Mother had barely opened her mouth when Sir Alaric Storme drove a savage kick into her back. sending her straight over the low balustrade and into the garden fountain at Lilypond Court
“House Storme has no shortage of serving girls,” he drawled, dusting off his gauntlet. “The stable–master just lost his wife last week–perhaps you’d care to warm his bed in her place?”
Mother surfaced, coughing hard, but still clawed her way toward me, trying to free my gag.
Her soaked gown clung to her skin, and a few drunken lords near the edge gave low, leering
whistles.
“Shame she’s wasted on the likes of Storme,” one of them muttered. “I’d take her in–make her
earn her keep.”
Another chuckled darkly. “And the girl? Pretty thing. In a few years, she’ll be worth a bridal
contract or two.”
Mother clapped wet hands over my ears.
“Hold fast, Elinor,” she whispered. “Someone will come. I promise.”
Isolde knelt at the pool’s edge, smiling down at us.
“Sweet Elinor,” she cooed, “I truly wished to spare you both, but your dear mother simply refuses
to let my husband go.”
Rage boiled up in me. I seized her sleeve and yanked.
Isolde shrieked, pitching headfirst into the water with a splash.
Sir Alaric hauled her out almost at once, but she’d swallowed half the water, clutched her belly, and
wailed,
“My baby–tell me our child is safe!”
His face purple with fury, Alaric barked at two squires.
“In with you. Hold the brat under till she learns respect.‘
They leapt in, forced my head beneath the surface. Water roared in my ears.
Isolde pressed her dripping face to Alaric’s chest, sobbing loudly for the crowd.
“I only pitied her,” Isolde sobbed, still clinging to Sir Alaric’s sleeve. “I tried to pull the child from
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the water—but Elowen’s raised her like a wild beast. She nearly dragged me down… and the babe with me!”
Sir Alaric’s jaw tensed. He hesitated, then barked an order to the squires nearby.
“Fetch the brazier,” he said. “And water from the kitchens–hot enough to teach a lesson.”
The boys returned moments later with an iron kettle, steam curling from its rim. They climbed onto the stone lip of the fountain, ladling scalding water down.
Mother threw herself over me, shielding me with her body as the hot stream struck her back again and again. Her pale skin turned blotchy red, blistering as she trembled—but she didn’t cry out.
Alaric’s mouth opened–perhaps an apology hovered there–but Isolde’s pained moan turned his head away.
Across the terrace, the Duchess of Northvale had finished checking the attendance roll. Still no sign
of Lord Hawthorne’s daughter. Panic flickered in her eyes as they locked with mine,
half–submerged.
She made to step forward, but the Duke caught her wrist and shook his head. He and Alaric had bled together on the same battlefields; loyalty was thicker than courtesy tonight.
Only when Mother sagged, spent and shaking, did Alaric motion to pull me out.
I lay on the flagstones, numb, gaze empty.
His hand trembled, yet he kept his chin aloft.
“Well? Have you learned your lesson?”
Mother’s gasp of pain snapped me awake. I crawled to his boots, voice hoarse.
“I–I was wrong. Just… spare my mother.”
A hint of softness crossed his expression; he almost helped me up.
But then Isolde stepped forward, her voice velvet–smooth, sweet with feigned sympathy.
“Such fire in her,” she murmured, placing a delicate hand on his arm. “If left in the wrong care, she’ll turn wild. But she is your blood, my lord. Let her be raised within House Storme. Place her in
my household, and I’ll see she is properly brought up–with grace and obedience, as befits your lineage.”
She smiled—a thin, cruel curve–then hugged me, talons digging into the flesh of my arm where
no one else could see.
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Alaric pondered, then nodded.
“With that lineage, Elinor, Elowen hardly deserves to keep you.”
The guards moved to take me.
Mother’s composure finally shattered. She lunged to the coping stone, voice echoing across the courtyard, “I am the true–born daughter of Lord Hawthorne! Who dares lay a hand on my child?”
Gasps cut through the night air; every noble eye swung toward the drenched, battered woman in the moonlit pond.
And for the first time, Sir Alaric’s certainty faltered.
Chapter 4
