Part 12 (1/2)

”I want to ... to make my confession.” She hoped people gave confessions to nuns. Whatever Jack was up to he'd better finish it soon.

”It's the middle of the night?”

”It's not that late,” she kept her voice as quiet as she could, listening for more noise from the room, from below.

”It's not at that,” one of the other guards shrugged.

”If she wants to make a confession,” another figured, ”maybe we should let her.”

”My lady, I don't think-”

The door at the top of the stairs crashed open and the glowering face of Crispin appeared in the doorway. ”I said no talking while on duty!” he ordered in a hushed shout. ”Buxton will have-” He saw Aubrey and blinked in shock.

She saw him as well. Lots of him. He stood in the doorway wearing nothing but barely fastened smallclothes. His chest was bare, broad and well-defined with just a small amount of black hair that grew darker and thicker in a line down his stomach and abdomen. The muscles of his arms stood out under his pale skin as he gripped the doorframe. Her mouth dropped open and the b.u.t.terflies in Aubrey's stomach migrated much lower. She stood transfixed, taking him in.

”Aubrey,” he recovered enough to speak her name. His eyes met hers and held for a moment before he glanced down at himself, then pulled back into the room, slamming the door.

She shut her mouth, blus.h.i.+ng from head to toe. The guards stared at her with varying degrees of surprise and amus.e.m.e.nt. Her hands worked at her sides and she wished to G.o.d she had her sword. Then the door to Crispin's room swung open again. He had thrown a s.h.i.+rt over his head and chausses on his legs. His hair was tousled and his pale face was splashed with rose. He didn't meet her eyes when she glanced over to him.

”What are you doing here?”

”She wants to see the nuns,” one of the guards informed him, a note of understanding dawning on his face as he glanced between Crispin and Aubrey. He withered into silence when Crispin glared at him. All of the guards suddenly found something more interesting to look at.

”It's late, Aubrey.” He turned to her, hands stiff at his sides.

”I know,” Aubrey stammered, willing herself to look at his face instead of his skin. ”I ... just....” She lost her words and found herself staring at his chest. The s.h.i.+rt was unlaced and she could still see a significant amount of flesh, small, taut nipples, and a thick scar cutting diagonally from his collarbone to his sternum. She bit her lip, mouth watering.

Crispin glanced again to the guards, all eight of them crowding the hall, and frowned. ”Come inside.” He stepped back and extended a hand into his room.

Aubrey didn't hesitate before rus.h.i.+ng past him and into the small room, relieved to be away from judging eyes. She stopped in the center of the chamber and studied it, surprised that all it contained was a bed, a chest, a table and one chair, and a small stand with a pitcher. She hadn't expected Crispin's room to look like a cell. There weren't even hangings on the walls and all that sat on the mantle over the great fireplace was his sword and the wolf-head dagger. The bedclothes on his bed were bunched to one side, confirming her suspicion that the noise in the hall had woken him.

”I wanted to talk to my friends.” She forced her eyes away from the bed but didn't feel any more comfortable when they s.h.i.+fted to him as he shut the door.

”Aubrey, it's late.” He rubbed his forehead, still not looking at her.

”I know, but I can't sleep. I have to know that they're alright.” It was true enough.

”They're fine.”

Silence fell. She studied the hard lines of his face as he struggled to raise his eyes to hers. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it. She leaned closer to him, eyes slipping to the scar on his chest. The fluttering in places she didn't want to think about deepened.

”I do not want you wandering around unaccompanied,” his deep voice only stirred the humming in her body. ”Not when there is a murderer on the loose or when Buxton-”

”Has anyone been killed?” Maybe violent death could distract her from these sensations. Maybe.

”No.”

His return to a gruffness snapped her back to the mischief of the night. ”They're not safe, Crispin. I know they're not safe.”

”Aubrey.” He took a step closer.

She shook her head and went on. ”They're only nuns. They can't protect themselves. They can't even speak for themselves. Not that Buxton would listen.”

”Aubrey, please.”

”And no one will help me help them, Crispin!”

His eyes changed when she turned her desperate plea to him. His face softened. His eyes glowed. She was suddenly aware of the heat radiating from him. His chest rose and fell in the firelight. For a heartbeat she thought she saw his eyes flicker to the bed. She swallowed. It must be her imagination. He stood so close that she could have reached out a hand and touched his fascinating, scarred chest. He would let her touch him. He would let her. And then what?

”Aubrey.” Her name on his lips held volumes. His brow furrowed in frustration. His hands reached for hers. ”I will-”

A shrill scream from the next room shattered the moment. Aubrey gasped and jumped, blood rus.h.i.+ng back to her limbs. Crispin's face darkened in a flash and he spun to reach for the dagger on the mantle. He lunged for the door and out into the hallway.

The guards were all on their feet, the door to the North Room cras.h.i.+ng open as Aubrey rushed out into the hall on Crispin's heels. A guard stopped her as Crispin ran into the room. ”Are you safe?” she heard his voice boom.

”Yes, Sir Crispin,” Sister Bernadette's voice answered as Aubrey strained to pull herself out of the guard's hold. ”Sister Mary Peter was startled by a bat that flew too close to the window.”

Aubrey went limp. She heard a scuffle from the floor below and squeezed her eyes shut. A moment of silence was followed by Crispin charging into the hallway. ”Get into my room and lock the door!” he ordered her as quietly as he could, glancing over his shoulder to the door to Buxton's room.

”You can't-”

”Do it!”

Her mouth opened in indignation but he didn't stay to face her. He charged down the stairs.

”Right, you, come on.” The guard who held her pushed her towards Crispin's door.

Jack. Crispin would find him.

She stomped on the guard's foot. He let her go with a sharp curse. Once free she lunged for the stairs then hesitated. The door to the North Room was still open. She feinted away from the guard who tried to grab her arm and pivoted around another to get to the North Room.

”Madeline!” she called as she caught a glimpse of her distraught friend.

The guards reacted in near unison. One slammed the door to the North Room shut while two others jumped to guard it and the one closest to her tried again to grab her. She slammed an elbow in his face and sprinted for the stairs. Another swiped at her long braid as she dodged out of his reach and stumbled down the first few steps.

”What the h.e.l.l is going on out here?” Buxton's voice split into the scene as she rounded the corner and nearly fell to the landing. She didn't wait to hear what Buxton had to say. Heart pounding and lungs stinging as she gasped for breath, she picked up her skirts and raced down the stairs.

Crispin caught a glimpse of ginger hair one floor from the main hall. By the time he jumped the last few stairs into the corridor the red-haired man was halfway to the castle's front door. His legs were longer than the red-haired man's. He should have caught him before he escaped, but the man was fast. He was down the stairs and in the courtyard when Crispin burst through the door.

Instead of making for the gate and the safety of the city the man cut to the side and bolted towards the stables. Crispin surged after him, gaining as he flew past the castle's out buildings and through the archway into the garden. The man slowed in the dark garden. Crispin knew he had him. Without warning the red-haired man dove for the ground, scooping up something small and flat. Crispin lunged and tackled him.

The air heaved out of both of their lungs as they slammed face down in a clump of fragrant herbs. ”Oy!” the man wheezed as he sucked in a breath.

Crispin pushed himself to his knees and grabbed the man's shoulders, spinning him around before slamming him to the damp dirt.

”Who are you!” He slipped his left hand to the man's throat. The man opened his mouth and emitted a choked gurgle. His gray eyes bulged, but his fist stayed tight around the parchment in his hand.

A rush of sense made Crispin ease up on the man's throat and sit back. His eyes flickered to the parchment. He grabbed it with his left hand and when the man struggled in protest he lay the blade of his dagger against his bruised throat.

”S mine!” the ginger-haired man coughed and tried to s.n.a.t.c.h at the letter in spite of the blade digging in.