Heir Untamed - By Danielle Bourdon Page 0,42
the castle.”
Sander turned his steed around. Approached slowly, until he was side by side facing the opposite direction so he could look directly into her eyes.
“Then they took the blindfold away but before I could see who it was, they backhanded me. That's how I got the bruise, Sander.”
He didn't say anything for a full minute. Chey started to wonder at his silence. Finally, he spoke.
“Do you have any ideas who it might be? Has anything else happened to spark suspicion in your mind?”
“Yes.” She saw no reason to lie. Not now. “Mattias showed me the Queen's garden--”
“Even though you both knew it was off limits?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Go on.”
“I took a few pictures. We had only just arrived, more or less, when Natalia found us there. She...she was...” Chey hesitated to out the girl for her drinking.
“Drunk,” Sander guessed.
“That's right.” Maybe it wasn't the secret Chey thought it was. “And very angry I was there. She threw her glass at me.”
Sander arched a brow. He ran his hand under his horse's mane and gave the strong neck a pat. “Did it strike you?”
“No. She missed. All the same, she was unhappy I was there. So I suppose she had some motive. The other is...Viia. Due to the nature of the threats regarding Mattias and myself, and the venomous stares she's been giving me, she's the other that came to mind. Beyond that, I don't know.” Chey watched Sander's expressions. He looked thoughtful, considering. And not judgmental.
“Tell me your impressions of your attacker. Off the cuff, first things that come to mind. Don't think too hard about it,” he said.
Chey shifted in the saddle. “I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman. But they were strong enough to pin my head down, at least. I didn't get the impression of...size. What am I trying to say...” She trailed, struggling to define what she meant.
“It wasn't the same as if I was leaning over you,” he guessed.
Chey realized he was right. “Yes, exactly. I didn't have the impression of bulk, of someone obliterating the rest of the room.”
“Good. What else? Just say whatever strikes you. Often your subconscious picks up more than you realize.”
“They were angry. Frustrated.”
“How so?”
“It was the terse way they whispered. You know how when someone is irate and speaking in clipped syllables? Even with the accent, I noticed it.” She hadn't pinpointed that until Sander goaded her into speaking freely of the attack.
“What about smell? Did you catch a scent of anything?” Sander slowly circled his horse around her own.
Chey followed the animal as far as she could see to one side, then picked up on the other. Watching with her eyes. She frowned, thinking about his question. “I don't recall smelling anything.”
“Think hard. Something sweet, something masculine? A certain soap, sweat?” He didn't take his eyes off her as his horse clopped front to back and around again.
The methodical motion lulled Chey a little. “Nothing. I don't remember any scent associated with the event,” she finally said.
“All right. And you're certain you don't lean one way or another as far as a female or male voice?”
“No. It wasn't just whispering, but...I want to say they were speaking through something that changed their voice. Maybe. Or they did it on purpose to throw me off. It was so middle of the road that I couldn't tell if it was a man or woman at all.” That part frustrated Chey more than she wanted to admit. It would have been an easy clue to home in on.
“On a scale of one to ten, how hard did they strike you?”
Chey met his eyes and cocked her chin in consideration. “Seven? I've been clocked before. This person has some strength to them. It could have been stronger though. So I say about a seven.”
“Did the fist feel bigger or smaller?”
“I'm not sure. It didn't feel like a sledgehammer, but it also wasn't a feminine slap. They got their knuckles into it. My head snapped to the side with the force, so whoever it was has some decently honed muscles.”
“Very good. Just one moment.” Sander reined his steed out of the circles he'd been making and angled away while he took out his phone. He spent three minutes, no more, giving orders in his mother tongue.
Chey wished she knew what he was saying. Or who he was talking to. Would this change everything? Would the family send her home, thinking she was too much trouble to bother with? God,