A small smile curved the monk’s lips upward. “Come then. We have much to discuss with the captain.”
* * *
Simon paced impatiently in the main hall waiting for Isabella and Father Ling to reappear. He felt completely at odds with himself, a sensation that was foreign. He hadn’t suffered such a battery of emotions since learning of his brother’s suicide.
He didn’t regret telling her he loved her. Even if it was something she didn’t want to hear. But what he thought would free him, had instead lain a heavier burden on his heart. He hadn’t really considered that she didn’t return his feelings, and now that he considered the possibility, the slow burn of disappointment snaked its way through his heart.
He looked up as Isabella and Father Ling strode into the room followed by a man in military uniform. He started toward Isabella, but held himself in check. He waited instead for them to gather in the center.
“Lord Merrick, I apologize for your wait,” Father Ling said with a bow of his head. “I fear I had rather distressing news for Her Highness. News that she must hear.”
Simon tensed and looked searchingly at Isabella’s strained features. What news had the monk imparted? The pain etched into her brow squeezed incessantly at his entrails. He wanted to reach out and hold her, soothe the worry lines in her face.
The monk gestured for the soldier to come forward. “Your Highness, this is Captain Lucien Montforte, captain of the Royal Guard.”
The captain knelt in front of Isabella and laid his sword at her feet. Then he looked up at her and placed a fist over his heart. “I am here to serve, Your Highness.”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, though she tried valiantly. Simon watched her struggle with her emotions as she reached out to touch the man’s shoulder.
“Thank you,” she said in a wavering voice.
“Prince Stephane’s coronation is set within the hour,” Father Ling spoke up. “We must stop him.”
“I must challenge him,” Isabella said quietly.
“Aye, you must,” Father Ling said in a solemn voice.
Simon stared at them, thoroughly confused by her statement. “Challenge him?” He didn’t like the sound of it. He much preferred a plan that called for them rushing in pistols firing.
Isabella nodded, her mouth set in a firm line. “I would be asking him to prove his claim by fighting me,” she said. “Winner takes all. May the righteous prevail.”
He frowned. No, he didn’t like it at all. Sounded positively medieval. “And what if you lose?”
“The idea is that good will overcome evil, therefore the winner is the one in the right.”
“May the righteous prevail,” Father Ling echoed.
“That’s absurd,” Simon said in disbelief. Fear threatened to smother him entirely. The idea of Isabella honorably challenging her treacherous brother ran his blood cold.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” she said, recounting words she had said to him on more than one occasion.
“Don’t,” he cut in. “This isn’t about me understanding your customs. It’s about reality. You can’t expect your brother to play by the rules. He won’t act honorably. He’ll do whatever necessary to remove you as a threat, the only threat to his being crowned king. He’s already killed your parents and Davide. He won’t so much as blink over killing you. I’d prefer to kill the bastard myself and get it over with,” he added after a pause.
“I must do it myself,” she said firmly. “No matter how you may want to help, it is something that I must do on my own, even if I die trying.”
Her words sent chilling fear down his spine.
She placed her hand over his and smiled sadly. “I now know how you must have felt when Kirk betrayed you. I cannot ever remember feeling such awful pain as when I learned of Stephane’s perfidy. I don’t know that it shall ever go away.”
He squeezed her hand, his chest tightening as he digested what she asked of him. “Asking me to stand idly by while you place your life in jeopardy is to ask me to cut out my own heart. I can do neither.”
Father Ling placed a hand on Simon’s arm. “All will be well, my son. You must have faith.”
He glanced up at the monk, at the knowledge in his eyes. Then he looked back at Isabella. Remembering his earlier words to her—that he had faith in her—had him cursing to himself. He was well and truly caught. He could not protest her choice when he had voiced his faith in her in the caves. “I have faith in you, Isabella,” he said in a low voice.
He eyed Father Ling, who looked a bit too smug at Simon’s proclamation. “Do you have a plan for how we will prevent Stephane’s coronation?”
“I would hear your thoughts,” the monk said evenly.
