Page 11 of Traitor Son

Lisabe wasn’t quite shameless enough to force her to accept an embrace, but Lady Hurrell had no such restraint. She swept into the courtyard with a keening cry, as if her heart were shattering to pieces.

“Ophele!”The wide sleeves of her gown flapped like wings and before Ophele could escape, her head was trapped in the lady’s bosom, smothering in the scent of rose sachet. “Your Grace, please, it is too soon! She is like my own child, have mercy!”

Ophele couldn’t hear the duke’s reply; she was too busy trying to thrash free, and she was struck with a lunatic urge to laugh. This was ludicrous. It was a farce. Lady Hurrell’s arms tightened and her voice hissed in her ear.

“Faint,” she ordered. “Right now, or you know what will happen.”

With a wrench, Ophele yanked free, panting. Her cloak was turned around the wrong way and her hair tumbled wildly around her face, half-blinding her, but outrage and hurt for once loosed her tongue.

“Do you think he’ll take Lisabe if you make him kill me?” she whispered, disbelieving. Even after everything, she hadn’t really believed that Lady Hurrell would do it. Her voice trembled. “He wants the Emperor’s daughter,” she said bitterly. “That’sallhe wants. He will never let me go.”

Stars, it wastrue.She stumbled away, weaving between neighing horses. They were leaving Aldeburke forever, right now, and he was taking her with him.

She had to find Azelma.

Ophele darted up the long drive to the kitchen, dodging a few of the duke’s knights, who hesitated as if they were unsure whether theprincess needed recapturing. The kitchen had a separate delivery entrance around the east side of the house, and she could already see the old lady in the herb garden, hurrying forward with her apron still on.

“Azelma!”

“Oh, Princess!” Those soft, strong arms went around her andthenit was real, and a sob burst from her throat as Azelma held her and rocked, a floury hand sinking into her hair.

“You shouldn’t,” Ophele wept, already regretting the intimacy in full view of a furious Lady Hurrell. “Let go, or push me away, quickly.”

“Never. None of that, wipe your face,” said Azelma, pushing her back to dab at her cheeks with her apron and applying a light dusting of what smelled like cinnamon. “Here. This is for you and His Grace. Make sure he eats, a hungry man is a terrible beast. Promise that you’ll share it.”

“I will.” Ophele rubbed her nose and took the heavy parcel, wrapped in a knotted cheesecloth. The tears were falling faster than she could blot them away, and Azelma tutted, tugging her cloak back into place around her shoulders.

“Now, now,” she said, more gently. “You can’t go to him with a face like a wet Sunday. You’re well away from here. They get letters even in the Andelin, make sure you write to tell me how you’re getting on.”

“I will,” Ophele repeated, sniffing. “I need a handkerchief. Azelma, I can’t go to Andelin without a handkerchief.”

“Here, you silly girl,” Azelma laughed, but for all her admonishments, the old lady’s eyes were suspiciously bright as she tugged a square of linen out of her pocket. Her hand gripped Ophele’s shoulder and gave her a shake. “Be brave, and don’t tell lies. All will be well, I promise.”

Ophele trudged back up the drive, tucking Azelma’s handkerchief into her sleeve and wondering if she was going to her death. If she was, there was nothing she could do about it. Lady Hurrell would say what she wanted to say, and the duke would do what he wanted to do, and Ophele had no control over any of it. It was just as her mother had told her, with serene acceptance of life’s vicissitudes: the only thing Ophele could control was herself.

But when she stepped into the courtyard Lord Hurrell was still trying to argue with the duke and Lady Hurrell was standing beside Lisabe and Julot, weeping theatrically and determined to go down with all flags flying.

“—a carriage at least, she is the daughter of the Emperor!” Lord Hurrell exclaimed. “If you give us but a little time, we can ready a carriage, as is appropriate to her station—”

“There aren’t any roads where we’re going.” The duke swung up into his saddle, his eyes landing on Ophele as if he had assumed all this time that she would be exactly where he had left her when the time came. And here she was. “Princess, give me your hand.”

At this point, it wasn’t worth trying to protest. Obediently, she offered her hand and the duke hoisted her into his lap with one arm, tucking her cloak over her knees. The Knights of the Brede were already mounted and waiting in perfect order, shining down to their shin greaves.

“Good-bye, Your Highness,” called Tam behind them as the horses started forward, and there were a few half-hearted farewells from the other servants. The Hurrells said nothing.

“Good-bye,” Ophele whispered as the manor house receded behind her and was finally lost among the trees. She had never been on a horse before. She had never left the estate. It almost felt as if the air should be different as they passed through the gates.

“What’s this?” The duke asked, poking at the parcel in her lap. “Give it to me, we can put it on the supply wagon.”

“No,” she said, clutching the cheesecloth as if it were Azelma herself. “It’s mine.”

“Don’t complain when your arms get tired.”

They rode in prickling silence. Ophele lowered her eyes, wishing she had a horse of her own. She was acutely aware of his chest at her back and his heavy thighs under her legs, thick with saddle muscle. She hadn’t been this close to another person since her mother died. And he hated her. He probably didn’t like touching her at all, any more than she liked touching him. But she had made a promise, and her mother had told her to always keep her promises.

She bit her tongue and screwed her courage to say, scarcely audible: “It’s lunch.”

“What?” he barked.

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