Her Dark Knight's Redemption. Nicole Locke
from this city. As large as it was, she would have noticed them before now, and she wasn’t sure they were French because the accent was strange. Yet she was to go with them, away from Gabriel, Helewise and Vernon.
What were the alternatives? None. Slowly she stood again, but now her knees and arm throbbed. On and on they threaded her through the parting crowd.
Around the stalls and a building or two until they abruptly stopped at large double doors. It was one of the many tall residences in the area that overlooked the market.
‘This isn’t my home.’ She wrenched her arm. If she entered, she feared she’d never return. ‘Let me go.’
The doors in front of them remained closed. The men remained still, waiting for something.
For what? This wasn’t a grand home that had servants. It wasn’t in much better condition than the boarded house she occupied.
But the men flanking her were rich, or at least well provided for, and they had parted with that bag of coin as though it was simply a loaf of bread. The owner of such men should have had a great estate or, if in town, a residence in the more luxurious boroughs.
Two other men opened the great doors and her captors marched her through the entrance. The house was larger than it looked from outside. As if one house was constructed to appear like many. Gawking, she was walked through a courtyard. More men swiftly crossing the small space as if they had great distances to go, or important matters to attend.
The home was a crumbling palace and a battalion occupied it. All mercenaries, all men. There was only one commodity she had that would be of any use to them. One commodity that she fought to protect ever since it was the only thing she was left with: herself.
‘No!’ she called out.
Some men looked their way, but none paused in their duties.
When she dug her heels in, her capturers tossed their bread loaves to men around them and bodily carried her to another large door that was opened effortlessly by others. Nothing in this small room but stone and a staircase that looked new.
Up and up, her feet hitting each stair until they reached the landing. There they released her and she flexed her tingling fingers.
‘Now what?’
Neither said anything, but both blocked the stairway down.
A short landing, nothing but three closed doors. Two at her front and another to her left.
‘I’m to go through those?’ She pointed to the ones at her front.
Again, silence.
A few stolen bread loaves had brought her to this dark door. Bread she hadn’t eaten so she was hungry. Scared. But if going forward meant getting this day over with and back to Gabriel as she promised, it was what she would do.
Releasing the latch, she stepped into the room. The men behind her closed it.
Then there was only her. And a man cradling a child.
Reynold did not wait to turn as he had with the wench before. He needed to know immediately if the thief he’d spotted at the market would suit his purposes.
If not, he’d have his men march her to gaol and start again. So he turned, expecting no more or less than what he always expected. Except... Something was different.
Maybe it was the night of no sleep, that underneath it all he felt his hand still tremble at a killing he couldn’t complete and one he didn’t want to make. Last night had shaken him and he’d altered his course from past deeds because he had Grace, who remained quiet and watchful.
It was different and he blamed the child in his arms for his reaction to the woman in front of him. Standing still, remaining quiet, letting her gauge him as a man with her large eyes.
What did she see? Dirt, blood, his weariness. Running, always running, and last night his mind unable to let him sleep since he held his greatest vulnerability. He didn’t have the advantage he usually desired.
He never allowed strangers to simply stare at him. Customarily, he hid in corridors or corners and waited to emerge. He liked watching. The waiting made the person he watched reveal more than they wanted to.
Most never knew he was inspecting their mannerisms for weaknesses as they paced and twitched. As they lifted his enamel boxes off his tables or inspected his books. When he’d eventually emerge, to hide their moment of vulnerability they’d cover their shock with spilling words.
There’d been an exception to this once. Not so long ago, a maiden, scarred and far too loyal to another knight, taunted him out of the shadows, but she was a rarity. He knew immediately that this woman in front would also be an exception. How she would, he didn’t know, because he’d been foolish.
For a while he ruminated on his situation and last night. He’d been standing in front of her, so that he was fully exposed to her, revealing his weaknesses and vulnerabilities. It was time to inspect her in turn.
She reminded him of a pixie. Despite the years of filth marring her skin and dishevelled clothes, everything about her was delicate and frail. The only abundance was the length of her thick wavy black hair, bound in an irregular plait, and the freckles across her nose.
If there wasn’t such poignant awareness in her large eyes and the tell-tale sign of soft curves under her threadbare gown, he’d mistake her for a child instead of a woman grown.
Her eyes were not dark as he’d thought. Blue? Difficult to tell with the curtains closed in this room. But her hair was so dark it was almost as dark as his own. This would be useful when it came to his daughter, to his plan.
There were questions in her eyes. Fear, too, but not the sort he was used to. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but she wasn’t skittish as though she worried about her own life. Another’s, perhaps. He’d seen that once before.
She was quiet, which surprised him, as she made a perusal of him, of Grace in his arms, and then her eyes took in the room.
His favourite room filled with tapestries, silks, comforts and stacks of books. Because it was hard on the bindings and parchment, he never placed the books upright if there were enough tables to support them. As his only true family, he liked to take great care with them.
Her eyes didn’t gleam with greed as Cilla’s or with awe. Instead, she looked curious. He should have met this thief in one of the bare rooms on the other side of the house. A room that wouldn’t have revealed anything of himself. She now knew more of him then he of her. Since the fateful day he’d overheard his family’s intentions to kill him, he’d never revealed anything of himself.
It was the child in his arms. Any act he did from this point on wouldn’t be as he had done in the past. The game had changed.
Another turn of her gaze around the room. Another one of him. ‘Why have you brought me here?’ she said.
Her voice. Direct with an elegant lilt to her words. A common demeaned thief should have spoken with guttural accent like Cilla. Instead, she held almost a cultured accent that both intrigued and confounded him. It was a boon. A dark-haired woman with a pleasing accent and desperate to survive. He didn’t deserve it, but Fortune favoured him greatly this morning.
Aliette had been afraid of only one thing her entire life. Darkness. As a child, she knew shadows hid bad people. As an adult, she avoided them for in a building’s crevice was inevitably a man with a knife. Around a corner would be a guard or a hand to grab what food she’d scavenged.
At night, when Darkness came, she huddled in whatever sliver of moonlight she could under her bridge. Night was always worse,