and into the pentice leading up to the second-storey towers.
It was there, when Friar left her at the bottom of the steep, spiraling staircase she had yet to climb, her exhaustion and weariness overtook her. Dragging under the weight of the woolen cloak, she mounted the stone steps to her private chambers one by one, slowing as she climbed higher and higher, her breath rasping and her lungs fighting for air as she reached the top of the darkened spire. She paused on the landing to gather her strength, and was so glad just to have conquered the last obstacle, she did not notice anything amiss as she passed through the outer chamber.
Not until she was halfway across the floor of the huge wardrobe, did she realize the light spilling from the open door to the solar was touching upon tunics and jerkins, hauberks of chain mail, capes and mantles of sky-blue wool … Not until the masculine scents of leather and wood musk assailed her senses did she realize she had mistakenly entered the Dragon’s private keep, the tower adjacent to her own.
A muffled sound from the inner chamber tore her horrified gaze from the assortment of vestments and weaponry, and fixed it upon the square of bright light shining out of the solar. She dared not move, dared not even back away or retrace her footsteps out to the landing lest a scratch of cloth or a misplaced footstep alert someone to her presence.
What could she do? She could not remain where she was. She could not go forward, nor back; she could not hide or conceal herself until morning even if she had the nerve or the stupidity to do so.
Where were his squires, Rolf and Eduard? Were they inside the main chamber preparing their master for bed? Would they emerge at any moment to find her standing there, frozen into a statue by her fear?
Envisioning what they would see when they found her caused Servanne’s heart to miss several more frantic beats. Her hair was a tangle, clotted with bits of straw and dirt. Her gown was wrinkled and caked with dirt from the long walk to and from the shroud-makers. Her mouth felt swollen and tender, her skin was chafed red from the abrasion of dark beard stubble. The warm, slippery residue of their passion had added to her pleasure on the walk back to the keep, but it would offer sure proof of her adultery if discovered now.
And for what other reason would the Dragon assume she had crept into his private chambers at this late hour of the night? She had not been entirely truthful to Lucien when she told him the Dragon paid her little heed. She had seen the growing interest in the pale blue eyes, had felt the increasing speculation in his burning gaze.
No, the Dragon would not hesitate to assume she was come to him for one reason and one reason only: the wedding was but a day away and not worth the frustration of waiting.
What to do? How to get away without being discovered?
The problem was solved for her by the sound of a woman’s voice, so close to the door Servanne was not given the opportunity to waste a thought before scrambling to one side of the wardrobe. Crushed up against the coarse folds of a hanging garment, she froze again, fully expecting to feel a rough pair of hands grasp her from behind and haul her into the brighter light.
The hands did not come, however, and inch by cautious inch, she turned her face until she had a partial view of the inside of the chamber.
There was none of the whitewash or painted wildflowers that decorated her own solar. These walls were cold, impersonal stone, dominated on one side by a massive depiction of the De Gournay crest and armourial bearings. The bed, what could be seen of it, was easily twice the size of Servanne’s, mounted on a platform three feet high, and shielded by lengths of thick blue velvet draperies. A fire blazed somewhere out of her line of sight, and fully a score of lighted candles added their own extravagant brilliance to the chamber, the sconces lined up on either side of the bed as if to adorn an altar.
“You should try to get some sleep,” came the woman’s voice again. “It would not do for you to yawn in La Seyne’s face.”
“I have slept. And I will sleep again—tomorrow—with Mirebeau’s pennant beneath