Chapter Ten

Finvarra winced.

It was inconvenient, this bond betwixt the maiden whom Finvarra desired most and this mercenary. Their paths should never have crossed and, worse, Elizabeth’s abilities to see what should have been discerned only by the Fae worked against Finvarra. Those ribbons convinced her of the warrior’s merit when the common sense so favored by mortals would have induced her to avert her gaze.

Still, all was not lost as yet.

Finvarra opened the portal enough to pass through it himself and smiled to find Elizabeth alone and gazing after Rafael. He stepped up behind her, eyeing her perfect proportions, the gleaming ebony of her hair, the lusciousness of her curves. It would take him eternity to tire of her charms, Finvarra was certain.

“He is easy to look upon, for a mortal,” he murmured from behind Elizabeth.

She spun to face him, evidently not surprised by his presence, and Finvarra smiled that she was so aware of him. That could only be a good sign.

“Have you come to collect your boon?” she demanded.

Finvarra replied mildly, taking note of her high color, her sparkling eyes and her softened lips. “I spoke of the mortal you watched.”

“You did not seek me out to discuss Rafael.”

“Did I not?” Finvarra waited for her curiosity to be kindled, then turned away. “I suppose you must know best.”

Elizabeth, to his delight, seized his sleeve. “What do you know of him?”

“Little of import, especially as he is determined to leave this land forever.”

“What if he does not leave?” she asked. “Or does not leave forever?”

“Then it may be of more import. We shall have to see.” Finvarra eased toward the portal to the Fae realm in the end stall, ensuring that Elizabeth saw it. She would know what it was with a single glimpse.

He heard her catch her breath and knew she had spied it. He smiled.

“You know more of men and their secrets than any I know,” she said. “Will you tell me what you can see of Rafael and his future?”

“Do you truly wish to be even more deeply in my debt?” Finvarra asked lightly, but he saw how the query troubled her.

She frowned. “What will you have of me? I know you will demand some compensation for my making a plea for my brother in your court. Why did you let me leave?”

“You could have stayed.”

“I did not expect to have a choice.”

But given it, she had chosen Rafael.

“There is no rush to settle any balance between us, Elizabeth,” Finvarra said smoothly. He acted as if he dropped the present he would give to her, as if it slipped from his sleeve without him noting as much. He knew it caught the light as it dropped and felt the sharpening of her attention. He pivoted before the portal and regarded her with a smile. “Let us say that we shall do so when you seek me out.”

Defiance flashed in her eyes, but she did not speak her thought aloud. Still, he could fairly hear her response, so ardently did she think of her determination to never seek him out.

His gift would ensure otherwise.

He extended a hand to her in his most regal manner. “I bid you farewell, beauteous Elizabeth, at least until such time as you willingly enter my court and beg an audience with me.”

She looked from his hand to his eyes, clearly suspecting a trick. She found none, not as yet, so stepped forward and took his hand. She bent and barely touched her lips to his ring as she curtseyed, then stepped back so that she concealed the dropped trinket from his view with her skirts. “Until then, sir,” she said, standing straight in her confidence that she had had the better of their exchange.

Finvarra bit back a smile of triumph, then swept through the portal to the Fae court. He waved a hand, casting a fistful of starlight in his own wake, and hid the portal from most mortal eyes.

Elizabeth, he knew, could still discern it.

The time until she chose to come to him would pass quickly, Finvarra knew. For an immortal, six months of earthly time was but a blink of an eye. Una would have her vengeance and see the portals closed, but Finvarra would have the fairest mortal maiden he had ever seen to entertain his desires through all eternity.

The prospect made his step light.

* * *

Elizabeth had seen the small circle slip from Finvarra’s belt and drop to the thick straw on the floor of the stall. She had not discerned it on his belt earlier, but then his garb was so richly adorned and so alight with precious threads that it could have easily been overlooked in the midst of such splendor.

It was about the size of her palm, as brilliant a silver as the full moon, and had been bound to his belt by a red silken cord. The knot loosed as she watched, as if it had a will of its own, and the disk fell to the ground as quickly as a drop of rain.

Finvarra did not appear to notice its loss. He strolled to the portal that could only lead to the realm of the Fae, and even when he turned to face her again, his gaze did not fall to the gleaming circle on the ground. Perhaps the angle of the light meant that it did not shine from his perspective. Either way, Elizabeth wanted very much to examine it more closely. She ensured it was hidden beneath her skirts when she kissed his proffered hand, and fairly itched to examine her prize as he departed.

Only when he was gone and the portal sealed did she flick aside her skirts and consider the token.

It was circular, bounded in silver shaped cleverly to look like a twisted vine. The vine looped on one side where it was adorned with several silver leaves. This made an excellent handle for picking it up, and indeed, the red cord was knotted to this loop. On the back side, the silver leaves twisted about each other to make an impenetrable surface. The disk itself was bright and clear, and Elizabeth gasped when she realized it was a mirror.

She had seen mirrors that were made of polished bronze, of course, and she had heard of ones wrought of silvered glass. These were such rich prizes that she had never seen one herself. This one offered so perfect a reflection that she knew it must be the product of some Fae sorcery. To look into it was like looking into a millpond with a surface as smooth as glass, and to do so on a sunny day. It seemed to not only reflect but illuminate, and Elizabeth saw more of her own features than ever before. She noted the sparkle in her eyes and the ruddy fullness of her own lips, then touched her mouth and shivered in recollection of Rafael’s kiss.

She caressed her own lip with one fingertip, recalling the pleasure he had awakened in her, and knew there had to be a way to compel him to agree with her and accept their fate.

Elizabeth doubted it would be a way her brothers would like.

Of course. She would ask Rosamunde when she returned to Kinfairlie. Her aunt had never been conventional and had often pursued her own path, in defiance of what the man in the family thought best.

Rosamunde, Elizabeth was certain, would provide the best advice in this matter.

Knowing that, she was no longer so reluctant to return to Kinfairlie, where Rosamunde had recently arrived as a guest.

Perhaps she could say something before she left Ravensmuir to ensure that Rafael not only thought of her but remained.

* * *

Elizabeth was reckless, defiant and utterly irresistible.

It had taken all within Rafael to break her beguiling kiss and step away from the temptation she offered. He knew his agitation had showed, and he had guessed from her triumphant smile that she knew its import.

And she declared that he was afraid.

Afraid!

Rafael was not afraid. He had never been afraid. He did not fear some delightful demoiselle, however determined to be rid of her maidenhead she might be, however vengeful her brothers might be. He did not fear the King of the Dead claiming Elizabeth forever, or her being trapped in the realm of these Fae after the portals closed forevermore. The choice of whether to surrender or not was Elizabeth’s alone. He was not afraid to love another soul, or to try to live as most men, or even to abandon the sole trade he knew.

Afraid. Whosoever could imagine that a man like Rafael Rodriguez was afraid? Only a young woman who knew naught of the world and its ways!

He fumed as he presented himself for the midday meal in the hall. He sat at the end of the table with his comrades and drank his ale. They had served the meat, and he was aware that the lady herself watched him from the high table. Her brothers had taken note of her interest as well.

Rafael showed interest only in his ale. He would become drunk. He would be a besotted mercenary and show his true measure—even though that was not his measure. The fact was that he seldom drank in excess, but he thought recent events justified the change. He did not wish to spend another night in the company of Franz. He would prove that the brother Alexander’s expectations of him were justified, and that would eliminate Elizabeth’s interest in him.

It would be best for both of them.

“Another ale!” he roared.

Afraid.

“A song!” called someone from the back of the hall when the platters of venison stew had been licked clean and the trenchers of bread cast to the dogs. The hall was warm and the men there appeared to be filled with contentment. Rafael found his fingers drumming, and knew himself to be alone in his impatience to leave the hall. He refused to so much as glance to the high table, where Elizabeth sat on one side of her brother, Malcolm. His new wife, Catriona sat on Malcolm’s left, and Alexander, Laird of Kinfairlie, sat beside Catriona.

He drank heartily of the ale, hoping it would dull his agitation, but it only seemed to increase his restlessness.

“A tale, indeed,” Tristan echoed, raising his cup. The Sable League added their voices to the appeal, though Rafael wished the party from Kinfairlie would simply depart as quickly as possible.

They did not seem inclined to go. In fact, Rafael sensed a new harmony between Malcolm and his brother. Perhaps the older brother would return the horses to Ravensmuir’s stable. Perhaps all would end well for his comrade.

It was clearly time Rafael rode south. He tried to discuss destinations with his fellows, but they waved off such serious discussions and called for more ale.

It seemed that all would celebrate the triumph of the night before. Rafael surveyed the hall, seeking one person so restless as he and could not spy a one.

Not for the first time, Rafael was aware that he was different from those who surrounded him. It was more than his coloring, more than his heritage, more than his mother tongue, his perspective and his experience. He did not fit, even amongst a company of mercenaries. He did not share their ease with peaceful times, their enjoyment of a tale, their ability to savor the moment.

Rafael was always watching the portal, listening for attack, prepared to fight. He was always so prepared to depart that he never unpacked his saddlebags. He could be gone in a trio of heartbeats, with no regret for what he left behind. It was his way, and always would be. Indeed, he had been six months at Ravensmuir, and still his gear was packed, his saddle alongside his steed, his blade honed.

It was past time to leave.

He quaffed another cup of ale.

Rafael did not wait well. That, too, was different about him.

As he watched, Malcolm shrugged, for he was not one to recount tales. The Laird of Ravensmuir glanced at his wife, who could tell a story well enough, but the babe cried from the solar in that moment and Catriona excused herself to nurse her son.

“We must have a tale!” Elizabeth entreated, and Rafael stared into his cup lest he inadvertently catch her gaze. He knew she looked toward him, and guessed that she wished to linger at Ravensmuir so she could speak to him again.

Or perhaps she thought to change his mind that he—he!—could be the hero of one of these tales she favored. Rafael had never heard such nonsense in all his days. Heroes in tales were valiant and noble and honorable.

Yet he had treated this lady with honor, despite his yearnings to do otherwise.

Indeed, Rafael burned with the vehemence of his desire for Elizabeth. He knew he had done aright in denying her but in this moment, the choice felt all wrong.

He had need of a woman, ’twas clear. The warmth of a whore’s thighs would clear his thoughts. He had been unnaturally chaste at Ravensmuir and should ride to the nearest burg to ensure his satisfaction.

Then continue south from there.

“I have a tale,” Alexander said, rising to his feet. “I think it a most fitting one for this day, when Malcolm is returned to his home, after venturing far abroad, and here has defended what he has inherited to be his own.”

“Where are his horses?” Rafael muttered, but no one paid him any heed.

The company roared approval at Alexander’s suggestion and the ale was passed around again. Cups were filled, and the men turned their attention to Alexander. The Laird of Kinfairlie cleared his throat, then began to sing.

He had a remarkably fine voice, to Rafael’s surprise, though the tale he recounted made the mercenary frown. It was familiar, in some ways at least.

“A king there was, named Charlemagne,

Who rode to fight the Moors in Spain.

Men from far and wide pledged to his hand,

And that of his nephew, brave Roland.

They rode to war, ten thousand men,

Slew countless Moors before going home again.

Their packs were heavy with tribute gained,

Their purses never would be empty again.

Seven years they fought and glad they were

To return home with riches and cheer.

They sang as they rode through the pass,

Their hearts were merry at Roncesvaux.

But at Roncesvaux they were betrayed:

An enemy force in hiding laid

The trap was sprung on the mighty host.

And valiant Roland bore the cost.”

“Treachery and betrayal,” Ranulf said with gusto. “’Tis the meat of every good tale.”

“I thought winning the love of a fine woman was the merit of every good tale,” Tristan countered and Ranulf shrugged agreement.

“There is that to be sure.” Ranulf scanned the hall, clearly in search of a willing wench to hear his views. “For the love of a good woman is the greatest prize a man can win.”

Giorgio drew Guilia into his lap and she teased Ranulf. “Save your fine words for the moment there is a wench to hear them.”

They laughed together, as Alexander continued his song. Rafael had another cup of ale to dull the sound of the merriment he did not feel. This tale always irked him and on this day, his reaction was precisely as it always had been.

“The die was cast the month before

With a treaty and a wager sworn.

So fierce were Charlemagne’s men of war,

And so great their success, year after year,

That the Moorish king proposed a truce

Bargained with whoever Charlemagne trusted most.

One man there was in Charlemagne’s host,

Who he admired more than most.

One knight so skilled as to be the best,

One warrior more valiant than all the rest.

One man both fair of face and strong,

One man whose loyalty was their bond.

His nephew Roland was that man,

A knight renowned through every land.

The French king asked his beloved Roland

Who said instead to send Ganelon

That knight had wed Roland’s mother

And was known for his tact of manner.

The king saw the merit of the choice

And sent Ganelon to the Moorish court.”

“The right choice must be made when negotiating a treaty,” Amaury said. “I would guess this Ganelon spoke the language of the Moors.”

“As Rafael does,” Tristan agreed and Rafael fairly felt Elizabeth’s gaze lock upon him.

“I do not speak it so well as that,” he protested.

“You speak it more than any of us,” Bertrand countered. “I would choose you to negotiate a treaty on our behalf.”

They saluted Rafael and raised their cups high to toast him. He knew the rest of the company, including Elizabeth, watched with curiosity. She whispered to Malcolm who confided some detail to her. Rafael studied the bottom of his cup.

Alexander continued to sing.

“But Ganelon did not trust Roland.

Nor did he trust the Moorish man.

He believed his step-son did him ill

And meant for him to be killed,

By this foreign king who claimed he’d treat

And so Ganelon, his allies did cheat.

He told the Moor how best to attack

To ensure Charlemagne would never come back.

He knew the rear guard was led by Roland

And told the Moor to kill that man.

He took a payment of coin and gold

And to no man his betrayal told.

So, Charlemagne believed all at peace

And confident in the treat, led his men east.”

Rafael had heard this chanson in many versions over the years, but the version he knew to be the truth was solely told in Spain. That he alone knew of it in this company again marked him as a stranger, an outsider and a foreigner.

It was yet another hint that he did not belong in this foul land.

Much less in Malcolm’s court.

It was yet another reminder to be gone as soon as possible.

The ale, he had to admit, was not bad.

Alexander, refreshed by a cup of ale himself, sang.

“The company, ten thousand strong

Had fought fierce battles overlong.

They thought of little but home fires

And so it was they were took unawares.

The force rode late for the king did see

The hills and plains of his own country.

The men were threaded through the pass,

Stretched out thin, Roland at the last.

The hour was late, the night falling chill

The silence to Roland seemed to bode ill.

He shivered and looked back to find

Shadows approaching from behind.

Knights there were on steeds so fine,

Their banners red and gold did fly.

A thousand trumpets were blown as one

Their armor lit by the last of the sun.”

There was, to be sure, a cruel beauty in the trappings of war. The pennants and banners, the majestic destriers, the caparisons and gleaming armor, and helms catching the morning sun. It was all so familiar to Rafael, as was the aftermath of battle, with its blood and mud and mire. The song sent a thrill through Rafael, reminding him of all the times he had mustered before a battle, all the days he had admired the finery of his fellows, all the times he had faced a foe with his heart in his throat, wondering who would die in the battle ahead.

He cast a glance at the high table, seeing how Elizabeth was rapt in listening to her brother. Aye, people like this maiden believed war was all glory and honor. They knew naught of the dirt, much less the futility of it all.

The thought compelled Rafael to refill his cup of ale and drain it quickly.

“Wise Oliver stood beside Roland,

Awed by the Moors upon the land.

That knight climbed a hill beside the road,

The better to see the numbers of their foe.

He could not count them nor could see

The end of their ranks. ‘’Twas a sea

Of knights on horseback fully armed

Come to fight on mountain scree.

He feared they could not win this day

And to Roland Oliver did say

‘Blow your horn and do it now;

Summon the king to fight this foe!’

But Roland laughed and refused the plea

For he thought it would be cowardly.

The rear guard was his to defend,

And so he turned to face the fiends.

‘My duty it is to fight for my king

And I will hear my sword sing

As it slices through Moorish skulls

And brings victory, as God wills.’”

That was the manner of leadership that saw men dead, and for no good end. The folly of Roland was clear to Rafael as it was not to those at the high table. Dying foolishly had never been his own aspiration.

Indeed, he would prefer not to die at all.

A memory stirred at that, the presence of those demons and the portal to Hell a little too close for comfort, and Rafael took refuge in the ale. On this night, it would be worth the price to sleep dreamlessly, even if his own hide was at risk.

* * *

Elizabeth clutched her hands together in her lap as Alexander sang. The Song of Roland was a thrilling one, and she never tired of hearing it. On this day, though, she was struck by the references to warfare, and wondered if it was all too familiar to Rafael.

He drank ale with a gusto unexpected, more even than his fellows, and she wondered if he were a drunkard. He otherwise seemed to be in such control of his impulses, that she would never have expected as much. When she caught Malcolm’s frown of surprise, she knew that something was different about Rafael on this day.

Was it possible that he was as agitated as she?

“A hundred thousand Moors were there,

A force more fearsome ne’er did appear!

The rear guard eyed the gathering foe

And more than one quailed in fear, just so.

‘Fear not,’ brave Roland then did cry

‘For Durendal cannot be denied.

My blade will run with Moorish blood

And a blow will be delivered for God.

We will cut down those who lie and cheat

We will defend our king from such deceit.

My blade will slash, and it will sing,

And soon we will ride home again.’

Wise Oliver advised his friend

To blow his horn to call the king again.

More forces then would they be

And more assured their victory.

But Roland laughed at such prudence

He swore to offer all for the king’s trust.

He mounted his steed, he gave his sign

Ten thousand men rode forth aligned.

From all those throats broke the king’s own cry

For they rode to war calling ‘Mountjoy!’”

The company cheered at this and echoed the battle cry. “Mountjoy!”

“The first Moor taunted them indeed

For he told them of Ganelon’s deed.

‘What manner of men betray each other?

What kind of knight deceives his brother?

For God’s will, you all shall die.

And we shall take your bounty as our prize.’

Roland struck the first blow that night

For he cut down this dark Moor with might.

He sliced his helmet and split his head

With one blow, he struck that man dead

His blade cut the Moor to the spine

For Durendal could not be denied.

The Moors bellowed, their voices brash

The two armies met with a mighty clash.

The blood did flow in quantity,

The full moon shone on death indeed.

Oliver, Roland and Archbishop Turpin

Fought with vigor to the end.

And when back to back fought they three

They knew there was no place to flee.

Oliver begged Roland again to blow

A mighty bellow upon his horn.

Archbishop Turpin did agree,

Though they would not survive, they three.

’Twould be best to call the king

That he might avenge the loss there had been.

Roland did cede to them in this,

And lifted his horn to his lips.

He blew so hard and with such force,

That his temples burst and he was lost.

In giving this last battle cry

So the king’s most valiant warrior did die.”

Elizabeth watched as Rafael spat into the rushes. “A fool,” that warrior said as he rose to his feet. “He was no champion, but a fool who led others to their demise! That is no hero worthy of a tale!” Rafael sat down with a scowl then and beckoned for the ale.

His fellows withheld it.

Alexander and Malcolm exchanged a glance, and Alexander began to sing again.

“The summons echoed through the hills

For thirty leagues, its sound did peal!

Charlemagne knew the sound of Oliphaunt

The horn Roland carried on his belt.

He turned the entire company

The host racing back to the melée.

They found the rear guard, slaughtered all,

And Roland, brave Roland, also fallen.

Angels gathered around the dead,

A trio cradled Roland’s head.

Charlemagne watched the heavenly host

Gather the nephew he loved the most.

Brave Roland was carried to heaven high

The earth itself sending forth a cry

For there would be no knight again

So prepared to fight for king and men.”

There was fulsome applause from the company, and Alexander took a sip of ale himself before he bowed in acknowledgment. “And so it was that our father was named Roland,” he said. “It was a tribute to a bold hero and a name to ensure his own valor during his life.”

“It is a noble name, indeed,” Elizabeth agreed. “And a wondrous tale.”

The company began to applaud again, all except for Rafael. That man stood again, his manner as intense as Elizabeth had ever seen it, and raised his voice. “It might be a wondrous tale,” he said and the company fell silent. “If it were true.”

“It is true!” Alexander protested. “I have heard it told many a time.”

Rafael strode down the middle of the hall, his confidence such that he held every gaze. He smiled ever so slightly, which gave him a dangerous and predatory look. Elizabeth could not help but admire the sight of him.

Her destined love.

Rafael’s eyes narrowed as he considered Alexander. “A lie does not become true, no matter how many times it is repeated.”

“But all know this tale,” Alexander said with a smile. The company applauded at his invitation, showing their approval of his version.

Rafael folded his arms across his chest. “But truth is dependent upon where a man stands.”

Glances of confusion were exchanged, even as some of the mercenaries shook their heads in amusement. Clearly they knew what Rafael meant.

“But what is the difference?” Elizabeth demanded. Rafael turned a simmering look upon her, one that made her think every soul in the hall would guess how he had kissed her.

To her delight, he answered her.

“It means that one man’s just war is another man’s abomination. On this side of the mountains that divide the lands of the French king from that of the Castile, Roland’s tale is told thus. This is the truth known by those who trace their lineage to Charlemagne.” Rafael turned to gesture to all the company. “Unlike every other person gathered here, I came of age on the other side of those mountains.”

“In Castile,” Elizabeth breathed. There was a land of mystery and romance, for it was the southern reaches of Castile that had once been held by the Moors, and it was said that those cities were filled with marvels and riches. She clasped her hands together in her lap, convinced yet again that Rafael was the one man who had tasted adventure.

He inclined his head slightly in her direction. “And there, in the lands where Charlemagne marched his troops, we tell a different tale of the Battle of Roncesvaux. I was born in Pamplona, in the Kingdom of Navarre to the north of Castile, and there we tell of the Frankish king Charlemagne destroying the walls of the city, pillaging it and slaughtering the residents.”

Elizabeth caught her breath.

“We tell of the great Frankish king turning tail after the damage was done, after his coffers were filled with stolen coin, and fleeing into the mountains with his blood price.” His voice dropped low. “And we tell of the valiant men who bewailed their fellow townspeople and their kin, who crept into the mountain passes they knew as well as the lines on their own palms, and took vengeance for that unprovoked assault.”

Elizabeth lifted her fingers to her lips.

“Charlemagne did not fight the Moors at Roncesvaux,” Rafael concluded in disdain, as the company sat silent. He tapped a finger on his own chest. “He fought us, the residents of Pamplona, the Christians of the Kingdom of Navarre. He slaughtered other Christians to defend his theft of their gold.”

Elizabeth was shocked. “This cannot be true!”

“It is.” Rafael lifted his cup of ale and drained it, his eyes narrowing as he eyed Elizabeth. The entire assembly was rapt, but he looked only at Elizabeth. “I assure you that there could not have been four hundred thousand men in the attacking force. Perhaps it was only four hundred.”

“For Rafael himself is known to be worth a thousand men in battle,” one of the other mercenaries contributed. The rest of the Sable League toasted to that truth and drank heartily.

“But they were more worthy of becoming heroes in a tale than this Roland, for they defended both justice and truth.”

Elizabeth could only find herself in agreement.

Indeed, that he valued those traits told her that her instinct about Rafael was right.

“I am not from these parts,” Rafael said softly, his words carrying all the same. “I am not like you people and your kind. Indeed, so great is the difference that some of you cannot distinguish my kind from infidels and enemies.” He paused to empty his cup. “And yet the king you hail as the champion of all you hold dear was worse than a mercenary. He attacked without justification, stole, looted and fled to safety.” Rafael almost smiled. “Perhaps my kind merely has need of better troubadours.”

His gaze bored into Elizabeth’s for a long moment, then he put down the cup with a flourish, pivoted and left the hall.

Elizabeth started to rise, but Alexander’s hand landed on her arm. His gaze was more serious than she had seen him in a while. “He gives you fair warning, Elizabeth. Let him go.”

“I see the ribbons,” she said through her teeth.

“You are deceived as to his merit,” Alexander said, giving no credence to her observations. There was steel in his tone when he continued. “We will return to Kinfairlie immediately.”

“Alexander, I must protest,” Elizabeth began but her brother gave her a quelling look.

When she fell into mutinous silence, Alexander nodded to Malcolm and raised his voice. “I thank you, Catriona and Malcolm, for this hospitality on this day, and I salute your match. Let us gather this Saturday to come, so that all of Kinfairlie can see your vows exchanged before our priest, Father Malachy.”

“I should like that,” Catriona said at Malcolm’s glance her way.

“Then it shall be done,” the new Laird of Ravensmuir said, his grip fast on his wife’s hand. “But it shall be done here, at Ravensmuir.” He nodded to Alexander. “I look forward to welcoming you all.”

The company applauded the notion of another celebration, especially one so soon to come. Elizabeth watched her brothers shake hands and was discontent that Rafael had departed. Perhaps she would see him in the stables, when they went to saddle the horses. Perhaps she would have one last chance to speak to him this day.

But Alexander must have guessed her intent, for Elizabeth left the hall of Ravensmuir to find Demoiselle saddled and waiting in the bailey, alongside Uriel, Alexander’s mount. Both steeds were stamping with impatience to be gone. It was mid-afternoon when they took their departure of Ravensmuir, but no matter how intently she looked, Elizabeth could not catch another glimpse of Rafael.

Saturday it would be, then, unless she managed to visit Ravensmuir before. At least she would have time to seek Rosamunde’s advice.

* * *

Alexander turned a stern eye upon Elizabeth as soon as they had ridden from Ravensmuir’s gates. Truly, he was as predictable as the daily progress of the sun in his opinions, though Elizabeth was not so interested in another of his lectures.

“What seized your wits that you would be so close to such men?” Alexander began. “Have you no care for your reputation? It is not fitting for a maiden like yourself to speak with men-of-war. You must have a concern not only for your virtue, but for the perception of your virtue…”

Elizabeth interrupted her oldest brother’s tirade, knowing it was well intended, if tedious. She had seen her own ribbon and she trusted its import enough to be bold. Indeed, she had best see matters arranged as quickly as possible. “You told me to choose a suitor, that it would be my decision which man I would wed.”

“Aye.” Alexander was wary.

“Then you should know that I have chosen Rafael Rodriguez.” Elizabeth gave her brother a confident smile.

“Who?”

“Malcolm’s comrade. The one who arrived with him at the Yule. The one who challenged your tale in the hall at midday.”

Alexander stared at her in astonishment. “You cannot mean this!”

“I do. He is valiant, for he entered the Fae circle by his own choice to aid Malcolm, though he could easily have paid with his own life. He will see me well defended, given his experience of war.” Elizabeth lifted her chin, well aware that Alexander was mustering an argument. “He is honorable, and he will suit me very well as a spouse.”

Alexander appeared to be at a loss for words, so great was his amazement. “But he is a mercenary!” he finally sputtered. “And born of distant lands. He undoubtedly will return to his trade, and possibly also to his homeland.” He flung out a hand. “You could be abandoned in some rough camp wrought by war-faring men, and should he be killed—as surely such men must all be in time—you will be alone and undefended, as well as far from home.”

“I believe I will love him, and that love will be my comfort.”

Alexander scoffed. “I believe you are smitten with the look of him, and the tale you have wrought of him in your heart, not his dark truth.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Perhaps his kind has no need of better troubadours!”

“But still I have chosen.” Elizabeth heard her tone become firm.

“And I forbid your choice.” Alexander glowered down at her. “It will not be so, Elizabeth. There is no need to look stubborn, for I will not permit you to wed this man or another of his ilk.”

How was it that men invited her decision, then discarded the choices she made? She was not willful, defiant or a fool. She understood Rafael’s nature, as her brother and even Rafael himself did not. Elizabeth fixed Alexander with a look. “I will be determined, for I have made a choice and you would discard it, despite your pledge to stand by my decision.”

“This is not the choice I anticipated…”

“Malcolm fought alongside Rafael, for he was a mercenary as well. You cannot hold Rafael’s trade against him any more than you would hold that of Malcolm against him.”

“Does this Rafael mean to surrender his trade?”

Sadly, Elizabeth did not know. “I believe he can be convinced…” she began but Alexander sighed.

He put his hand upon hers and his tone softened. “I can see that he would have an appeal, Elizabeth, for you have met few men of his ilk. But Rafael is not the man for you, for he could not make you happy, or secure your future.” Alexander’s tone turned consoling. “Rafael will be gone soon enough, Elizabeth. Do not make yourself unhappy by convincing yourself that he means more than he must.”

“He kissed me.”

Alexander bristled. “Did he?”

“After I invited him to do so,” Elizabeth amended hastily and her brother scowled at her. She dared not confess how much she would have surrendered willingly to Rafael. Instead she blushed furiously, which prompted Alexander to frown.

“Do not tempt him, or any other man, with more than would be wise for you to offer, Elizabeth, for most men will partake of any feast you present, and do so without remorse. Such is the nature of these men.”

“He stepped away,” she admitted, wanting Alexander to understand that Rafael was more honorable than he believed.

“Then he is not so fool as to see both of you condemned, and this is fortunate for you.” Alexander cast her a determined glance. “Elizabeth, heed my counsel in this. A man who thinks only of his own pleasure and advantage will claim you and forget you within a day, while you, having been so sampled, will carry the shadow of that one interval for the remainder of your days and nights.”

“It might be wondrous…”

“It could not be worth it.” Alexander smiled gently. “Your lawful husband is more likely to make your nuptial night wondrous, for he will have bound himself to you for a lifetime. A wise woman does not scatter her pearls before swine.”

“Rafael is not swine.”

“Use your wits, Elizabeth,” Alexander concluded firmly. “A moment’s consideration and you will see that this is a poor choice of the many available to you. I have given you time and the chance to make your own decision of which man to wed. Do not betray such a gift with folly.” He shook his head. “And to think that I was skeptical when they said you spoke with him alone in the stables. It is clear that you must be more closely supervised until he departs.”

Elizabeth bristled at the notion. “He wanted to speak of you,” she said, once again taking satisfaction in surprising her brother.

“Me?”

“As a fighting man, he had hoped to see the legendary stallions of Ravensmuir on his arrival there and was disappointed that they were at Kinfairlie. He asked why that were so, when you had surrendered the seal to Ravensmuir to Malcolm so quickly after his return, but not the steeds.” Elizabeth shrugged. “I confess I had no good answer, for Rafael spoke aright that the stables were the sole building in good repair at that estate.”

Alexander gritted his teeth. “He thinks I mean to cheat Malcolm of his legacy!”

“I had that impression, to be sure.”

Alexander’s eyes narrowed. “And this is the price of courtesy! I knew Malcolm had much to manage while the keep was rebuilt, as well as few in his service, and thought to spare him any trouble.”

“Perhaps it is time to restore what is his own, since you two are allied again,” Elizabeth dared to suggest.

Alexander seized upon this notion with welcome enthusiasm. “Indeed, there is more than the horses that he requires. I will enlist Eleanor’s assistance in this, for she is most sensible. We shall take Malcolm and Catriona a wedding gift that will leave no doubt of my pleasure in seeing him home again.”

The rest of the ride back to Kinfairlie was occupied with Alexander making lists and Elizabeth adding suggestions. She was glad to have been of some influence in this, and could not wait to see Rafael’s expression when the horses were returned.

Saturday could not arrive with sufficient speed for her.

* * *

In the quiet of the night, Rafael was not alone. He was wrapped in his cloak and leaning against the wall, unable to sleep despite the ale he had imbibed. The Sable League slumbered in Malcolm’s hall on all sides, but that was not the company he dreaded.

Nay, Franz came to him.

If anything, he looked worse than he had the night before. Franz picked up a cup and settled his rotting carcass beside Rafael, casting a heavy arm over Rafael’s shoulders. Rafael was certain he felt maggots writhing against his flesh, but he pretended to be oblivious to his former comrade’s presence.

He had to be a ghost, a harmless specter.

Franz did not appear so harmless. “Interesting that they recounted a tale of a man betrayed,” that phantom murmured, his tone companionable. “It is as if they recognize the darkness in your heart on sight.” He leered at Rafael. “Which of them will you betray first? Malcolm, or his sister, Elizabeth?” The specter chortled. “Better you than me, if the Hellhound discovers you have taken his sister’s maidenhood.” Franz dropped his voice to a whisper. “What if the wench lies to force your hand?” He then chuckled to himself at the prospect.

Rafael closed his eyes and willed Franz to silence.

Or back to Hell.

The specter did not comply, though truly Rafael had not expected otherwise.