to be unless Gavin has seduced you, and you’re lying to me. Then it isn’t an insult, only an insightful question.” Her scowl was fierce. “It best never be an insightful question while you remain unmarried.”
“Gods, you are such a dragon.” Cinnia glided to the door. “It’s late. You’re sleepy and grumpy, and I’m tired of defending myself to you over every little thing. Go to bed. Sleep as long as you like. I’ll see you in the morning.” She kissed her on the cheek and slipped into the hall, leaving a bemused Louvaen staring after her.
“Who are you,” she said softly. “And what have you done with my sister?”
She stripped down to her knickers, chemise and Cinnia’s stockings. The night rail she pulled from her satchel had more wrinkles than crumpled parchment but would keep her warm in the still chilly room. She dressed and blew out the candles. Firelight from the hearth lit her path to the bed. To her delight, she sank onto a feather mattress laid over an under mattress of straw. The blankets were a mix of fleece and fur, with a costly one of green velvet sandwiched between them. A feather bolster ran the width of the headboard, and Louvaen nestled her head into it with a satisfied sigh.
She hadn’t lain in a real bed in five days. The inns along the route she’d taken to Ketach Tor held more vermin than just rats. She’d paid a small amount to sleep in the relative safety of haylofts, her pallet of straw warmed by the horses and cattle sheltered within the stable or barn. She’d slept with the flintlock by her side and a dagger tucked under the makeshift pillow she’d made of Plowfoot’s saddle blanket. Tonight, she’d leave both in their respective places of pouch and sheath. So far, she’d found the denizens of Ketach Tor to be mysterious and downright odd in some cases, but polite and solicitous. And if her supper had been poisoned, well it was too late to cry about it now. Louvaen snuggled deeper under the covers and fell asleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
It seemed as if she’d just closed her eyes when bestial cries reverberating through the very walls jerked her out of a deep slumber. Were the bed not partially enclosed, she would have tumbled onto the floor. Her shoulder struck one of the box bed’s sides, snapping her fully awake. Those anguished, tormented sounds made her shudder. De Sauveterre. The tenor of his screams had changed—rage mixed with agony as if he fought against his tormentor and was punished in the most barbarous fashion.
She climbed out of bed, shivering in the darkness. The fire in the hearth had burned down to a paltry glow of embers that tumbled shadows across the floor. Louvaen used a rush tip to light candles so she could locate her shawl and pull on her damp boots. She blew on her hands to warm them and retrieved the flintlock along with her supply of flint, powder, patch and ramrod. Her fingers chased the remaining two round lead balls inside a small purse before capturing one. She set it on the bed step’s surface next to the flintlock. Reloading the pistol was slow work, especially with hands made clumsy by the cold, and she cursed her lack of foresight in not doing so before falling asleep.
What madness possessed these people that they ignored the sounds emanating from the castle’s lower chambers? Her own sister showed a lack of concern for de Sauveterre’s suffering. Unlike Cinnia, Louvaen didn’t believe a word of Ambrose’s assurances that his master was not dying nor that his tribulations were both regular and temporary. She refused to cower in her room and hope the screaming would stop. She’d find out for herself what terrible business lay below. At least then she’d know whether she’d have to sling Cinnia on Plowfoot tonight and brave a snowstorm in the dark or wait until morning when the sun was up and could she could see clearly enough to set those
“Gods, you are such a dragon.” Cinnia glided to the door. “It’s late. You’re sleepy and grumpy, and I’m tired of defending myself to you over every little thing. Go to bed. Sleep as long as you like. I’ll see you in the morning.” She kissed her on the cheek and slipped into the hall, leaving a bemused Louvaen staring after her.
“Who are you,” she said softly. “And what have you done with my sister?”
She stripped down to her knickers, chemise and Cinnia’s stockings. The night rail she pulled from her satchel had more wrinkles than crumpled parchment but would keep her warm in the still chilly room. She dressed and blew out the candles. Firelight from the hearth lit her path to the bed. To her delight, she sank onto a feather mattress laid over an under mattress of straw. The blankets were a mix of fleece and fur, with a costly one of green velvet sandwiched between them. A feather bolster ran the width of the headboard, and Louvaen nestled her head into it with a satisfied sigh.
She hadn’t lain in a real bed in five days. The inns along the route she’d taken to Ketach Tor held more vermin than just rats. She’d paid a small amount to sleep in the relative safety of haylofts, her pallet of straw warmed by the horses and cattle sheltered within the stable or barn. She’d slept with the flintlock by her side and a dagger tucked under the makeshift pillow she’d made of Plowfoot’s saddle blanket. Tonight, she’d leave both in their respective places of pouch and sheath. So far, she’d found the denizens of Ketach Tor to be mysterious and downright odd in some cases, but polite and solicitous. And if her supper had been poisoned, well it was too late to cry about it now. Louvaen snuggled deeper under the covers and fell asleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
It seemed as if she’d just closed her eyes when bestial cries reverberating through the very walls jerked her out of a deep slumber. Were the bed not partially enclosed, she would have tumbled onto the floor. Her shoulder struck one of the box bed’s sides, snapping her fully awake. Those anguished, tormented sounds made her shudder. De Sauveterre. The tenor of his screams had changed—rage mixed with agony as if he fought against his tormentor and was punished in the most barbarous fashion.
She climbed out of bed, shivering in the darkness. The fire in the hearth had burned down to a paltry glow of embers that tumbled shadows across the floor. Louvaen used a rush tip to light candles so she could locate her shawl and pull on her damp boots. She blew on her hands to warm them and retrieved the flintlock along with her supply of flint, powder, patch and ramrod. Her fingers chased the remaining two round lead balls inside a small purse before capturing one. She set it on the bed step’s surface next to the flintlock. Reloading the pistol was slow work, especially with hands made clumsy by the cold, and she cursed her lack of foresight in not doing so before falling asleep.
What madness possessed these people that they ignored the sounds emanating from the castle’s lower chambers? Her own sister showed a lack of concern for de Sauveterre’s suffering. Unlike Cinnia, Louvaen didn’t believe a word of Ambrose’s assurances that his master was not dying nor that his tribulations were both regular and temporary. She refused to cower in her room and hope the screaming would stop. She’d find out for herself what terrible business lay below. At least then she’d know whether she’d have to sling Cinnia on Plowfoot tonight and brave a snowstorm in the dark or wait until morning when the sun was up and could she could see clearly enough to set those
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