Page 3 of Never Love a Lord
She drew the bow, her muscles quivering with effort. With no archer’s glove to protect her, the flesh of the first two fingers of her right hand felt cut to the bone by the bowstring. Her shoulders and chest strained, but she no longer felt like stepping off the ledge into oblivion. In fact, she felt rather better.
Below, the archer’s face turned upward, and she heard his faint shout of surprised alarm.
One more fight then, for posterity’s sake.
Sybilla felt her lips curve into a smile, then she let her arrow fly.
Chapter 2
It seemed as though not a single candle was lit within the whole of Fallstowe Castle, implying that the entire household beyond the still, moon-washed stones was abed and unaware.
Julian Griffin was not so foolish as to believe that was true at all, and so he was willing to give the lady ample time to reply. At least another moment or two. It would disappoint him greatly to order the drawbridge fired, but it seemed unlikely that Fallstowe would simply roll over at this late date when faced with yet another royal decree.
Yes, very disappointing indeed. Julian had been very much looking forward to speaking at length with Sybilla Foxe. After the past year of research on her family—traveling both here and abroad—Julian had become fascinated by the enigmatic heiress of Fallstowe. He dropped his hand and the heavy curtain covering the carriage window fell back into place.
Any matter, he was here to perform his duty for the king, and in return he would be rewarded with a home and lands for himself and Lucy. Scholarly curiosity notwithstanding, that was his main goal.
His thoughts turned briefly to Cateline; how smugly pleased she would be if she could see him now, outfitted in one of her cousin the king’s royal carriages, on the eve of leading a siege in the name of the Crown. How far he had come from the penniless noble she had first met upon his return from the Eighth Crusade. Julian had gained so much since then: a powerful friend and benefactor in Edward, the king’s own cousin for a bride, authority in London, coin to spare. And most important of all, of course, was Lucy.
Julian sighed and moved the curtain back once more. He could hear his archer conversing with another soldier. Julian’s eyes shifted, and he saw Erik standing a few feet away from the carriage, overseeing the erection of a war tent. Julian put his hand on the door latch, ready to remove himself from the carriage and set the siege in motion. Sybilla Foxe was not going to surrender.
Before he could open the door, he heard the archer’s shout, and then the carriage shuddered as a loud crack emanated from the roof. Julian turned his face up and saw a distinct point in the satin lining of the carriage ceiling directly above his head, where only a moment before it had been flawlessly smooth.
“What wuzzat, milord?” Murrin gasped, coming aright from her slouch in the corner where she’d been sleeping. Her hands reached instinctively for the traveling cradle beneath her arm, although Lucy had not stirred.
“All’s well, Murrin,” Julian said. He pushed the door open and stood up on the frame in order to poke his head over the top of the carriage.
An arrow, flaming wildly, punctured the king’s royal conveyance. Julian’s face turned upward to the castle’s tallest turret, and in the shadowed relief of the battlements, he saw a small figure.
A figure whose skirt was blowing wide in the wind. Julian reached up and jerked the arrow free of the wood before hopping to the ground and closing the carriage door gently. When he turned, he was immediately surrounded by his officers and two soldiers bearing torches. None of the men said anything while Julian untied the wrinkled parchment and threw the flaming arrow to the ground. He unfurled the page, saw his own writing, and then turned the parchment over.
You alone.
It was unsigned.
Julian looked up once more at the figure still standing in the crenellations, and he knew the author of the message just as surely as if she had whispered the two words into his ear.
“Hello, Sybilla,” he murmured through his grin.
“Shall we make ready, Lord Griffin?” Erik prompted, shaking Julian from his reverie so that he turned to address the armed man.
“Not yet, Erik,” Julian said, handing the man Fallstowe’s message. “It seems I’ve been granted an audience.” He turned to the carriage door again.
“You’re not actually going alone, though, are you?” Erik demanded incredulously.
“Of course not,” Julian said easily over his shoulder as he opened the door. Then he spoke to the carriage’s interior. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Murrin, but I’m afraid you’ll have to ready Lucy and come with me.” Julian turned back to his frowning officers.
“How many shall accompany us?” Erik asked, his blond brows drawn together ominously.
“Nous, Erik—only Lucy and Murrin and I.”
“Lord Griffin, perhaps that is unwise,” Erik suggested, with obviously forced patience. As one of Julian’s closest friends, it was oft difficult for him to retain professional deference before the other soldiers. “Who’s to say that the viperous traitor won’t cut you down once you cross her threshold? And then what will become of Lady Lucy?”
“I don’t think we have to worry about that,” Julian said, helping Murrin down from the carriage, the swaddled bundle that was his daughter held lovingly and securely in her arms.
“Blimy, milord,” Murrin gasped, staring up wide-eyed at the castle. From within the embroidered coverlet, Lucy began to fuss, and Murrin bounced on the balls of her feet out of habit. “Shh, kitten. Shh.”
Julian turned to his men. “Send the first runner with a message stating that I’ve begun negotiations. If you do not have word from me within one hour, send a second, fire the gate, and storm the castle.”
