“Thank you, my lord.”
“Go on, get out. Enjoy your sport whilst the men in the kingdom work.” He turned and walked back to Lord Kinghorn.
Ransom slipped away before the king could change his mind.
There were too many steps leading up to the queen’s tower. It was the tallest tower within the palace, and Ransom had admired it from below many times. But climbing the spiral stairwell winded him, and his anxiety increased with every step. A few torches hung from rings in the walls, but the arrow slits were narrow, and it was dark. Wind whistled through the gaps, and it was colder than he’d expected. He ran his hand over the rough stone bricks as he headed up.
By the time he reached the top of the stairs, he was gasping for breath and put his hand on the window casing as he paused a moment to catch it again. The guards at the foot had allowed him to pass after his declaration of the king’s password. He had seen no one else.
While Ransom was still bent double and panting, the door to the chamber opened abruptly.
And there was Claire de Murrow.
“I heard someone coming up the steps, but then it went quiet and . . .” Her eyes widened in recognition, and her speech trailed off.
“I’m sorry . . . I didn’t announce myself,” he said breathlessly.
“You’re not supposed to be here, Ransom,” she said, her expression showing worry. “You’ll get in trouble.”
“The k-king . . . granted me permission . . . to see you.”
Her hand came up to the edge of her bodice as she blinked in surprise. “You asked to see me?”
“I did. I was given only an hour. May I come in?”
“Of course!” She turned. “Emi, look! Look who it is!”
As he entered the chamber, he took note of how small and close the space felt. Even so, this wasn’t a normal prisoner’s quarters. There was a curtained bed against the far wall, framed in golden wood with little filigree designs carved into it. A mirrored wardrobe was built into the foot of the bed, the door ajar. A fire burned in a hearth decorated with marble pillars. The floor, cut from diagonal slices of wood, was picturesque as well, although a rich red rug concealed most of it.
By the only window sat a sturdy desk and two chairs, and he saw several small books stacked on it, as well as one that was open with an inkwell and stained quill nearby.
Queen Emiloh rose from the bed, wearing a simple but rich gown. She was just as tall and regal as he remembered, and he dropped to a knee in reverence.
“Oh dear, no,” said the queen with a smile. “I’m in disgrace. No need for that. Come, Ransom. Please. We are friends.”
Claire had walked to the table and gently closed the open book, scooting it toward the edge. He wondered what was written inside it, and why she’d so deliberately moved it out of the way.
“You are still my queen,” Ransom said, feeling a surge of gratitude for her—thick and warm and delicious. He’d never forgotten the way she’d paid his ransom when he was captured by DeVaux’s men. The last he’d heard, DeVaux had been humbled by Benedict and the mercenaries.
“I have no rings for you to kiss anymore,” Emiloh said. “So good of you to climb up here. Claire and I do not get many visitors.”
“Not many at all,” said Claire with an impish smile. “But we’re never lonely.”
Ransom gazed around the room again, looking at the trappings and the shape of the tower, and felt a strange sense of familiarity. As if he’d been there before. But of course he hadn’t. He would have remembered climbing all those steps. Still, something about it thrummed inside him. He heard the gentle lapping sound in his ears, but it wasn’t a premonition of danger. Something in the room had triggered a part of him. He didn’t understand it.
“We’ve heard about your victory at Chessy,” said the queen. She gave Claire an encouraging nod and a significant look.
“We did!” said Claire, a little breathlessly. “Well done, Sir Ransom! I wish we’d been there. Of course, we couldn’t have been there, naturally, but both of us should have . . . liked to have . . . been.” She bit her lip, her cheeks flushing.
“Thank you,” he said. “I didn’t come to boast.” He felt his feelings tying themselves up in knots. “Your Highness, I’m sorry that you are . . . that you are imprisoned here. Is there anything I can get for you? Anything you need?”
“Just my freedom,” she said sadly. “It’s been two years. That feels a long time, but it has gone by quickly. Thank you for offering. Lord Kinghorn makes sure that our needs are met.”