Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

T he sound of metal against metal was terrifying.

Dera watched as three men on horseback attacked Cort and Dillon and her brother, as one of the enemy knights wallowed on the dirty avenue. He'd fallen heavily and had the wind knocked out of him, but Cort took advantage of it and gored the man through his left thigh. Rather than kill him, Cort disabled him so he couldn't rise and fight. The odds would be even against the de Corlet knights now.

But it was a nasty, bloody battle from the start.

Truthfully, Dera was shocked. She wasn't frightened; she didn't run for cover. She didn't panic like everyone else was. She was shocked that she was actually witnessing a fight with six heavily-armed knights, including her brother, which was something she'd never seen before. She'd spent the past few years entrenched with the rebellion in her homeland, and most of that fighting had been with spears and short swords and little else.

But this… this was a fight.

It was also something she was unable to refrain from entering. English were fighting against her brother and even if she and Brend didn't see eye to eye on things, he was still her brother. She wasn't going to stand by and watch him take a beating from the very countrymen she wanted out of Ireland. There was an innate hatred there of the brash, conquering bastards and that's all she could see at the moment.

The English trying to kill her brother.

And Cort.

Strange how he should pop into her head as a concern. He was a Béarla , or a native Englishman, no matter how much he claimed to be an honorary member of the MacRohan family. The truth was that he wasn't.

But she was concerned for him all the same.

He was proving to be a tremendous force against the knight who was trying to kill him. There was a good deal of grunting as they swung those big swords at one another, broadswords that could take a man's head off in one stroke. They were heavy and sharp, and at some point, the men were going to become weary.

Dera simply couldn't stand by while they struggled against the enemy.

It was in her nature to fight.

She dashed out of the hiding place where Cort had left her and ran onto the Street of the Butchers. The only shop she knew was the one where Cort had purchased the garbage, so she ran into it, unaware of the several employees and customers who had come to a halt, listening to the sounds of the distant sword fight.

Dera was on a mission.

The first thing she saw was a butcher's knife, about a foot in length and extremely sharp. It was over on a table where two men had been butchering meat and she ran to it, grabbing it right off the table. She bolted outside before anyone could stop her.

She was fearless in her action, but she was also reckless. She wasn't thinking of the long-term, or even of herself. She was simply thinking of the immediate situation and defending her brother and Cort.

There was that name again.

Why on earth should she want to defend him?

It wasn't like he wasn't capable. It wasn't that he wasn't strong and talented. In fact, she'd never seen finer. The man had a fluid ability about him, fighting as if each move were planned, anticipating his opponent in a way she'd never seen before. This was what her brother meant by Cort being an elite knight; a higher legion of knight that was above the rest. Even as she rounded the corner and ran head-long into the fray, she could see Cort battling against his opponent fluidly, knocking the man's weapon aside to throw a fist into the man's face. He stumbled and that was when Dera pounced.

She ran into the group of fighting men as if she belonged there, leaping onto the back of the man that Cort had knocked back and using the butcher knife to carve into the man's jaw. He was wearing plate armor around his shoulders and neck, up to his jawline, but no helm and she was able to use that knife and carve straight into his jawline as far back as she could take it.

"Gheobhaidh tú bás, bastard fuilteach Béarla ort!" she cried.

Die, you bloody English bastard!

The knight fell to the ground, bleeding out from the deep wound Dera had inflicted. In fact, she'd nearly cut his head off with the butcher knife. The next thing she realized, Cort was grabbing her by the wrist, yanking the knife from her hand and tossing it into the stream that ran alongside that portion of the road. When he looked at her, his eyes were blazing.

"Get Arabella and get to the stable," he commanded in a voice she'd never heard from him before. "Get out of here, Dera."

Startled by his growling tone and the fact that he wasn't appreciative of what she'd done, Dera didn't resist him when he grabbed her by the arm and fought his way past the man that was battling Brend. He pulled her free of the fighting, shoving her into the stall where Arabella had disappeared and leaving her there to head back out to settle the fight down.

Dera stood just inside the doorway, embarrassed and upset. She'd only meant to defend her brother, and Cort, but Cort wasn't grateful in the least.

He didn't want her help.

"Dera?" Arabella was suddenly at her side, gripping her arm fearfully. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

Dera had no idea what she meant until she looked down at herself and saw the blood. Blood from the English knight she'd killed. Dazed, she shook her head.

"I am not injured," she said, wondering if Arabella had seen how Cort had treated her. "We are to go to the stable and wait for them. They will come soon."

Arabella's eyes widened. "But… but you have blood on you!"

Dera looked down at herself, quickly. "It is not my blood," she said. "Please, Bella– we must go to the stable."

Arabella was torn. "They are in a fight out there," she said, pointing out the door to the street beyond. "We cannot leave them!"

Dera grasped her and turned her for the rear exit of the stall. "They can defend themselves," she said. "We had better do as we have been told. We must go to the stable."

Dera dragged Arabella out of the stall and into the marketplace, which was full of frightened people who were quickly moving away from the sounds of battle. Dera and Arabella dodged around people and wagons, making their way to the livery where the de Winter escort was still waiting.

Arabella made sure to tell the escort that the knights were in trouble over on the Street of the Bakers and most of the escort rushed to help, leaving several behind to protect the ladies. It was all quite chaotic and Dera took Arabella inside the livery, pulling her into one of the empty stalls and sitting down on the dry straw to wait for the knights.

As they sat there and held hands, it took Arabella a moment to realize that Dera was trembling.

"Are you well, Dera?" she asked, genuinely concerned. "Are you sure you are uninjured?"

Dera was trying not to let Arabella see how embarrassed and confused she was. "I told you that I am well," she said. "You needn't worry. We're safe now. I am sure that Brend and the others will join us shortly."

Arabella was looking at her closely, trying to determine why Dera seemed so shaken, other than the obvious. Unable to make a specific determination, she exhaled slowly and sat back against the wall of the stall.

"Well," she said. "That was an excitement I could have done without. It has been such a lovely day up until now."

Dera sat back next to her. "Indeed."

That was all she would say. The woman was unusually silent and Arabella eyed her.

"Where did you and Cort go?" she asked. "We were going to look for you when the fight broke out."

Dera thought back to their little journey through the Street of the Bakers to the Street of the Butchers. It took her a moment to realize she was smiling, which she quickly suppressed, mostly because she had no idea why she should smile when thinking of the time spent with Cort. True, she was determined to seduce the man to find out what he knew about the king's plans for Ireland, but she didn't have to like it. Or him.

… did she?

She was more confused than ever.

"We went to the Street of the Bakers," she said, trying very hard not to show her confusion. "But then he took me to a butcher shop and bought a soup called garbage. Have you heard of it?"

Arabella looked at her in surprise. "Nay," she said. "It sounds terrible. Why should he want to buy something called garbage?"

Dera glanced at her. "Because he asked what food he could purchase for me and I told him I would trust him, whatever he chose," she said. "He said he might choose a coffin of brains and I said if he ate it, I would eat it. He took it as a challenge and purchased a bowl of garbage."

Arabella's mouth was hanging open. "You did not eat it, did you?"

Dera bit her lip to keep from grinning. She couldn't help it. "I made him eat it first," she said. Then, she started to giggle, unable to help herself. "He ate a cock's foot."

Arabella squealed in disgust. "He didn't!"

"He did!"

"Did you eat it, too?"

Dera nodded. "I had to," she said. "I could not let the man think I was not as brave as he was. So… so I cracked open a chicken head and sucked out the brains."

Arabella threw her hands over her mouth, gasping with horror and cackling with laughter at the same time. "Dera, you didn't!"

"I most certainly did."

"And it didn't come back up?"

Dera was laughing because Arabella was. "It tried," she said, putting her hand gingerly on her belly. "It still might. But it was worth it."

"But why?"

"Because Cort respects me now. He knows I'm not a weak lass."

Arabella rolled her eyes. "Surely there has to be a better way to prove it," she said. "Oh… Dera, that sounds just awful!"

She was off giggling again, shaking her head at the thought of eating chicken brains. They were just starting to relax after the fright of the battle when three figures abruptly entered the livery. Before the ladies could draw another breath, Brend went straight for his sister.

"How could you do that?" he boomed at her. "How could you enter a battle of men with nothing more than a knife and put yourself in danger like that?"

He was furious. The smiles vanished from Dera and Arabella as Dera found herself facing off against a very angry brother.

"I was never in any danger, Brend," she insisted as she stood up. "Those men were trying to kill you. I had to help."

"You could have gotten yourself killed," Brend raged. "That was stupid, Dera. As stupid as I've ever seen a woman behave."

"But –!"

He cut her off. "At the very least, you could have gotten any one of us killed by distracting us from our own fight," he said. "While we should be focusing on defending ourselves, we could have been focused on saving you. Did you ever think of that?"

Dera was starting to turn red in the face. "I told you that I only wanted to help," she said. "Those English knights were trying to kill you."

"I am an English knight," he bellowed at her. "Don't you understand? I'm not an Irish rebel. I'm not one of your Irish fools that spouts off hymns for Ireland as he's charging English lines. I wasn't fighting for Ireland out there, you know. I was fighting men I am trained to fight, men who think and act like me. But you aren't !"

By the time he was finished, Dera's lips were pressed into a flat, angry line. "You're not English," she hissed. "You're a pretender. If those knights out there knew they were fighting Irish blood, they'd hack you to pieces and gladly so."

Brend's jaw flexed dangerously and he took a step back, putting distance between him and his sister before he said or did something he would regret. A sister who was, essentially, a stranger. They hadn't grown up together. They were only related by blood and nothing more. He'd seen her come flying into the flight, leaping onto the back of a heavily-armed knight and slicing a blade into the man's neck. It had looked so… natural. As if she'd done that kind of thing before, more than once. She'd been absolutely fearless.

And that scared him to death.

"I don't need your help," he finally growled. "I don't want it. Don't do me any favors ever again. Look at you; covered with blood, looking like one of those wild Irish louts who fight the English and call it glory. Get on your horse and behave yourself. Denys is going to hear about this and you'll be lucky if he doesn't lock you in a chamber and throw away the key."

He turned away, heading back to his warhorse on the other side of the livery. Dillon and Cort still stood there, looking at Dera. Dillon seemed particularly pensive, looking her over as if seeing her in a whole new light. Then he, too, turned for his horse as Arabella ran after him, weakly defending Dera's actions. They could all hear her, telling him that Dera was only trying to help them. Dillon simply brushed his sister off.

Dera was left standing there with Cort a few feet away. She was deeply embarrassed and deeply hurt from her brother's tongue lashing. She couldn't even look at Cort, knowing that he surely felt the same way. Without a word, she headed over to her palfrey, mounting the horse by herself and keeping her head down.

Perhaps she'd proven her courage a little too much that afternoon.

*

The ride back to Narborough was a silent one.

Arabella seemed to be the only one who did any talking and even she shut up when she realized no one wanted to converse with her, making for an uncomfortably heavy ride home. Even Vulcan was behaving somewhat and Cort didn't have to wrestle with the horse nearly as hard, probably because the beast was exhausted from the ride to Lynn not an hour earlier. It was afternoon by the time they saw Narborough's big walls and everyone was happy to disband and go their separate ways.

Once they reached the stables of Narborough, he watched Arabella take Dera back into the house like a scolded child, knowing her punishment would soon be upon her. Brend and Dillon hadn't said much to each other during the journey but were now standing in a quiet huddle as stable servants led their horses away.

Cort joined them.

"Let me speak to Denys about what happened," Cort said, interrupting their conversation. "He has to know about the dead knight in case de Corlet demands satisfaction."

Brend looked at him, a seemingly exhausted man by the turn of events. "It wasn't even one of us who killed him," he said. "It was my sister."

Cort nodded. "It might be better coming from me," he said quietly. "You don't want to appear as if you are condemning your own sister. I realize you are angry, but she deserves some measure of your support simply because she is your sister."

Brend frowned. "I will be objective."

Cort held up a hand to ease the man. "No matter," he said. "I was the one she interfered with, so this should come from me."

Dillon spoke up. "I will go with you," he said, giving Cort a gentle shove on the arm. "Let us go find my father. Brend… I would suggest you go to your sister and see if you can at least make peace with her. That was quite a tongue lashing you gave her."

Brend stiffened. "She deserved every word of it."

"Aye, she did," Dillon agreed. "But she's still a woman, not a warrior. You were not kind in your dressing-down. At least go to her and tell her that you don't hate her. Women need to hear that."

Brend thought it was all nonsense. He shook his head and quit the stable, heading away from the keep, the opposite direction of his sister. Cort and Dillon watched him go.

"He's stubborn," Cort said.

Dillon nodded. "Aye, he is, but he knows what we know."

"Which is?"

"That we have a problem on our hands with Dera."

They began to head out of the stable as they let that statement settle. It was true, for the day had been eye-opening.

"That is a fair statement," Cort finally said. "I cannot get past the sheer ferocity of what she did. There was no hesitation, no fear. I've never seen a woman do that before."

"Did you hear what she said?"

Cort shook his head. "It was Irish," he said. "I don't speak the language."

"I do," Dillon said. "She said ‘die, you English bastard'. She said it like she meant it, like she's said it before."

"I suspect she has."

The two of them looked at each other, Dillon realizing that it was no gentle lady they'd brought back from Ireland.

"Something is coming to make sense to me now," he said. "When we went to retrieve Dera from Mount Wrath, it was as if her father couldn't get rid of her fast enough. He wanted her out of Ireland and insisted we take her quickly. I thought it was to protect her, but now…"

He trailed off and Cort nodded his head. "Brend said the same thing," he said. "As if Ardie MacRohan desperately wanted his daughter out of Ireland. Is it possible we just saw the reason?"

Dillon didn't know what to think. "She is a warrior, Cort," he said. "We just saw her unleashed with our own eyes. She's a killer of men."

Cort simply nodded. They were heading into the keep in search of Denys and he was coming to think that Dera MacRohan had revealed her true self at the battle in Lynn. He learned what he wanted to know firsthand; she was a fighter. She was brave.

And she was terrifying.

Denys was in his solar next to the entry to the keep, minding his own business as Dillon and Cort entered the chamber. Denys was dictating missives to his majordomo, but Dillon chased the man out and Cort closed the doors behind him. He threw the bolt so they would not be interrupted. Denys looked at the pair curiously, having just been interrupted in the middle of business.

"What's this?" he said. "Locking me in? Am I going to find myself on the defensive?"

Dillon smiled thinly, going for the fine wine his father always kept in the solar. In answer to his father's question, he simply threw a thumb back at Cort, indicating the man with the answers. Cort came to Denys' table and pulled up a chair.

He sat heavily.

"My lord, I must speak to you," Cort said. "I am allowing Dillon to be present but what I say must not leave this room or your lips. It is the king's business."

Denys looked at him with interest. "Of course, Cort," he said. "You have my word. But if you'd come to Narborough on the king's business, shouldn't you have told me that when you arrived?"

"I wasn't going to tell you at all, but now I find that I must."

"I see," Denys said. He looked between Cort and his son, both of whom seemed unusual serious. "Didn't you two go to Lynn this morning? You're back so soon?"

"Not by choice," Cort said. "There was an… incident."

Denys's features tightened. "What incident?" he asked. "Where is Arabella? Is my daughter well?"

Cort nodded quickly. "She is well," he said. "So is Dera and Dillon and Brend and myself. We're all fine. But we ran into a group of de Corlet knights from Northbeck Castle and they did not take kindly to being told to leave Lynn."

Denys' expression shifted to displeasure. " That group," he muttered. "Not them again. They cut across my lands on occasion, testing me. Dillon knows this."

Dillon came to the table, one cup of wine for Cort and one for himself. He handed Cort the pewter cup. "Indeed, I do," he said. "But they aren't usually so bold."

" What happened?" Denys asked.

Cort answered. "There were four knights," he said. "I found them in the Street of the Bakers at the same time Dillon and Brend did. We sent Arabella to safety, but Dera was told to hide. To make a long story short, my lord, the de Corlet knights attacked and we were forced to defend ourselves and subdue them, but not before Dera killed one of them."

Denys' eyebrows lifted. " Dera killed one of them?"

Cort exhaled slowly as if he, too, could still hardly believe it. "As we were battling the de Corlet knights, she found a knife– I still don't know where she got it– and proceeded to jump on the back of one of the knights and nearly cut his head off. My lord, I have been in battle for twenty years. I have seen a lot of things. But I have never seen a woman kill a man like that. Dera displayed ferocity and fearlessness the likes of which I have never seen in my life."

Denys sat there, absorbing what he was being told. He didn't seem too surprised by it. After a moment, he scratched his head.

"She is a MacRohan," he said. "The entire family is full of warriors. She has been around it her entire life."

"Normally, I would agree," Cort said. "But not like this. It was… savage. And there is something more you should know."

"Go on."

"Henry has sent me here."

"But why?"

"Because of Dera," Cort said. "He has been told through his network of spies that she could possibly hold some of the answers to the rebellion that is going on in Ireland. In fact, she could be part of those who captured Black Cove. While her father serves de Winter, it is possible that Dera serves the rebellion. There seems to be an understanding that Dera MacRohan is a warrior among the Irish rebellion and after what I've seen today, I can believe that. I have been tasked with discovering what she knows of the rebellion. Henry believes it is important."

Denys eyed him a moment before sitting back in his chair. "Then the offer of your father's assistance was a ruse."

Cort shrugged. "In a way," he said. "But my father will always come to your aid if you need it. But it was an excuse to get me to Narborough."

Denys scratched his head, averting his gaze as he pondered the information. Truthfully, none of this surprised him. It was no secret that he'd sent his men to Ireland six months ago and although most stayed to reinforce the de Winter properties, Dera was brought back.

That had been strategic on Denys' part because rumors of Dera MacRohan had been floating about for at least two years, probably more.

Rumors that Henry had heard.

Nay, Denys wasn't surprised at all.

"What do you intend to do?" he asked Cort. "Subtle interrogation, I take it?"

"I have been ordered to seduce her and glean what I can."

"God," Dillion suddenly hissed. He could no longer remain silent. "Cort, we're talking about Brend's sister. Brend is your friend. He adores you. And you intend to bed his sister to get your information?"

Cort looked at him. "So you prefer to have a viper in your bosom even if she is Brend's sister?" he fired back softly. "Because that is what we are facing, Dillon. I love Brend, but I love my country more. I am sworn to serve it, as are you. You will, therefore, not mention any of this to Brend. He may be a de Winter legacy knight, but he is a MacRohan by birth. We cannot be sure that he is not aware of his sister's activities and we cannot be sure that he will not tell her why I am here. Do you understand me?"

Dillon did, but he hated it. Brend was like a brother to him. "Aye," he finally muttered. "But Brend has never shown the slightest inclination towards Irish rebellion. He is as English as they come."

"But the fact remains that he is not English," Denys said softly, causing Cort and Dillon to look at him. He glanced up at the knights, his expression serious. "He is Irish, no matter how hard he wishes otherwise. Oh, I know he wishes he was English. I know he feels as if he is English. I also happen to know that he is in love with Arabella, and she with him, and the knowledge has been tearing me apart for a solid year. I love my daughter and I love Brend; do you not think that my denial of their affair might drive Brend back to his Irish heritage? I would have an Irish rogue in the midst of my own ranks, embittered that he cannot marry the woman of his choosing simply because he is Irish. That has been a fear of mine since I realized he and Bella were in love."

Dillon tried not to appear too guilty for never having brought his sister's romance up to his father. "You are speaking of Brend, Papa," he said. "No matter what you think, and no matter what you deny him, he will be loyal to his oath. I believe that."

"Would you stake your life on it?"

"Without question."

"I have another idea," Cort said, interrupting. "Forgive me if this is an offensive suggestion, but I must be practical in this matter. We can use Brend's love for Bella to our advantage."

"Cort…" Dillon hissed in disgust.

Denys put up a hand, quickly, to silence his son. "I am listening, Cort," he said. "What did you have in mind?"

Cort sighed faintly, glancing at Dillon. "Forgive me, Dil," he said quietly. "But let me finish before you condemn me. My lord, Brend has expressed his desire to me to wed Bella. It is very clear they are in love. What if you granted your permission for the marriage if he can tell us what he knows of his sister's loyalties? He may be able to tell us what she will not. He is her brother, after all."

"Bribe him with a betrothal?" Denys said, incredulous. "But how? I cannot give him permission to marry Bella when such a thing is illegal in England."

"But only in England," Cort said. "You can send him and Bella to France and they can marry there. It is perfectly legal. You have properties in France, do you not?"

Denys' eyes widened. "I do," he said. "Hereditary lands that have been in my family for four hundred years. There are several, but Chateau da Garosse is the largest."

"Is there a place for Brend and Bella there? As a garrison commander, mayhap?" Cort sat forward, his gaze intense. "My lord, if Brend can provide us with information that saves the lives of a thousand de Winter and de Russe soldiers, why would you not take it? He loves Bella. Use it."

It was a ruthless statement, one that had Dillon rising out of his seat and pacing the floor, disgusted and intrigued, but understanding it all at the same time. Cort de Russe came across, at times, like the arrogant knight with the world at his feet but deep down, he was as brilliant and brutal as his father ever was.

Behind that seductive smile was a heart of steel.

Denys sat back in his seat, looking at Cort as if the man had just physically struck him. He sat there and stared at him a moment before speaking.

"Dillon," he said. "What are your thoughts on this?"

Dillon was still pacing, coming to a halt when his father asked him the question. "What are my thoughts ?" he repeated. "I think this is cruel; terribly cruel."

"Then you think Cort is wrong?"

Dillon looked at Cort, a man he loved dearly. His jaw was still working angrily, but he refrained from saying anything harsh. He was a knight; he understood what Cort was saying even if he didn't like it. He postured for a few moments before finally turning away.

"He makes sense, Papa, but that does not mean I have to like it," he said. "Using Brend's love for Bella is incredibly cruel."

"Why?" Cort asked. "In the end, he gets what he wants and we get what we want. Unless his love for Bella isn't strong enough. Make him an offer like that and you shall find out just how serious he is about her."

Dillon sighed sharply. "You are asking him to betray his sister."

"I am asking him if he loves Bella more than he loves a family who sent him away when he was five years old," Cort said, becoming more agitated. He stood up from the chair. "With the rebellion in Ireland right now, whether or not you like it, you have the enemy living here at Narborough. Brend MacRohan is the enemy of England, or didn't that occur to you? I love Brend; I have known him for twenty years. I know he is loyal to England above all, but he's not English– he wishes he was, but the truth is he is not and that is why I think he will take this offer. If you ask him to tell you what he knows about his sister's activities with the reward of Bella hanging over him, he may very well take it and we may be able to avert a disaster when you take your army into Ireland to regain Black Cove. Or is your loyalty to Brend worth more than a thousand English lives?"

Dillon flared. "You're questioning my loyalty to England now?"

"I am saying you need to be realistic and take the emotion out of the situation, Dil. Is your loyalty to your family or to friendship?"

"You're my friend, Cort. The same question could be asked of you."

"Enough," Denys said quietly, smacking his hand softly on the table to get their attention. "Dillon, Cort is not suggesting we disregard Brend all in the name of war, but he is right with everything he is saying and you know it. As much as I don't want to face it, either, the truth is that Brend is Irish. I love and respect the man, but those are the facts. It is also a fact that he loves your sister, who loves him in return, and I will be honest when I say I do not think she would ever be the same if I denied her permission to marry the man she loves. You and Cort came to me with a concern over Dera MacRohan and I will tell you that I have the same concerns. Her father does, too, which is why he asked me to give her refuge here at Narborough. Is any of this confusing to you, Dillon?"

Dillon was worked up, but he wasn't stupid. He knew what his father was driving at. "Nay, Papa," he muttered. "I just wish…"

He couldn't finish and Denys nodded his head. "So do I, lad, but we may not have any choice," he said. Then, he looked at Cort. "Dera MacRohan is a hostage here, Cort. I've allowed her a certain amount of freedom, but the truth is that she is a hostage."

Cort nodded. "I assumed as much, my lord."

Denys sat forward, his elbows on the table. "What do you want me to do?" he asked Cort. "You said that you had a directive from Henry to seduce Dera to gain information. Do you still want to go through with it? Because once I make Brend that offer, it is quite possible he will tell his sister and she will know that we are on to her. Right now, I would assume she is ignorant of the reasons for your visit here."

"I am simply a friend of the family," Cort said softly. "I am here to see Brend and Dillon and nothing more."

"Then I would suggest we keep it that way for the time being," Denys said. "Cort… you are charming. There is no doubt about it. If anyone can glean information from the woman without her being wise to it, it is you. I would prefer not to put her on the defensive while she is here and I would prefer not to make Brend an offer that is going to tear him in two, so for now… continue with your mission, but if you feel we need to approach Brend, you will tell me and I will make it so."

Cort nodded, glancing at Dillon, who was still stiff with rage and apprehension over the situation.

"My lord, a request, if I may," he said.

Denys nodded. "Proceed."

"If I can get the information I need from Dera, will you send Brend and Bella to France, anyway?" he said. "I have only been here a short time and even I can see the love between the pair. I have never loved a woman, but it seems to me that it is cruel not to allow them to be together. They deserve to be happy."

Denys sighed faintly, considering the request. "I have one daughter, Cort," he said. "I had hopes of a great marriage for her."

"Brend would be a great marriage. She could find no better husband."

Denys lifted his eyebrows as he looked to his table, fidgeting with the papers and items that were there, delaying giving Cort an answer. But he finally gave in.

"Brend is one of the finest men I have ever known," he said, but that was all he would say. "Go, now. Do what you must. Dillon, you will not mention any of this to anyone. Am I making myself clear?"

Dillon nodded in resignation. "Aye, Papa."

"And you will keep an eye on Dera. If she's a killer of Englishmen, we must be cautious of her."

"Aye."

With a flick of his hand, he dismissed Cort and Dillon, and the two of them unbolted the solar door, passing into the keep beyond. The great hall was off to their right, with servants busying themselves in preparation for the coming evening feast. Before Dillon could walk away, Cort grasped him by the arm.

"I did not mean to upset you, Dil," he said quietly. "I did not mean to sound heartless. But there is much at stake. You know I would not hurt Bella or Brend for the world if I could help it."

Dillon had calmed down a great deal at this point. He put his hand on Cort's shoulder. "I know," he said. "I know you are being practical and I know you are trying to save the lives of English soldiers. But… but it all seems so heartless."

"I know. And I am sorry."

Dillon gave him a weak smile, patting him on the cheek. "Not to worry," he said. "Where will you go now?"

Cort shrugged, glancing at the spiral staircase that led to the upper floors. "Mayhap I will go and see how Dera fares after her brother's browbeating," he said. "I am certain Brend has not gone to see her."

"No doubt," Dillon agreed. "Do… do you really intend to seduce her?"

"I intend to do what I was ordered to do," Cort said quietly. "Do not think I take any pleasure in this, for I do not. I am simply doing what I was ordered to do. If you see Brend getting wise to my attention towards his sister, I would appreciate you deflecting him as much as you can."

"I will do my best."

"I would hate to have an angry Irishman after me."

Dillon snorted. "As would I," he said. Then, he glanced out of the open entry, seeing that there was still several hours' worth of daylight left. "While you are soothing Dera, I believe I shall go into Swaffham and find a certain fishmonger's daughter."

Cort grinned. "I am looking forward to meeting this alluring lass."

Dillon laughed softly. "Not a chance," he said. "One look at you and she would leave me. Stay away from her."

"For you… anything."

Dillon smirked at him, heading back out to the stables while Cort took a deep breath to fortify himself and headed up the spiral stairs in search of a young woman he was becoming increasingly curious about.

And perhaps even just the slightest bit interested.

But, God help him, he wouldn't admit it.