Page 33 of The Captive Knight
She heard gasps of relief from the women in the room. She knew she should thank Jehan, but she couldn’t quite summon the words because he was the one who had brought the devil to her castle in the first place.
But shediddare a glance at him. She noticed that he’d taken some care in his appearance. His jaw was clean-shaven, his hair still damp from a wash. It was swept off his face so that she could see the tracks of his comb in the thick, crisp waves. His broad, muscled shoulders stretched the surcoat tight.
This was no longer the weak, suffering, bloody knight she’d tended to in the dimness of the cell in the northwest tower, indeed.
Calm yourself. Forget who he was, remember who he now is. Seize the opportunity you’ve been waiting for.
“I suppose, Sir Jehan,” she said, drawing herself up despite the twinge in her still-sore ribs, “that the castle needs to be put in order and the wounded need tending.”
“Yes,” he said, with an edge of surprise. “That’s why I’m here.”
“The villagers can return to their homes, I presume?”
“Of course.” His lashes flickered as if he’d just become aware of the listening crowd. “Report back with any needed repairs and we’ll see them done before the worst of winter.”
She said, “Is the cellar emptied of provisions?”
“Not emptied.”
Her jaw tightened at the equivocal answer. Winter yawned before them, the fields were stripped of the harvest, and everything the villagers had stowed away had likely been stolen by the prince’s men. Another difficult winter stretched ahead, but she could not let the women and children feel a breath of her worry.
“I’ll see to the household,” she said, “and put everything in proper order. Are you to set a guard on me?”
“Aliénor—”
“Mademoiselle will do.”
His clear blue gaze lay upon her with a curious intensity. “You are free,” he said, as a muscle moved in his jaw, “to wander the castle and keep.”
“That will make my task easier.”
To find her brother, at least, whom she had last seen struggling to his feet in the courtyard. Laurent hadn’t visited her in the last few days, so she could only assume he’d been hiding. It was always prudent to avoid being identified as a male heir of the blood when one’s own castle was conquered by an enemy.
“Sir Thibaud is asking for you,” Jehan said.
Her heart fluttered. “You know that he’s a Pirou, not a Tournan. My late mother’s uncle, not a blood relative of my father.”
“As I am aware.” His voice as dry as an old bone.
“Is he well?”
“He suffered a leg-wound, but he’s all the prouder because of the scar it will give him, one among many.”
She blinked, nonplussed, for that sounded just like her uncle. “Did you throw him in a tower cell?”
“He’s in the hall, nursing a cup of wine.” His voice darkened with annoyance. “He’s being treated with the respect he is due as a knight, as are all the men-at-arms.”
She headed to the door. “I’ll tend to him first.”
He gripped her arm as she passed. Her heart leapt. She was acutely aware of his height, of the luster and thickness of his chestnut-black hair, of the great width of his shoulders. She smelled the freshness of rain on his tunic. She heard the slight scrape of his armor plates as they moved against one another. Her heart beat erratically and she wondered why the room suddenly seemed so hot.
“We must talk,” he said.
She could hardly muster the breath to speak. “Some things are best left unsaid.”
“I will have my say, and I’d prefer it when we don’t have so avid an audience.”
Aware of the regard of the crowd upon them, she held her tongue and simply nodded. He loosened his grip and let her go.
She didn’t breathe freely again until she was halfway to the great hall, running her palm against the gritty wall to prevent herself from tumbling headlong down the stairs.
As far as she could discern, there was only one thing she and Jehan had any reason to discuss in private.
Hope made her blood rush, but hope was a fragile and dangerous thing.
In her battered heart, she had only one hope left.
