Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,23

as her feet struggle to touch the ground. Composure, I note, that splinters every time the handcuffs crack together.

Still, she manages a decisive nod. “I’ll answer your questions, but you’ll answer mine too.”

I stroke my thumb over her pulse, just to see her flinch. “I’m not the one who’s bound.”

The smile on her face turns lethal. “And I’m not the one so desperate for information that I’d assault an innocent woman just to have my way.”

My jaw clenches at her implicit dig.

There’s no double-standard here.

If Holyrood has taught me anything, it’s that a person’s sex means nothing on the battlefield. Women are just as ruthless as men. Soft curves belie sharp, analytical minds; gentle touches underscore brutal fighting skills that would lay any man flat. I’ve gotten this far in life because I never underestimate my opponent.

Especially not when the opponent in question is the prime minister’s daughter.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Whoever came up with that blasted proverb clearly never dabbled in British politics.

“When was the last time you saw Edward Carrigan?” I ask again, acquiescing to the terms without giving her the satisfaction of saying so out loud.

That lethal smile dims, just a little. “Two months ago.”

“Where?”

“Tsk tsk, Godwin. That sounds a whole lot like two questions.”

“You don’t think I know that?” I lift my arm, my core muscles tightening with her weight, and put her face even with mine. “Answer the question,” I growl.

Her legs swing outward, and this time she manages to nail me in the knee. It doesn’t hurt. Barely even registers. My gaze is locked on her full mouth when she snaps, “Put me down and I will.”

I stare at her—at this woman hanging from my one hand. The bandages around her head have drooped to cover her nose and reveal the upper curve of her right ear. She looks ruined. She looks weak.

The fire in her voice argues otherwise.

If she were anyone else, I might even feel . . . impressed.

“Put me down.” And then, with her teeth bared in what’s probably meant to be a smile, she adds, “Or I’ll kick you where it hurts.”

I jerk her closer, putting us nose to nose. “Lie to me and you’ll hang yourself.”

“I’d welcome that day,” she says, her breath a hot whisper over my mouth, “with wide open arms.”

Insolent. Impudent.

I wasn’t lying when I said that that mouth of hers would get her in trouble.

With one last squeeze of my fingers around her wrist, I drop her onto the chair. Its feet clatter against the floor, but Rowena’s weight settles it onto all four legs. With her cuffed hands in her lap, she angles her chin so that she’s looking in my direction.

For a moment, it’s almost possible to imagine the intensity of her glare. If she had her way, I have no doubt I’d incinerate on the spot.

Sorry to disappoint.

Grabbing another chair, I plant it down in front of hers and straddle the back.

It’s a silent order to get on with it, and Rowena doesn’t mistake it as anything else. Her palms press together. “We don’t speak, my father and I, but I listen and I watch.”

“Why?”

“My relationship with him is none of your business.”

Narrowing my eyes at her obvious attempt to weasel out of answering, I opt to swap tracks and catch her off guard. “Ask your first question.”

Her lips part, then clamp shut.

“Didn’t let yourself get that far ahead when you were plotting terms?” When she doesn’t respond right away, I drop my elbows to the back of the chair. “You have three seconds before you forfeit your round.”

She jerks her head down, her thumbs working over each other in a clear attempt to settle her nerves. Then, quietly, “Has Margaret mentioned me? Since she came out of surgery, I mean. Has she . . .” Her shoulders fall forward. “Has she said anything at all?”

She said that you can’t be trusted.

A good man would evade the question entirely.

A better man would lie and tell her exactly what she wants to hear.

But, at the sliver of raw vulnerability in her voice, I find myself saying, “Don’t bother asking something when you already know the answer.”

Not a lie. Not the truth either.

My response lives in the murky gray, and it’s enough to have her inhaling a short breath through her nose. A beat passes, heavy with tension, and then she shakes her head with a low, pained chuckle. “Right.”

I don’t speak.

Finally, she straightens her shoulders. “I saw him at the