“None of them were what I expected at all,” Gwen said, so softly Isobelle had to lean toward her to make out the words. “The other knights.”
“Youcould be,” she countered. “You could be what they aren’t. Someone should.”
“I’ll need to be up at the castle to train,” Gwen said, and Isobelle bit her lip against her smile. “But I can’t be Sir Gawain all the time, I’d never pass as a man without my armor on. I’ll have to stay somewhere as myself.”
“You can stay with me,” said Isobelle brightly, somewhat surprising herself. “I have a spare room.”
Gwen looked surprised too, and took another sip of the White Knight. “How will I explain why I’m there? You can’t just import a blacksmith’s daughter and install her in your apartments.”
“Well, I probably can’t explain a blacksmith’s daughter,” Isobelle admitted, feeling a wave of genius wash over her and grinning. “Actually, I’ve had a thought—”
“No,” said Gwen firmly. “Whatever it is, no. I’ve already learned not to trust those dimples.”
“We could make you Sir Gawain’s sister. That’ll help prop up the illusion that he’s real.”
Gwen nearly choked on the drink. “We want people to believe Sir Gawain is a noble,” she pointed out. “You don’t think we’ll tip people off when his sister is a backward village girl with the manners of a peasant?”
Isobelle was so delighted by the idea—and by the way Gwen was now talking about the plan as though the decision had been made—that she couldn’t pack away the dimples, even to appear more dependable. “As it happens, I like his sister’s manners very much.”
Gwen propped her chin on one hand, abandoning the drink, which was mostly finished now anyway. “This is madness,” shesaid. “Tell me you know it’s madness to even talk about this. I need to know you understand that.”
Perhaps it was. No, scratch that—it most certainly was. But with all the resources at Isobelle’s command, with the training she knew Madame Dupont could offer, with Gwen’s determination, the steel in her gaze... that didn’t mean it couldn’t work.
“Does it being madness,” Isobelle asked carefully, “preclude us from doing it?”
Gwen stared at her, and the moment drew out as their gazes locked. Isobelle wished she were the sort of person who prayed. She’d always found it best to make her own luck, though.
“I think,” said Gwen slowly, braced like a girl about to put her hand in a fire, “that I don’t mind a little madness.”
Chapter Seven
Chivalry is all well and good, but cursed inconvenient at times
The girl from the castle was absolutely, breathtakingly mesmerizing. Gwen, head spinning and thoughts whirling, found herself clutching her drink and trying not to stare. She was beautiful, sure, but it was Isobelle’s sheer force of will that kept robbing Gwen of her good sense. Every time Gwen thought of an objection to her lunatic plan, Isobelle had an answer. Every time Gwen thought she’d gotten her feet steady again, Isobelle swept the rug out from under her.
And, worst of all, Gwen’s heart was swelling with that same dangerous, euphoric feeling of hope that had surged through her when she’d knocked Sir Evonwald off his horse. She thought she’d stamped it out after she’d gotten home.
Gwen swallowed hard and finished the cocktail Isobelle had ordered. “So if—if—I agree to this... what happens next?”
Isobelle’s eyes lit with delight, glowing like miniature sapphire stars. “Oh, Gwen—”
“I saidif!” Gwen interrupted, trying desperately not to smile like some spell-charmed idiot in response to the other girl’s giddy relief. “Wipe that grin off your face.”
Isobelle made a token effort to sheathe her dimples. “Well, you come to the castle in the morning, and we’ll get you settled in, and then—”
The door of the tavern banged open with a loud, shuddering crash. Gwen started to her feet, but she couldn’t see what was happening through the crowds of people on the dance floor. The fiddle music petered out, the dancers halted, conversation and laughter and cheers evaporated into tense, frightened silence. The crowds began to shrink back from the door, revealing a posse of half a dozen intruders.
Men in matching armor bearing the red-and-bronze emblem of Darkhaven, their swords drawn.
The castle guard.
Their leader, a short but burly man with a large, bushy blond mustache, addressed the crowd. “Break it up, girls—go home quietly. We’re not here for you.”
No one moved.
The man scowled slightly and glanced around at the now-silent crowd. “What a circus.” He strode a few more steps into the room. “We’re here for the woman claiming to own this place. Where is she?”
Isobelle started to rise, her body tensing. Gwen, her heart shriveling at the phrasing of the guard’s demand, put a hand over Isobelle’s. One of the waitstaff who’d been helping to deliver drinks stepped forward, her chin lifting. “She ain’t here, mister.”
