made her feel the least bit comfortable, but she had to admit that even with the panicked anger Braedan had inspired in her from the start, she’d somehow sensed that she would be safe in his company.
With Draven, that had never been a consideration.
Breathing deep and exhaling on a sigh, Fiona forced herself to unclench the twisted ball of her fingers, clasped in a death grip atop her upraised knees. She flexed her hands, wincing at the tingling stiffness, while her thoughts spun round the unavoidable truth. Sooner or later she would once again need to face the man who had stolen her innocence and corrupted her beyond redemption. If she complied with Braedan’s coercion, it was a foregone conclusion. She’d avoided it as long as she could—had intended to avoid it for the rest of her days, preferring padded, matronly obscurity to the chance of attracting Draven’s notice again—but now it seemed inescapable.
The situation was going to become even more complicated, she knew, once they rejoined Will and his men in the forest. She was going to have to convince Braedan to keep quiet about their true purposes; if Will learned of their plan, he would be furious, entirely opposed to the risk she’d be undertaking by returning to the stewes . The fact that she’d be helping to rescue an innocent woman from the same evil web that had ensnared her eleven years ago wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t understand, either, the muted call for vengeance that she was just beginning to recognize in herself—the reckless need tothwart Draven and make him pay in some way for what he’d done, now that the chance had fallen so clearly into her lap.
But her decision had been made. In those first, dark hours after Braedan was brought, feverish and incoherent, to her chamber, she’d resolved to stop fighting it—to cease looking for a means of escape. She was going to help him, whether or not he was the honest man he claimed to be. Draven’s involvement had changed everything.
Fiona tilted her head back, her eyes fluttering shut at last under the force of her exhaustion. But just before she drifted off into dreams writhing with painful shadows, Braedan’s image filled her mind, his gaze full of sincerity, his voice echoing with that husky, persistent entreaty that had somehow captured her attention from the first, even when she didn’t know the truth of his plight or his suffering at Draven’s hands.
Aye, it was a fine predicament Braedan de Cantor had mired them in, she mused, frowning as she slid deeper into restless slumber.
A mess that would require all of her skill if she was to free them of it with bodies and souls intact.
Braedan struggled to open the lead weight of his eyelids, wincing at the ache that gripped his head in the blinding light. With a groan he flung his forearm over his face, only to stiffen when he felt a thick bandage brushing his cheek. He frowned, blinking and lifting his arm again as he tried to focus on the white padding wrapped round his wrist; another pad was bound with linen strips up near his shoulder. Blood of saints, what was this…?
Biting back another groan, he pushed himself to ahalf-sitting position and squinted down at his torso, looking at the numerous dressings covering the cuts his uncle had ordered dealt to him during his days of captivity and torture at Chepston Hall. But how had they been tended to without his knowing? He scowled. What had happened to his shirt and his—
Suddenly, memory slid back into place and he sat up straighter, ignoring the thousand jabbing pains that lanced through his body with the movement. The Crimson Lady. Ah, yes. He’d found her…brought her back to Alton with him…they’d been in the common room of the inn, where she’d revealed herself and asked for information about her thieving partners. And then…
“You’re awake, I see.”
Bringing his hand to his eyes, Braedan rubbed, trying to clear the blurriness enough to see Fiona where she
With Draven, that had never been a consideration.
Breathing deep and exhaling on a sigh, Fiona forced herself to unclench the twisted ball of her fingers, clasped in a death grip atop her upraised knees. She flexed her hands, wincing at the tingling stiffness, while her thoughts spun round the unavoidable truth. Sooner or later she would once again need to face the man who had stolen her innocence and corrupted her beyond redemption. If she complied with Braedan’s coercion, it was a foregone conclusion. She’d avoided it as long as she could—had intended to avoid it for the rest of her days, preferring padded, matronly obscurity to the chance of attracting Draven’s notice again—but now it seemed inescapable.
The situation was going to become even more complicated, she knew, once they rejoined Will and his men in the forest. She was going to have to convince Braedan to keep quiet about their true purposes; if Will learned of their plan, he would be furious, entirely opposed to the risk she’d be undertaking by returning to the stewes . The fact that she’d be helping to rescue an innocent woman from the same evil web that had ensnared her eleven years ago wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t understand, either, the muted call for vengeance that she was just beginning to recognize in herself—the reckless need tothwart Draven and make him pay in some way for what he’d done, now that the chance had fallen so clearly into her lap.
But her decision had been made. In those first, dark hours after Braedan was brought, feverish and incoherent, to her chamber, she’d resolved to stop fighting it—to cease looking for a means of escape. She was going to help him, whether or not he was the honest man he claimed to be. Draven’s involvement had changed everything.
Fiona tilted her head back, her eyes fluttering shut at last under the force of her exhaustion. But just before she drifted off into dreams writhing with painful shadows, Braedan’s image filled her mind, his gaze full of sincerity, his voice echoing with that husky, persistent entreaty that had somehow captured her attention from the first, even when she didn’t know the truth of his plight or his suffering at Draven’s hands.
Aye, it was a fine predicament Braedan de Cantor had mired them in, she mused, frowning as she slid deeper into restless slumber.
A mess that would require all of her skill if she was to free them of it with bodies and souls intact.
Braedan struggled to open the lead weight of his eyelids, wincing at the ache that gripped his head in the blinding light. With a groan he flung his forearm over his face, only to stiffen when he felt a thick bandage brushing his cheek. He frowned, blinking and lifting his arm again as he tried to focus on the white padding wrapped round his wrist; another pad was bound with linen strips up near his shoulder. Blood of saints, what was this…?
Biting back another groan, he pushed himself to ahalf-sitting position and squinted down at his torso, looking at the numerous dressings covering the cuts his uncle had ordered dealt to him during his days of captivity and torture at Chepston Hall. But how had they been tended to without his knowing? He scowled. What had happened to his shirt and his—
Suddenly, memory slid back into place and he sat up straighter, ignoring the thousand jabbing pains that lanced through his body with the movement. The Crimson Lady. Ah, yes. He’d found her…brought her back to Alton with him…they’d been in the common room of the inn, where she’d revealed herself and asked for information about her thieving partners. And then…
“You’re awake, I see.”
Bringing his hand to his eyes, Braedan rubbed, trying to clear the blurriness enough to see Fiona where she
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