Once in the crypt, Amaury dropped to one knee beside one sarcophagus and bowed his head, hating this inescapable truth. His father was dead, lost to him forever. He thought of Isabella and chose to believe that his father would have endorsed the match, even without Montvieux in the balance. The memory of his father inviting Isabella to dance that night so many years ago had the power to prompt his smile. He prayed silently, then asked his father for guidance in the days ahead.
There was no evident reply.
But then, Amaury had not truly expected one.
Aware of the sounds of activity in the camp, he rose to his feet, the chill of the place having seeped into his very bones. He passed a hand over the cool surface of the sarcophagus, aware that he must ride out shortly for Marnis. What would he have given to hear his father’s hearty laugh one last time? To have that man clasp him close and welcome him home?
Like his brothers, Amaury felt cheated, and in so many ways. He wanted someone to blame, and the obvious candidate was Gaultier de Marnis.
That did not mean the man’s daughter was his enemy, as well.
“I will avenge you,” Amaury vowed softly to his father. In this moment, he was convinced that his father’s will was with him.
He could almost feel the weight of that man’s hand upon his shoulder.
He would not fail.
Suddenly he heard a flock of birds take flight from alongside the nearby river, calling as their wings beat against the air. The hair prickled on the back of his neck, a hint that he was no longer alone.
Amaury spun to find Isabella silhouetted in the doorway to the crypt. She was dressed, her hair braided and coiled around her head again. How did she manage without a maid? Surely, she was not accustomed to being without one?
She watched him steadily, her thoughts and feelings securely hidden from view once more. He wished her manner might be otherwise.
Had she heard his vow? If so, that would explain much of her manner.
He held her gaze, fairly daring her to ask him.
“The meat is ready,” she said, then turned to leave as if naught was amiss at all.
Amaury stepped after her, catching her elbow in his hand. “Tell me,” he invited.
She spared him a glance of open hostility. “What shall I confide in you, sir?”
“Why you are vexed. When last we spoke, you were pleased.”
To his relief, she did not flinch from the confession. “Why do you swear that you will avenge your father?”
“Why should I not do as much?”
She halted, spinning to face him, such fire in her eyes that she was transformed. “Why do you insist that he was poisoned? You cannot know as much. Your healer cannot have discerned as much after so much time.”
“Do you accuse me of some deed?”
“Aye! It seems you fabricate a crime, that you might make an accusation against my family,” she said hotly. “Why?”
“I do not,” Amaury protested but he could not hold her gaze.
She leaned closer, ensuring that she stared directly into his eyes. “You who insist upon honesty cannot look me in the eyes,” she said with quiet force and complete conviction. “You who insist you do not lie, tell me a falsehood all the same.”
“It is not a lie. He was poisoned.”
“How can you know such a detail?”
Amaury frowned and averted his gaze, staring into the distance. “Can it not suffice that I do?”
“Nay, for there is no evidence to that effect. It is not rational to hold such a belief and you are rational, sir.” She shook her head, so annoyed that Amaury could not be glad of her offhand compliment. “If you would create a rift with my father, you need not invent a cause. It is well known that he coveted Montvieux and that he urged your father to cede the holding to him. That alone would be sufficient cause to resent him.”
“And what if he did more?”
