Claire Delacroix Read Free Page B

Sayerne had fallen to his elder brother Quinn’s hand and was undoubtedly managed with the same cruelty as his father had shown. Was not Qumn said to be the very echo of Jerome?
    But none of that had anything to do with Yves’ life any longer. His part was over and done, for better or for worse.
    From the fields came the sound of the crowds cheering with renewed vigor. Someone had won a contest, evidently, but Yves did not care. He swirled the wine in the cup and stared into its scented depths.
    The past had been successfully sent away from his door, he told himself, and would never return. All would continue in his life as it had these past years. Yves would once more be the man within the count’s hall who had no history, and gratefully so.
    But the image of his last sight of his sister would not fade away as easily as it had before.
    The sunlight had darkened to a deep gold when a rustlecame at the tent flap. Yves did not look up. “See that I am not disturbed, Gaston,” he said, running a tired hand over his brow. A good sleep would see Annelise’s ghost banished once more. “I have need of some sleep.”
    “It is too late for that.”
    Yves’ head snapped up at the sound of a woman’s voice.
    The lady hesitated on the threshold, a shadow against the shadows, her resolute words echoing in Yves’ ears. She was cloaked so that her features were hidden, the brown, homespun wool covering her from head to toe. She was tall, but beyond that and the firm resonance of her words, Yves could discern little about her.
    He guessed by her accent and distinct manner of speech that she was nobly born. And she stood straight, like a princess.
    That such a woman came here was odd, indeed, but the knight merely waited for explanation. As Yves stared at her, the lady lowered her hood, and he looked into the determination shining in her violet eyes.
    She was a woman tending more to plain than beautiful, he judged, with her dark hair fastened tightly back in a way that was less than flattering. Her features were balanced and pleasant enough, but unadorned by carmine and kohl.
    Those eyes, though, snapped with an intelligence that could not be denied.
    “My name is Gabrielle de Perricault,” she said. Her voice was slightly melodic, her tone firm, yet pitched low so that none might readily overhear.
    Yves stared back at her, intrigued. He had never met a woman who gave no quarter to feminine charms and their powers over men. Was this one of the women that Gaston was certain were ready to cast their favors his way?
    Surely not!
    The lady’s lips thinned before she continued, her blunt speech surprising him yet further. “I have need to hire aknight and leader of men.” Her gaze did not swerve from Yves’ own. “I hear tell that you are the best.”
    Yves arched a brow, unwilling to give any evidence of his interest. “You make your choice based on rumor?”
    Had she been a man, he would have called her response a snort. Certainly her gaze sharpened. “Rumor may have brought me to these tournaments,” she retorted. “But it is my own assessment that brings me to this tent.”
    “You watched the tournaments?”
    “Of course. You show both strength and cunning on the field.” The lady arched a brow in turn. “It is a combination most lethal, as was well proven on this day.”
    That revealed such clear thinking that Yves could not argue with her. Indeed, he was quite astonished to make the acquaintance of a woman possessed of a sensible mind. It was so far beyond his experience at the count’s court, where women chattered of clothing and embroidery and children’s smiles, that he momentarily did not know what to say.
    The pair stared at each other for a long moment The crowd roared in the distance once more and she started, glancing back over her shoulder with unexpected nervousness.
    “None must see me here,” she murmured.
    Yves responded before he thought. “I will tell none of your visit,” he assured her.
    The