Page 52 of Midnight Conquest

Warmth trickled from his side—slow, steady. Pain flared, jolting and consuming, as he tried to shift. A shredded wound tore through his right flank, just below the ribs, draining his strength, his life seeping into the rain-soaked earth. The sticky wetness soaked through torn clothing, mingling with cold mud beneath him. He was dying.

Movement flickered at the edge of his vision, and his heart stuttered.

A rat.

Close—too close. Twitching whiskers, a pointed nose, slick fur clinging to its bones in spiked tufts. Rain dripped from its snout, fat droplets that tickled his cheeks as it sniffed him. His stomach twisted.

Tiny feet scurried over his slashed belly. Another set crept along the side of his wounded leg.

More. They were everywhere.

Drawn by the scent of death. His death.

A raw, broken cry tore from his lips—every shred of strength he had left pouring into the wail.

He bolted upright in bed, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his nose and mingling with the dampness already clinging to his bare skin. The nightmare clung to him like a second skin, heart pounding as the phantom sensation of tiny feet still skittered across his flesh.

Calloused hands pressed to his chest—rough, unrelenting, dragging him back to the present. His skin prickled beneath the scratchy touch, too close to the rats in his dream.

“There, there, love,” rasped a voice beside him, hoarse and grating like a rusted hinge. “’Tis just another nightmare.”

He shuddered, shrugging off the touch as his body twisted away from her. Turning to his side, he curled in on himself, his back to her, the straw mattress beneath him reeking of must and damp. She made his flesh crawl, but she was useful—necessary, even. A means to an end.

Not much longer, he told himself, his bearded jaw tightening as he stared into the darkness from the cramped bed box.Just another week or so, and I will be free.

∞∞∞

Veronique smiled as Broderick entered the camp early, exchanging brief words with Amice in the tent before emerging again. She took two deliberate steps toward him.

“Bon soir, Veronique,” he mumbled without meeting her gaze, then continued on, heading toward that Scottish woman’s castle. Veronique’s smile vanished.

He was spendingfartoo much time with that owl-eyed creature.

Movement across the camp pulled her attention. Nicabar rode into the circle, a young woman seated behind him. Her face glowed, eyes bright with laughter. Davina’s handmaid. Veronique’s mouth pinched. Nicabar dismounted and helped the girl down with far too much care.

Veronique scoffed.Ugly Scottish women! What did Broderick and Nicabar see in them?

Jealousy tightened her throat as she watched them embrace, lips meeting in a kiss before Nicabar led the girl into his vardo.

Veronique stomped into her own wagon and flung herself onto the narrow bed. Rage flushed her cheeks.Damn that Davina!

Broderick’s interest in her had Veronique pounding her fists into the pillow. Davina’s wide-set eyes took up too much of her face—like an owl—and her nose turned up like a pig’s. Veroniquewas far prettier, her features delicate, exotic. She had so much more to offer Broderick. She knew what he was and loved him for it. She had waited—ripe and ready—for his touch. But Davina? She resisted him at every turn.

Why would he want someone who didn’t want him?

Veronique’s thoughts spiraled, the current of envy dragging her deeper. She had to make him see—Davina was wrong for him. If she could learn something about the Scottish woman, something to sour her in Broderick’s eyes, he’d come to his senses.

The idea caught fire in her mind.

Nicabar. He would be close to Davina’s handmaid now. He could find out information for Veronique.

She sat upright, energy pulsing in her chest. She would speak with Nicabar first thing in the morning.

Hope, fresh and hungry, bloomed in her chest as she lay back and stared at the wooden beams above.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

∞∞∞

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