steady gaze, the green eyes calm and unflinching, even under her most intimidating stare. Only a few years older than Cinnia, he was as breathtakingly handsome as Cinnia was lovely. Tall and muscled, he had a face that sent the ale wenches at the Bishop’s Knickers pub into a swoon every time he walked by. Like Cinnia, he was blond and wore his hair in a simple queue tied with a black ribbon. Were they to marry and have children, their offspring wouldn’t just be beautiful; they’d be ethereal.
She shuddered at the thought. Such beauty wrought its own misery, and Louvaen’s fear for her sister’s future didn’t lessen, even at the idea of a good match. “He’s as any other male who’s laid eyes on Cinnia—knocked stupid. However, she’s as fond of him as he is of her, and it scares me. We know nothing about him except what he’s told us.”
“I’ve asked at the Guild Hall. A promising young man with a talent for swordsmithing,” Mercer said. “It’s a highly-paid skill. He’d provide well for Cinnia.”
“True, but why is the only son and heir of a lord working as a swordsmith? Has anyone heard of the de Sauveterres? Dame Mona hasn’t, and she knows every family, rich, poor and in between in a dozen towns. She doesn’t recognize the surname. He’s a criminal for all we know.”
Mercer resumed his place amidst a scatter of open ledgers and receipts. “A well dressed one then. If his clothing is anything to go by, his family isn’t hurting for silver.” He sighed and raked a hand through his thinning hair, all humor gone. “I wish we could say the same.” He shuffled pages of ledger accounts. “I can’t churn these numbers any better than you’ve already done. Jimenin will call in his markers, and without the cargo from that last ship, we’ve no way to clear them.”
Despite her own feverish, late night calculations which pointed to absolute bankruptcy, Louvaen had hoped her father might find something she’d missed—anything to bring down the debt. No such monies had appeared, and she mourned the inevitable loss of her home and remaining livestock that would be sold to help pay her father’s outstanding accounts.
A series of sharp knocks broke the kitchen’s tense quiet. Louvaen peered down the hall to one of the parlor windows that looked onto the street. The tell-tale ripple of a black cloak fluttered beyond the glass. She growled. “Speak of a devil, and it appears. Jimenin’s at the door, Papa. Keep him busy. I’ll get Cinnia.”
The cold air cut through her shawl, and she blinked lacy snowflakes from her eyelashes as she trekked across the garden. Cinnia didn’t notice her, but Gavin did. He released Cinnia’s hand and rose, bowing to Louvaen.
“Mistress Duenda.” Those wary green eyes watched her. Louvaen suppressed a smile. She’d never exchanged a cross word with de Lovet but suspected he’d heard plenty from the townsfolk, and even Cinnia, about her sharp tongue and ferocity where her sister was concerned. More than a few would-be suitors had come away bloodied from an encounter with her, figuratively and once in a while literally.
She acknowledged him with a brief nod. “Sir Gavin. You need to leave.” She interrupted Cinnia’s rising protest with her next statement. “Jimenin is here.
“I wish to stay.” De Lovet crossed his arms and planted his feet in the snow.
Louvaen frowned. Heroics had no place in business affairs, and devious subtlety was the only way to battle Jimenin. Besides, this was Hallis business, not de Lovet’s. Handsome he was; rich he might be, but she owed him nothing more than an abrupt “No.”
He didn’t move, and his mouth thinned and firmed. Louvaen tried to recall where in the stables she’d placed the pitchfork when Cinnia came to her aid. She sidled up to Gavin and laid a delicate hand on his arm. Her great brown eyes, which had slain a thousand hearts and made an equal number of enemies, implored him. Louvaen inwardly counted the seconds until Cinnia reduced her victim to a quivering heap. “You must go, Gavin. Jimenin is a serpent but one we can handle. If you stay, you’ll just make it more difficult for us.”
To Louvaen’s surprise—and growing admiration—de Lovet didn’t fall so easily to her sister’s persuasion. Then again, like recognized like, and she wondered if he’d used a male version of that same seduction on others and was immune to its power. He glanced at her then back to Cinnia, his handsome features revealing the conflicting need to protect and his wish to appease Cinnia. For her part, Cinnia hammered the last nail home by stroking his arm. “Please, Gavin,” she begged in her soft voice. “We’ll see you tomorrow?”
Louvaen knotted her fingers together to keep from applauding her sister as de Lovet wilted and surrendered. “As you wish.” He clasped Cinnia’s hand and brought it to his lips in a polite kiss. “Until tomorrow, sweet Cinnia.” He bowed a second time to Louvaen. “Mistress Duenda.” He glanced once toward the house to catch a glimpse of the Hallis’s latest visitor before letting himself out the back gate.
Cinnia’s gaze followed him until he disappeared from view. She turned to Louvaen who frowned. “What?”
“When did you become just ‘Cinnia’ and he just ‘Gavin’?”
Cinnia’s chin jutted out in a stubborn angle. “It isn’t improper.”
“It’s certainly familiar.”
The girl peered into the kitchen’s open door and changed the subject. “Doesn’t Jimenin have something else to do besides lurk around here?”
Louvaen’s lips twitched at the similarity between Cinnia’s complaint and her own about Gavin. “Not until he can squeeze every last farthing out of us.”
Cinnia sighed. “What am I sick with today?”
