Page 72 of Never Love a Lord
Julian knew a pang of concern at the information that Sybilla was barefoot, but he did not dwell on it.
“She’s not afoot,” Julian said casually, and then lay back down on the ground, making a show of adjusting his arms to comfort his head. “And she shall beat us all to London. If I were you, I would not be anticipating the humiliation that awaits you at having your prisoner arrive before you.”
“Bollocks, you say,” the envoy scoffed from behind him.
Julian shrugged and closed his eyes.
The man said nothing for several moments. Julian feigned disinterest, but his body was rigid with impatience.
“Rally the men. Break camp at once for London. No time to lose—we ride in a quarter hour. Ready a group of men to return to the Castle Fallstowe, on the watch for the prisoner.”
Then Julian felt the toe of the envoy’s boot nudge him roughly between the shoulder blades.
“If this is some ploy to distract me, to try to buy your little lady traitor some time to further her escape, you would do well to keep in mind that your daughter is alone at Fallstowe, and I have rein to do as I see fit with interferers.”
Julian did not so much as flinch.Come a bit closer, old chap . . .
He sensed the man crouching behind him now, heard his smug voice close to his head.
“Do you hear me, Griffin? You lead no one any longer. I am in charge.”
In a blink, Julian had rolled over, swinging up his arms until the chain suspended between his wrists looped around the odious man’s neck. Then he quickly rolled back again, yanking the envoy from his feet, across Julian’s body, where Julian held the man on the ground in front of him, his mouth directly over the envoy’s ear while the man gasped and kicked and clawed at the chain biting into his windpipe.
“You hear me,” Julian said in a low voice. “And hear me well: should you even so much as whisper an allusion to the fact that I have a daughter again, I will beat you to death. Chains or no chains, soldiers or no soldiers. I will kill you with my bare hands. That is my solemn vow.” He pulled the chain tighter with a little grunt. “And if you dare to touch me again as if you possess some authority over me, I will dismember whatever appendage has offended me and feed it to the king’s hounds while you watch. Morsel by bloody morsel, you cowardly piece of dung.”
Several of the envoy’s soldiers approached now, some of them reaching for their swords.
“This is a man-to-man conversation,” Julian warned them. “I have not yet been relieved of my duties, and so I outrank this piece of filth I am defending myself from. Stand down. That’s an order!” To the envoy still in his clutches, Julian asked, “Do you understand me?”
The envoy gave a jerky nod.
Julian drew his knees up beneath him and gained his feet awkwardly, dragging the envoy aright with him before quickly releasing the chain from around the man’s neck and stepping away.
The envoy whipped around, his hands still at his bruised throat. “I’ll kill you for that,” he croaked, his eyes wild.
Julian stared back at him, opened his hands slightly to let the chain dangle in a wide arc. “Whenever you’re ready.”
The envoy hesitated. “Lock him in the carriage,” the man shouted hoarsely, and a pair of soldiers reluctantly moved toward Julian. “And keep a closer eye on this one!”
Julian did not resist as the men indicated that he should move toward the reinforced wagon that had until recently interned Sybilla Foxe. In fact he went willingly.
Like the envoy he had just chastised, Julian wished to gain London before Sybilla Foxe did.
Chapter 24
Sybilla felt as though she and Octavian became one in the moonlight, her fingers tangled in his mane as the chains between her wrists clanged with each jarring gallop of the war steed. The flesh of her legs was hot and wet and prickled where it gripped Octavian’s sides. She leaned close over his neck, her knees pressed to his heaving flanks, her ankles drawn up behind her, the tops of her feet laid close along the bunched curve of Octavian’s rump. She had no need to drive him, lead him—it was as if he knew their destination, knew the urgency. His hooves were solid, sure, his gait steady and untiring.
They were spirits, wraiths, streaking over a dark and shadowed land toward London. Sybilla felt the tears on her cheeks leaving little ghosts of cold as the rushing air dried them. She was racing toward her death, and she couldn’t seem to get there quickly enough.
She had not gone back to Fallstowe Castle.
The morning sun was high in the sky when the walls of the great city came into view, and Octavian began to instinctively slow. She let him wander from the road to drink from a rain barrel set against a little cottage, and she tried to smooth back the voluminous tangles of her hair, but it was of no use. The red velvet of her gown was caked with dirt and horse sweat, and she knew her face must be as well.
She would enter Edward’s court looking like a common beggar, which was in truth what she was now.
They were back to the road in moments, and through the gates without incident, although as she drew closer to her intended destination, she couldn’t help but notice the increasing stares she drew from the citizens of the city. By the time Octavian drew to a halt before the guards, a small crowd had gathered behind her. She dismounted with care, her joints and muscles creaking, and a pair of soldiers rushed forward with concerned looks on their faces as they took in her chains, her hard-traveled appearance.
Before they could approach her, Sybilla reached up with both hands to grasp Octavian’s muzzle and pull it to her face. She pressed her lips to the damp, scratchy hair, the warmth of him, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment.
