“The moon is so large. I simply cannot help but long for May day. I want to dance and sing and enjoy the spring.”
She began singing a catchy tune while grasping the hands of one guard and leading him around and around in dance. His comrade was eager for a chance to touch her as well, and crowded closer, taking him even farther away from the post the pair had been assigned to watch.
Bridget shivered as she ducked through the gate. The tunnel leading through the thick curtain wall was pitch- black. The air within it was dank and stale. Thankfully there was no mud beneath her feet because even rain didn’t make it past the first few feet. The ground was dusty and dry, so hard beneath her shoes because it had not seen the elements since construction of the wall. High above her head were men diligently guarding the castle, but she slipped beneath their boots as easily as a ghost.
Panic tried to steal her courage, but she resisted its icy grip. Pushing herself forward even as the stone walls felt like they were stretching out longer, Bridget kept her feet moving. She had to rely on herself and her family. Curan wasn’t her family, not yet. Her heart ached for how close she had been to having the man to husband. There was no doubt that she would prefer him to Lord Oswald.
She pushed onward until her eyes detected a faint glow of starlight. The brightness grew more enticing as she hurried to reach the end of the tunnel. She hesitated at the exit. The trees and plants grew thickly around the tunnel end. Gooseflesh rippled down her limbs as she searched the darkness.
“Mistress Newbury?”
It was a mere whisper, but Bridget flinched. Tension held her body so tight, the sound felt as loud as thunder. The impulse to edge backward toward the protection of the castle lord was strong.
A shadow emerged from the darkness. The moonlight cast its glow on the blue and green colors of her father’s retainers’ uniforms.
“It is Captain Brume, mistress. Sent by your father so that you would know his will.”
Brume. One of the oldest captains in her father’s guard. She had grown up knowing the man. He drew close enough for her to see his long beard. In the poor light, his face remained a mystery, but the soft whistle he blew was something she recalled very well.
“Come away now, mistress. We don’t want to be discovered. There is a ship waiting for you up the coast of Scotland. We’ve a fair bit of land to cover.”
More shapes moved in the night. Bridget felt her heart freeze as cold as the patches of snow on the hills of Scotland. To be sure, she was away now, the night providing the perfect cover again.
Only this time, it was helping to ensure that she would never see Curan again.
Time was often so cruel.
It twisted like a dull knife into the mind, while a person waited for punishment to begin. Justina did not sleep, could not have closed her eyes if Chancellor Wriothesley had ordered her to. All she would have done was pretend to do as bid. Her lips twisted into a bitter line. Always she pretended. There was only one thing that was real in her life, and that was the thing that she played her role to protect.
Her son.
She allowed herself to think of his face when he smiled. Brandon was six now and his mind inquiring about everything. Every letter he sent was clearer, his spelling and command of the quill becoming more practiced. She smiled at the memory but felt it shatter when steps sounded outside her chamber. Sure and hard, they announced the arrival of one of Curan’s men. There was no knock upon the door; it swung in, telling her that her guilt was already known by her former lover.
“Lady Justina.”
Synclair’s voice was grave, but Justina expected such. She turned to look at the knight and stared at the harsh accusation being aimed at her. The sun had risen, and she’d heard the bells begin ringing across the walls. Bridget was well and truly away now, and Curan was no fool.
“Lord Ryppon would have words with you.”
Synclair was not alone. More knights waited in the hallway, their expressions grave. Justina sighed and moved toward the escort awaiting her. They fell into step around her, reminding her all too clearly of the way Queen Catherine Howard had been escorted to the boat that took her to the tower after running down the palace hallways to beg her husband for mercy. In spite of that event being many years in the past, Justina recalled it clearly. She had been there, in the palace to watch it, of which Chancellor Wriothesley reminded her often.
He threatened her with the same fate if she dared to disobey him.
But she would not have betrayed Curan for him, hadn’t taken the man as her lover because she was ordered to, either. She had been drawn to the man the first time he cut into her with his dark eyes.
Today, those eyes were filled with hard displeasure. His hands were hooked into his belt, the fingers white from gripping it so tightly.
He glared at her, harsh reprimand etched into his features. “Where is my bride?”
Each word made her flinch. His men surrounded her, and she lifted her chin. There was power in his stare, but she refused to crumple. Maybe it was because she had been intimate with him, she didn’t know, but there was still a trust deep inside her that refused to believe that he would harm her.
There was no other man alive she felt such a thing for.
He snorted but flicked his fingers, and she heard his guards retreating. Only Synclair remained, his eyes burning into her back.
“Do not force me to break you, Justina. It would grieve me.”
Yet he would do it. Justina saw that truth reflected on his face. She shivered, feeling the last of her tender emotions for him dying.
