Evermore

Alex nudged Michael. "Better late than never."

"My master also wishes you to know that the infirmary is at your disposal, should you wish to make use of it," Jayr continued. "I will leave the keys to it with Navarre." She looked over her shoulder, and one of her hands clenched. "If you will excuse me, I must attend to my master now. Good night, my lord, my lady." Jayr bowed a second time before she sauntered off into the castle.

"That girl works like a slave," Alex muttered. "I guess it's better that the guys around here treat her like an equal instead of a woman. Otherwise she'd be down by the river, scrubbing Byrne's clothes on a washboard."

"What Jayr does for Byrne is no different from what Phillipe does for me," Michael reminded her.

"I know, it's just…" She blew out a breath. "Odd. Really odd. When I first saw her and Conan together, they seemed more like a couple than boss and underling."

"It is likely because Jayr has served Aedan since the Kyn first rose." Michael plucked a leaf from her hair. "They have been together for a very long time and know each other well. Like Phillipe and me."

"I guess." Alex looked up as a window four stories above them opened, and saw Jayr outlined in it for a moment. "Whoa. How the hell did she get up there so fast?"

"She does not dawdle as you do." Michael ushered her inside.

"What were you bloody thinking, Aedan?"

Byrne looked up as the door to his chamber slammed into the wall and Locksley appeared. "That I should invest in copper locks comes to mind now."

"Do not jest with me. Not about this."

He closed the Dumas novel he had been reading and set it aside. "What should I have done, lad? Let you cut down the man in front of everyone? Watch his heathens do the same to you? 'Twould have made a memorable opening to the tournament, I suppose."

"It would have for me." Locksley walked to the fireplace and picked up a length of wood, snapping it into pieces, which he tossed into the flames. "Who is he?"

"An arrogant prick pecking at old wounds, or an ignorant fool interested in making new ones." Byrne went to his cabinet and took out a bottle of whiskey blended with blood. "Come and have a drink."

He made an impatient gesture. "I can't stomach that stuff."

"Every man cannae be a Scot, more's the pity." Byrne poured a small measure into two glasses and brought one to his friend. "Cyprien has a head for intrigue, and rules over us all. He'll sort out this Italian, prohibit the old colors, and set it to rights."

"I'll drink to that." Rob drank, nearly choked, and dragged in air. "Or not. How do you swallow this swill?"

"Quickly." Byrne took a sip from his own. "Did you recognize him? The Italian?" Robin shook his head. "I thought he might be a bastard of Guisbourne's. He doesnae have Guy's curls or his height, but those snake eyes remind me of him."

Robin's mouth twisted. "My dear cousin never left England, and before he filched my lands and wealth he eliminated any other potential heirs. Every male in the family died young, either in battles fighting for the king or from illnesses that fell upon them overnight."

"Poisoned," Byrne said, nodding. "His mother was accused of killing his father with her herbs." The old woman had been a recluse, living in the deepest level of Guisbourne's castle. Some said it was to hide an advanced state of skin rot; others claimed she craved concealment in order to freely practice the dark arts. "Would she have taught Guy her witchery?"

"She doted on him, the hulking bastard. Perhaps she gave him a spell to cheat death."

Byrne felt skeptical. "One that made him six inches shorter, prettied his face, and blackened his hair?"

"Alexandra gave Cyprien a new face," Locksley said, sounding defensive. "His nose was never that straight, nor his chin so square."

"Guisbourne is dead," Byrne assured him. "Of that I am certain. I stood by you and watched him die at Richard's hands."

"I know it. Damn his soul." Robin stared into his glass. "It cannot be him."

Byrne hesitated before he pressed the issue of an heir. "If Guy had sired a bastard son during his human life—a child whose mother might have fled the country to protect them—and this Italian is a descendant—"

A snarl erupted from Robin, who threw the glass across the room. "No."

Jayr appeared out of nowhere and caught the glass before it smashed into the wall. "Lord Locksley, may I bring you some wine? I fear few acquire a taste for my master's whiskey."

The wrath drained from Robin's features. "My temper escapes me. I beg your pardon, Jayr." He bowed and turned to Byrne. "For the sake of our friendship I will leave it to Michael. But tell this pretender to stay out my path." With one final look at Jayr, he departed.

"Close the door, lass," Byrne said quietly, and went back to his chair. He had no desire to reimmerse himself in the righteous vengeance of Edmond Dantes, but instead watched Jayr as she went about her work in the chamber. Her movements, which he had seen thousands of times, soothed him as much as her scent.

He spotted fine yellow dust on the yoke of her tunic. "You went to the gardens."

"I did. I saw the seigneur and his lady walking there, and went to assure that all was well with them." She rearranged his bed pillows, piling them in a small heap as he preferred, before drawing the curtains on the window side. "The lady is very forthright, isn't she?"

"That's a pretty word for it." Byrne imagined having to deal with a woman such as Alexandra Keller. "I thank Christ that she belongs to Cyprien. A man would have to possess an endless well of patience to put up with such antics."

"Such are modern women," Jayr said. "I do admire her wit. She never seems at a loss for words." She grimaced as she came to kneel before him. "I should have had those banners taken down before Lord Locksley saw them."

"Bollocks. No, let me do it." Byrne leaned forward to remove his boots. "Taking them down would have been an insult to the Italian, if that's what he is."

Jayr sat back on her heels. "He doesn't seem right to me, either. His voice is persuasive and beautiful, but too practiced. His talent may be even more dangerous." She told him about the wine being frozen in every goblet. "If that was caused by him, of course." She rose and took his boots.

"I've not heard of a Kyn with the talent to steal warmth." Byrne followed her over to the cabinet. "What else did you notice about him?"

"That he trusts his back to Saracens is worrisome. I think he must never have taken vows." She shook her head a little as she placed his boots in the cabinet. "He speaks English without an accent, and has courtly manners, but he would not acknowledge my greeting and offer to introduce him. He seemed most interested in meeting—"

"He ignored you?" Byrne took her arm and turned her toward him. "In front of the guests?"

"Many Kyn do not approve of me, my lord," she said, her voice low, her eyes shuttered. "It matters not. I do not serve them."

"He deliberately insulted you." Alternating surges of cold and hot fury rose inside him. "Yet you said nothing to me."

"My lord, it is nothing." Jayr looked up at him. "I do not require Lord Nottingham's attention or approval. I merely sought to be of assistance. That he refused it is his loss, not mine."

"It is something, and I should have let Rob ventilate his jacket." Putting his arms around her eased some of the tightness in his chest, but it would not remove the humiliation she had suffered. "I'm sorry, lass."

Jayr stood quietly in his embrace, saying nothing. Byrne gave in to the temptation to spread his hand over her long, narrow back, stroking it with gentle circles of his palm.

"I did feel mortified at first," she finally confessed, lightly resting her cheek against his chest. "No one has ever turned his back on me like that. It made me wonder how many other Kyn feel the same as he, but mind their manners out of deference to you."

"I will let Rob skewer him tomorrow," Byrne decided. "As an opening for the tournament. While we both watch."

Jayr chuckled. "Only if I am permitted to take photographs to mark the occasion." Her chin lifted as she met his gaze. Her lips, always so tight and flat with control, looked full and soft. "Thank you, Ae… my lord."

"Aedan," he prompted, watching her mouth, wanting to see it frame his name as no other could.

Her voice dwindled to a whisper. "Aedan." Her dents acérées flashed, sharp and white, changing her speech. "Thank you, Aedan."

As her scent darkened, Byrne shuddered and closed his arm tighter around her slim waist. His hand had drifted down the length of her back and now rested on the slight flare above her narrow hips. He imagined pressing her forward, guiding her up against him so he could feel the soft plane of her belly. Or moving his hand around to cup her and rub his fingers against her. His cock strained, eager to do what his hand would not.

Something between them gave off an electronic chime, and Jayr's eyes widened as she pulled away and fumbled in one of her pockets. She brought out yet another of her countless devices and consulted its tiny, illuminated screen. "Excuse me, my lord; I am needed. Thank you for your kindness. I must go and… I must go." She spun on her heel and disappeared in a blur.

Byrne stood, bathed in her perfume, surrounded by empty air. "No, lass. I must."

Chapter 10

Alex had spent most of the day laying beside Michael and watching him as he rested in the curious, trancelike state that passed as sleep for the Kyn. Although she was tired, she had little interest in doing the same. Someone—Phillipe, probably—had swiped a vial of vamp tranquilizer out of her bag. She could endure a couple of sleepless days to keep the peace between her and Michael. She'd have to tell him about the dreams eventually. She just wasn't sure she wanted to know why she was having them. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">