The Beloved Scoundrel Read Free

sure that Montavia suffered as much as possible and given his men free rein to rape and pillage as they pleased. On Jordan’s journey to Talenka from Kazan he had traveled through town after town like this one that had been shelled and sacked, its inhabitants murdered and brutalized. “One of the duke’s troops killed your mother?”
    She shook her head. “The duke,” she whispered. She stared straight ahead as if the scene was there before her. “He did it. He did it.”
    “The duke himself?” That was unusual. Zarek Nebrov was a brutal bastard, but his rage was usually cold and controlled, and he seldom indulged in spilling blood without reason. “Are you sure?”
    “He came to our cottage, and he … I’m sure.” She shuddered. “Mama told me who he was.… She had seen him before. He hurt … her, and then he killed her.”
    “Why?”
    He received no reply.
    “Did you hear me?”
    “I hear you,” she said haltingly. “If you do not wish to hurt me, may I go now?”
    Christ, he felt as brutal a bastard as Nebrov. The girl was helpless and in pain. He should just call Gregor and have him send one of his men to find the girl’s nearest relations and take her to them. But he knew he had to find out more. The coincidence was too blatant. She had come to see the Window and, by her few agonized words, it appeared the girl’s mother had been tortured before she had been killed. Nebrov never did anything without reason. “No, you may not go.” He held out his cloak to her again. “You will put on this cloak.” He deliberately kept his tonehard, but he sat down in a pew so that he would appear less threatening. Standing, he felt like a giant looming over her fragile form. “Sit down.”
    “I won’t talk about that anymore,” she said unsteadily. “No matter what you do to me.”
    That painful memory was probably her biggest weakness, but he found he couldn’t strike at it. “Stay,” he said wearily. “I promise I’ll never ask you to talk about that night again.”
    She hesitated, her gaze searching his face. Then she took his cloak and slipped it on but did not sit down. “Why do you want me to stay?”
    “I’m not sure.” He was probably wasting his time here. He had done all he could. Now that he knew the Window was destroyed, his only course was to meet with Janus so that he could carry the word to Kazan and then set out for Samda and try to find Pogani. Even if this waif knew something she wasn’t telling, the Window was broken, dammit. Yet he couldn’t let it rest until he was certain Nebrov hadn’t discovered something he had not. His gaze returned to the cavity surrounded by jagged glass. “It seems strange that we were both brought together at this place and time. Do you believe in Fate?”
    “No.”
    “I do. My mother had Tartar blood, and she must have instilled a belief in the Fates with mother’s milk.” His stare never left the empty window. “The town is sacked and deserted, you couldn’t be sure the duke’s forces wouldn’t return, you and your brother are ragged and in want, and yet you picked this time to come to see the Window? Why?”
    “Why did you?” she countered.
    “I wished to acquire it. I heard it was magnificent, and I wished to take it back to my home.”
    “You wished to steal it.”
    “You don’t understand.”
    “You wished to steal it,” she repeated, her tone uncompromising.
    “All right, have it your way. I wished to steal it.” He met her gaze. “Now, why did you come?”
    Those clear, fierce eyes slid away from his own. “I had to see if it was still there.”
    “Why?”
    She didn’t reply.
    “It would be wise of you to answer me.”
    Her defiant gaze shifted back to him, and her tone was scornful as she echoed his own lie. “Why, I heard it was magnificent, and I wanted it for my home.”
    The girl had courage. She was still frightened, and yet she refused to yield. He was careful not to show the flicker of admiration he felt.