As soon as she stepped into the parlor, Henry flew into her arms. So much for his trying to pretend to be a Lubinian boy from the city who didn’t know her. She hugged him close, but she noted Christoph standing to the side watching them with interest.
“It scared the bleedin’ ’ell out o’ me when they wouldn’t take me to you,” Henry told her.
“Hush, you just came too early. As you can see, I’m fine. I have the protection of the head of security here. Nothing can happen to me under his guarding eye.”
She was speaking in English to make sure Henry understood perfectly and the captain didn’t understand at all.
Henry stepped back to eye Christoph. “’Im?”
“Yes, him. Now what brings you?”
“Is it safe to say?” Henry whispered at her.
“Yes, he doesn’t understand.”
He nodded and repeated what he’d been told. “There are two spies ’ere, the thief and another guard. Either one of ’em may try to harm you. ’E wants you to tell ’im.” Henry nodded again toward Christoph. “’E said you won’t be safe ’ere until they are both dealt with.”
She paled, even though she’d already guessed as much after that attack last night. But her reaction was too obvious for Christoph not to remark on it.
“What disturbs you?” he asked.
She didn’t hesitate to answer. This information supported what she’d told him, and she now had Poppie’s permission to say how she knew. “What I told you last night, I got that information from Poppie. Yesterday, at the festival.”
“He was there?” Christoph said, obviously surprised.
“For a few moments, yes. He said the thief and one other guard actually work for the same people who hired him eighteen years ago. He was going to follow them to find out more, but he now thinks it’s more important that you be told. They know about the bracelet, which means they know I didn’t die eighteen years ago as they thought—and they’re going to want to correct that.”
He sighed. “Or this message was merely prearranged to support your tale.”
They’d both had the same thought, but in exact opposite directions. Good Lord, he was exasperating. He’d said he would be open-minded, and yet he didn’t even try to be? Why? What did he know that she didn’t that had him so convinced that everything she’d said was a lie?
Henry, glancing between them, asked her, “’E don’t believe yer ’ere to stop a war?”
“Not yet,” she replied. “But don’t tell Poppie that if you see him. I don’t want him worrying more than he already does about me.”
Henry nodded. “I ’ave to go.”
She drew him back for another hug before pushing him toward the door. But he’d no sooner stepped outside than Christoph moved to the door as well. She blanched, afraid he was going to have Henry detained to find out exactly what message he’d brought. She knew just how intimidating he could be when he was after answers. She leapt in front of him.
“Don’t. Please.”
He glanced down at her. His hand rose to caress her cheek, but didn’t quite make it there and dropped to set her aside instead. “It’s my job, Alana.”
“I hate you and your job!”
That didn’t stop him either. He opened the door and immediately motioned the nearest guards to him. “Follow the boy into the city. Keep your distance. I want any men he talks to apprehended.”
That was worse than she’d thought! She tried to push past Christoph to warn Henry before he got too far, but an arm snagged her waist, her feet left the ground, and the door was slammed shut.
“He’ll notice them following him and will lose them,” she said, trying to convince herself more than Christoph.
“I can have the gate closed before he reaches it. Would you rather I have him imprisoned instead?”
She burst into tears. Christoph swung her around to catch her legs with his other arm and carried her back into his parlor. He moved across the room, but not to put her down. He sat on his sofa, still holding her cradled in his arms. She continued to cry, beating on his shoulder until her fist got too sore to continue.
A long time passed. Her tears were spent. Her breath returned to normal. Her fist hurt. Her heart hurt. If he put that sweet boy in one of his cold cells, she’d . . . she’d . . .
Christoph began to talk in soothing tones. “I was just a child all those years ago when the infant disappeared from the nursery. But I know who the suspects were at the time. The Bruslans, King Ernest’s family, of course, though it was too soon after the civil war that took them from the throne for them to try to regain the crown. While they had the most to gain in the long run, making sure the Stindal line didn’t prosper would merely have been a start for them.”
