Page 73 of Reign

Leaning in, Margaret reached for the lapels of my damp coat, trying to shift a layer of clothing. I seized her wrists to halt her.

“I’m nervous,” I said, which was true. “Can we take things slower?”

From behind her ebony locks, Margaret offered me a kind smile. “Course, love.”

I felt queasy at the thought of asking her outright if she were a witch—especially without Bash nearby, ready to perform the memory loss incantation should she cause a scene. Part of me wanted to flee, to bolt out the door and search elsewhere for members of Fitzroy’s magical army. Yet another part needed to know if I was right: Were these women truly the cloaked figures I’d seen casting spells on the cliff edge?

“All well, love?” Margaret asked, interrupting my internal dilemma.

I nodded, though I felt anything but well. “Yes,” I replied softly as I took her hand in mine.

I resolved to stick it out. All I needed was a glimpse of Margaret’s palms to confirm her magical abilities.

I let my fingers trail up her arm before gliding back down, slipping beneath the seam of her glove. Just as the fabric began to budge—slowly edging off—she moved.

Margaret placed her palm on my thigh and leaned in to kiss me. I returned the affection, taking this moment to plan my next move. My hand drifted to hers, again trying to ease the glove away, using my tongue as a subtle distraction. But when her hand slipped from my grip and slid upward to squeeze my nonexistent bicep, I realized nothing I did would distract her. For Margaret, this wasn’t hedonistic—it was work.

Gently, she pulled me on top, lips still locked to mine. As I lay above Margaret, the softness of her skin reminded me of one summer when Avice and I were fifteen.

Avice had decided we should practice kissing to impress some handsome minstrel boys traveling through the Wetlands, and, as always, I obeyed her request.

Briefly, I was lost in a memory. No longer was I at the seedy brothel but on the castle grounds, hiding from prying eyes beside the lake. The earthy scent of spring grass filled my nostrils and prickled against my forearm as I lay above Avice. She rested her hands on my back, delicately pressing her tongue against mine. Her gentle voice played in my mind: For a moment, I forgot you weren’t a man, and I recalled how her words stung.

Then, abruptly, Margaret grabbed my crotch, snapping me back to the dingy chamber. I struggled to wrangle her hand away from my groin, but it was too late. Her grip tightened, as if to confirm I wasn’t an unfortunately endowed man.

“Woman,” she muttered under her breath.

As her eyes widened, I feared she might cry out for Mr. Bednot, exposing that I wasn’t a man. I’d be sent back to the Wetlands, where the Lord would relentlessly interrogate me about Avice’s death. I knew he wouldn’t rest until I was branded a witch and hanged in the village square for all of Green Vale to see.

I also feared for my family—the very people I’d tried to protect by keeping my secret from them—and dreaded that they might be accused of harboring magic. I even imagined little Henry awaiting his turn on the gallows, and in that moment, I lost all sense of morality, resolving to use force to uncover the truth.

I grappled with Margaret’s hand, using my position on top to hold her down. She tried to buck me off, but I pressed my forearm against her neck, slowly suffocating her as I struggled to remove her dainty glove. As the color drained from her face, she relented, allowing me to yank the fabric away. Just as I suspected, her palms were a deep shade of purple.

I released my choke hold, and she gasped for air.

“Wicce.” Witch, I said, twisting her discolored hand toward her face.

Margaret panted as her cheeks flooded pink. “Alihtan me.” Dismount me, she demanded in a trembling voice.

I rolled off, allowing her to sit upright beside me on the bedstead. Her hair fell in front of her panicked face as she tried to catch her breath.

“I thought you were going to kill me,” she snapped, thumping a fist into my chest.

The anger in her tone confirmed what I already knew: Deceit wasn’t an honorable way to uncover the truth.

“Sorry,” I murmured, giving Margaret a sheepish smile. I only hoped my desperation hadn’t ruined my chances of enlisting her aid. “I needed to be sure you were a witch before I asked for your help.”

Margaret scrunched her small mouth. “Why would you need my help?” she asked, snatching back her glove.

“My commander has tasked me with creating a secret army of wizards to use magic against Regina’s forces. I want to recruit you—and perhaps the other women, too, if they are witches,” I explained.

Margaret squinted, the lines around her eyes deepening. “Your commander…” Her words dwindled into a breath. “You mean, Prince Fitzroy?” she asked, her gaze impatiently scanning mine for the answer.

I nodded.

Her hand shot to her mouth, stifling a gasp.

“Are you telling me that he’s…” She hesitated, glancing at the door as if checking it was still sealed shut.