Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,56

you scheme, but don’t think that I don’t see through every one of your lies.”

“When the hell have I lied to you?”

“Guardians of the Crown,” she scoffs, “protectors of the queen. Isn’t that a lie?” She steps in my direction, as if she’s pinpointed my place within the room by only the sound of my voice. “Your own brother murdered the king. And you . . .”

Heart thudding, I rasp, “What, Rowena? What about me?”

“You’re the reason for all of this.”

I stare at her, unable to wrench my gaze away. “The reason for what?”

She laughs, this jagged, aching sound that buries itself inside my chest, reminding me of so very long ago when I stood under a starless sky and broke consecrated ground.

You’ve been very, very bad, Damien.

As if she can hear every guilty thought, Rowena approaches, one foot in front of the other, until she’s a hair’s breadth away. Her head tips back, the air practically buzzing with a visceral tension that tastes of hate and vengeance. And then, with little more than a finger to my chest, she cuts me at the knees: “You betrayed the king, Damien, and so he came to me.”

20

Rowena

The sound of madness is deafening.

Words uttered by King John on the day that he invited me to St. James’s Palace. I’d interpreted them as a warning then, a barely leashed threat that sank into my bones and rattled me to my core when I picked up the red porcelain teacup placed before me by one of the staffers.

Red carpet beneath my pumps.

Red cushioned chair under my arse.

So much red that it felt like a metaphor for the king’s life displayed for all who entered his domain; the power that he wielded, the blood spilt in his name. And there, on the king’s finger, a ruby glinted like the brightest star in the midnight sky.

He had the power of the whole world in his grasp while I was alone, uncertain as to why I’d been asked to come, in a room cut off from the rest of the palace. For the first time in years, I felt sweat dampen my palms. Nausea swirled, so very hot in my stomach, like the tea that I couldn’t swallow down. All while the king spun a tale of a rabid anti-loyalist keen on murdering Margaret. I’d heard only my pulse.

Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud.

Madness.

“You went to him,” I hear myself say to Damien, my voice so very faint, as if I’ve been stuck in a barrel and put out to sea, “and you told him that Margaret would be next. You said she’d be done in just like Evangeline.”

A calloused hand slips around my wrist then presses my palm flat to his chest. Tendons ripple, pectoral muscles constrict, and beneath it all, a heart hammers wildly, a frantic tattoo that feels ridiculously human for a man who regularly conducts himself like a god.

“Why you, Rowena? Why did he choose you?”

Isn’t it obvious? “Because I’m alone. Because I’ve always been alone, except for Margaret, and he knew that I’d care that she was in danger.”

“In danger from me?” Damien barks out a harsh laugh, the sound like shards of ice that pierce the skin, and I flinch. “Fucking hell. Rowena, he used you.”

No.

Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud.

I let my fingers coil in the fabric of Damien’s shirt. All the better to hold myself steady as I rise onto my toes and thrust my face close to his. “You’re wrong. He didn’t use me. I was always the logical choice. No one knows Margaret the way I do. We have twenty years’ worth of history, friendship. Sisterhood.”

The roughened pad of Damien’s thumb slips under my captive hand, burying itself in the center of my palm. “You were used.”

It’s all a matter of perspective, though, isn’t it?

Father used me; the men of Westminster used me. I spent years avoiding anyone and everything that might do the same, wrapping myself in a cocoon of isolation so thick, so impenetrable, that I might as well have existed on my own little island for all the interaction I had with the outside world. But I’d gone willingly to King John, willingly took tea with him—and I’d said yes.

Yes to protecting my best friend.

Yes to hunting down the rabid anti-loyalist.

Yes to it all.

In the end, the king had no more used me than I’d used him.

Frustration heats my cheeks, and I fist Damien’s shirt a little tighter when I spit out the words itching to scrape free: “You make