Twilight Magic Read Free Page B

not murder Edward de Salis.”
    His deep, rich voice rang strong and clear through the chamber, and Emma craned her neck to locate the owner of the powerful voice. But the men she’d used as a shield to get into the chamber were too broad and tall to see around.
    No matter. The dead man and his murderer had nothing to do with her. Giddy with anticipation, Emma inched her way forward, certain that once this distraction was over, she could better judge how to approach the king.
    “Is this not the man you described to us yesterday as vile and evil?” the bishop asked.
    “He is,” Darian answered.
    “This morn, he was found dead in an alley on Watling Street in Southwark, his throat slit.”
    “How fortunate for us all.” Darian’s droll comment drew snickers from a couple of people in the crowd.
    She could see the bishop now. In his flowing robes, he stood near where King Stephen sat in an elegantly carved, armed chair and listened intently. She also saw the Flemish mercenary captain, Earl William, a favorite of Queen Matilda’s who often visited the queen’s solar, step over to the litter to stare down at the dead man.
    “You are known for your skill with a dagger, Darian. Have you your dagger with you?” the bishop asked.
    “Weapons are not allowed in this chamber. I would not be so witless as to bring one into the royal presence. My dagger is with my belongings in the barracks and I can produce it, if you wish.”
    Emma squeezed into a small space between two people, inching forward once again.
    “You did not sleep in the barracks last night,” the bishop stated, his ire becoming palpable. “There are those among your own fellows who will testify they saw naught of you until the dawn. Can you produce trustworthy witnesses to attest to your whereabouts?”
    For several heartbeats silence reigned.
    “Nay.”
    After a slight shift Emma saw the accused. While murmurs floated around her, she paid them no heed, aware only of the handsome, sandy-haired, hazel-eyed man garbed all in black.
    She almost gasped aloud, her pulse quickening as she recognized Darian of Bruges. Broad of shoulder, narrow in the hip, long and lithe, he stood with his feet spread apart slightly, his arms crossed over his chest, a stance sublimely suited to him.
    Amazement mingled with a heady sense of anticipation that weakened her knees. After years of waiting, of comparing all other men to him, the lover of her vision had finally appeared.
    Emma closed her eyes and envisioned Darian as clearly as the first time she’d
seen
him. She knew what his upper body looked like without clothing—all taut, sculpted muscle. His lower arms were a sun-touched bronze. Beneath his lowest left rib, he bore a scar. His cheeks dimpled when he smiled, and his smile for her, when holding out his hand in seductive, tantalizing invitation, was glorious.
    She hadn’t touched his hand in the vision, but had always imagined his touch warm, his grasp firm and sure, his fingers clever and knowledgeable.
    True, she’d expected her lover to be Norman or Welsh, akin to her own mixed heritage, but his name implied— Emma’s eyes snapped open as reality returned with a hard slap to her senses. Bruges was a town in Flanders, so Darian must be a Flemish mercenary! And he stood accused of murder!
    Sweet God in his heaven!
    Oh, cruel fate! A mercenary? A murderer?
    Surely she would never bed a murderer!
    She frantically studied Darian’s expression, searching for signs of guilt or innocence. His stoicism gave naught away.
    “Sire, consider,” the bishop pleaded. “Darian of Bruges is known to hold Edward de Salis in contempt. He cannot produce witnesses to attest to his whereabouts last night. Nor, I believe, can he produce his dagger.” The bishop held out his hand to one of the litter bearers. The flash of silver passed between the men’s hands. “This dagger was found beside de Salis’s body. I believe it belongs to Darian of Bruges.”
    Darian’s eyebrow