Page 38 of The Crimson Throne
The boy goes down, bridle spilling over the dirt.
I scramble the rest of the way just as Darnley’s realizing what happened. He glares down at Callum, and I know the look that transforms his face. Sizing up a fly in his web. Might as well lick his lips.
Darnley rears, and I have only half a second to fling myself between him and Callum. My cloak drops out of my arms, half covering Callum. Good. Make him as sheltered as possible.
“Lord Darnley,” I hear myself say over the rushing of blood in my ears, over the part of me going dizzy with fury thanks to that damned fae curse on me. But I grip my resolve with both hands, clinging like my life depends on it. Because it does. If I have a slip here, black out and attack the queen of Scotland’s husband, I’m dead. Fully. Be lucky if all they did was chop my head off.
I shake it off. I have to. I’m playing a part, and right now, I’m center stage.
“Lord Darnley, Your Grace,” I say again and bow. “I haven’t had the honor of making your acquaintance. I’m Samson of Clan Maxwell, Lord Latimer’s secretary and proxy, and I—”
“Out of our way,” Darnley growls.
Ah, he speaks in the royal “we.”
Prick.
His gaze is livid as it bounces from me to Callum. “That thing assaulted us, in broad daylight! It will be punished.”
Anger runs icy fingers up my spine. My vision goes a bit spotty, my curse wanting so bad to break free.
I could clock this arsehole in the nose easily. Lay him flat out, give him a moment of true fear.
The image of Darnley lying on the ground, clutching his nose as blood streams down his face, gets temporarily overlaid by the memories of that night with Cecil’s rival. His blood smeared on the floor.
It should temper my lust for violence.
But instead, for the first time in a long while, all I feel islonging.And it should scare me.Should.
“Oh yes,” I say with a bright smile. “Boy!” I look down at Callum and give him a flash of wide eyes. “Run off now. Get out of Lord Darnley’s sight. The lord shouldn’t have to deal with the likes of you.”
Callum throws off my cloak, grabs the bridle, and vanishes in half a beat.
The crowd has stopped their chatter to watch us, doing a poor job of pretending they’re still busy unloading the carriages. Alyth, back from me about a yard, puts herself in front of the path Callum took, and that movement drops her in something like a fighting stance. Her eyes hit mine just briefly, and it almost feels supportive.
She wouldn’t be quite so supportive if she knew how vividly I’d imagined attacking her queen’s husband.
Or maybe she would.
To Darnley, I say, “I’ll personally see that the boy gets what he deserves.” Which will be a platter of the best cakes in Stirling Castle.
Darnley looks briefly stunned.
But he recovers, his pride not letting him falter too long, and he eyes me with renewed interest, like he hadn’t truly seen me until now.
“You.” He tips his head. “You’re English.”
I should stitch it on my shirt, apparently. “As are you.” I bow again. Do men like him realize how easily they can be controlled with subservience?
When I straighten, Darnley’s focus is on my neck.
That damn amulet has swung free of my shirt.
I go to tuck it back in, but it might be too late. Did someone else see?
Darnley’s eyes brighten.
I pause, hand to my collarbone.
