Page 42 of The Knight's Pledge
“What?” Lucan demanded.
“What supplies?” James Rose mocked. “From where shall we—ahem—prrrocurethem? Whom shall pay for them, and for how much?” He paused and eyed Gale suspiciously then demanded, “Sir, why isthis ale wet?”
Everyone chuckled and Effie answered. “Sir Lucan has a fondness for inquiry. His desire to know thingsis insatiable.”
Lucan took the ribbing graciously. “I just assumed it would save time to gain our provisions nearer the village of Darlyrede. If your intention is to travel quickly…” he let the sentence trailoff and waited.
The partyshared glances.
It was Gorman who answered. “We don’t often make our presence obvious in the village.”
At the risk of posing yet another query, Lucan asked, “How do you get yoursupplies then?”
James Rose waggled his eyebrows. “We steal them.” He popped a piece of bread into his mouth and chewed, grinningall the while.
Lucan looked to Effie and saw that she was watching him with an expression akin to challenge on her face. All of them were, actually. And no one refuted James Rose’s statement. Lucan then looked to Chumley, rumored to have at one time been a sheriff of famous repute, who surely might give some indication about these illicit activities. But Chumley only wore an indulgent look on his face, as if Lucan was that same naïve boy he’d been the night Castle Dare had burned.
“Well,” Lucan said in a careful fashion. “I suppose I should be glad that we’ve come to market.”
Everyone laughed again, and the potential tenseness of the moment was dissipated. Lucan realized that it would do him no good to rail at the criminal activities of criminals while forced to travel in their midst. His only hope was to survive the journey without incurring any further charges himself. He again tried to ignore the niggling question in his own head:
Why did they no longer seem as much like criminals to Lucan?
* * * *
Effie sat in the common room with the others until all who were left were Gorman, Chumley, and Gale. She had unburdened herself to Mari about George Thomas, and been heartened at the woman’s encouragement and wise words. Effie would get her son back, of that Mari had no doubt. After the kindly woman had bid them all good-night, Effie soon followed, taking up one of the little chimney rooms on the second floor in which she and Gorman had shared many nights.
She lay in bed staring at the underside of the roof, trying not to dwell on the idea that Lucan Montague might be just beyond the wall at the foot of the bed.
She knew what she—what the Family—must look like from the outside. Criminals. Freaks. Thieves. Tricksters. For the first time since she’d come to live at the Warren, she had found herself embarrassed by James’s flippant answer to Lucan Montague:We steal them.
Would she have been better off having stayed at Darlyrede? What if she had played the game of the nobility as Lucan Montague had? She could have turned a blind eye until she was older, perhaps, wealthy in her own right. Then…
Then nothing, she told herself. They would have turned you; married you off to some scabby, rich old lecher. You would have never been free. You wouldn’t have had George—and think of the fate of all the family. Padraig Boyd would have had no chance of claiming Darlyrede while fighting against Vaughn Hargrave and whomever you married.
Perhaps Vaughn would have married you to Lucan.
Her breath caught in her chest at the idea. It wasn’t impossible. Lucan had been beholden to the Hargraves, and wanted his lands returned to him. Vaughn Hargrave wanted control—of everyone and everything, always. What better way to do that than link his granddaughter and his little noble puppet in marriage?
Effie rolled onto her side, dragging the scratchy wool coverlet under her chin and bringing her knees up to curl into a ball while she watched the thin strip of faint, flickering light beneath the door. She had done the right thing then. She was doing the right thing now.
Wasn’t she?
It didn’t matter. Everything was already in motion—had been in motion for years. It was just now speeding up, as she’d known it always must. She only had to hold tight to what and who she knew was right, and see it through to the end. The first part of that would hopefully be completed with the dawn, and then she could consider what steps would have to come next: Find Thomas Annesley.
Thomas Annesley will soon be dead because of you. Your own father.
Your brothers will lose everything.
The family will be arrested.
You will be arrested.
What would happen to George? The king would not simply hand over the heir of Darlyrede House to hiscommon father.
Effie squeezed her eyes shut and hummed the song she always sang to George when he was tucked into his bed to try to drown out her own raving internal voice that hinted at the unthinkable.
* * * *
