LeFevre closed in slowly, as if approaching a cornered animal that might prove dangerous and unpredictable. The end of the deadly dance was near, and both men knew it.
Isobel slipped her arm under the folds of the half-fallen bed curtain. She reached back between the mattress and the bed frame until she felt it. Cold steel, welcome and familiar.
The mattress held the scabbard in place as she slid the blade free. Under cover of the fallen curtain, she brought the sword to her side. Stephen was so close now she could feel his heat, feel the tension running through him.
And then she knew, as clearly as if he said it aloud. Stephen was about to sacrifice himself to save her.
“Your hand,” she whispered.
When the side of his hand brushed hers, she pressed the hilt of the sword against it.
Stephen moved so fast then, she did not even see him strike. But LeFevre was falling, mouth open in surprise, the telltale spot of blood over his heart. His head made a dull thud as it hit the floor.
Stephen whirled around and crushed her against him.
Like a rushing river, the terror she had held at bay flooded through her. She buried her face in his shoulder.
“I thought you were gone,” she whispered.
His arms tightened around her. “I could not leave you.”
She drew in a deep breath. His familiar smell comforted her. Wrapped in the strength of his arms, she felt safe for the first time since leaving Caen. Safe. She was safe at last.
Much too soon, he pulled away.
Stephen’s face was strained, but he gave her a small smile. “You must be brave a little longer. Someone may have heard us. We must be gone.”
She straightened and nodded. This was no time for weakness. When she felt the chill of wetness and looked down, she faltered. Her shirtfront was soaked with de Roche’s blood.
“I will give you a clean shirt when we are out.” Using the torn curtain, Stephen wiped the blood from her face and neck. Then he kissed her forehead and squeezed her hand.
“I have horses waiting outside,” Stephen said and handed her sword to her.
“That is—was—de Roche’s cousin, Thomás LeFevre,” she said, pointing to the other body on the floor. “The letter was from him, not Trémoille.”
Stephen wiped his dagger clean of de Roche’s blood and stuck it in his belt.
“We must warn the king,” she said as he led her into the solar. “Others may go forward with the plot. They are Armagnacs, so it will not happen at the Easter knighting, as I believed.”
By this time, Stephen had unwound a rope from his waist and fastened one end of it to the bench under the window. He handed her the other dagger, cleaned of blood.
“We’ll talk later,” he said and lifted her onto the bench.
Isobel held on to Stephen as he instructed. Hand over hand, he took her down the rope. As soon as her feet touched the ground, he took her hand and led her from the courtyard into the house. It was pitch-black inside.
Relief flooded through her as she stepped out the door to the stable yard. They made it! She saw the outline of horses in the shadows by the gate.
Wait, was there a rider on one of the horses? She tightened her grip on Stephen’s hand. He cursed under his breath but did not slow his pace.
When they reached the horses, he said in a harsh whisper, “I told you to wait at the city gates!”
“I heard the shouts and thought you would need me.”
François! She wanted to weep for joy at hearing the boy’s voice. Before she could run to him, Stephen lifted her onto a horse. In another moment, the three of them were out the gate and trotting down a narrow lane away from the house.
“We must stop at the house on Rue St. Romain,” Stephen said to François. “ ’Tis on the way.”
She saw the gleam of François’s teeth in the dark and wondered what on earth could make him smile tonight. And why Stephen would take the risk of stopping somewhere.
