Traitor's Masque (55 page)

The only warning she had was the dull thud of hoofbeats, intruding on her dreamless nap. Jerking awake, she looked around for Theron and was appalled to realize that he was gone. He had never left her before, and obviously was not as well-trained as she had believed.

Trystan was considering cursing her stupidity when the sound of an approaching horse filled her with sudden relief. Of course. He had only disappeared over the rise in the hill, not run away. Jumping to her feet, she started towards the sound of hooves just as her quarry came into view.

It was not Theron. It was an all too familiar bay horse, bearing a brown-haired, gray-eyed rider. He approached at a walk and pulled up when he drew even with her.

She could not look.

Did not want to see him.

Especially did not want to see the look in his eyes when he recognized more than just Embrie. For what seemed a very long time, the only sound between them was the wind through the grass.

“Lose something?” His calm question made her wince. He dismounted and walked towards her as she fumbled for an answer.

“My horse, apparently,” Trystan managed to find words and congratulated herself on sounding reasonably normal. “He’s never seemed inclined to wander off…” Her voice promptly wandered off as Donevan drew nearer. And nearer. She glanced at him, caught between terror and curiosity. His face was calm, though his eyes betrayed some indecipherable emotion.

“I may have found what you were looking for,” he said, by this time standing directly in front of her. He reached down and took her hand. Turned it over. Trystan’s heart faltered when he placed something in her palm. Something warm and familiar.

Her golden horse. When she looked down and realized what he had given her, the last of her hopes finally died. He knew.

Trystan curled her hand into a white-knuckled grip, closed her eyes, and turned away. She could not even look at him. Could not bear to see her betrayal reflected back at her. Tears began to spill from her eyes as she stood miserable and silent on that sun-warmed hill.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, almost too quietly to be heard, an apology to herself as much as to him.

“What are you sorry for?” he asked, with surprising gentleness, still standing only a step behind her.

“Everything,” she replied, brushing at her cheeks and wishing he would leave her to cry in peace. Wishing she never had to face him again.

“I’m not.”

Trystan did not answer, but stiffened in surprise when he closed the distance between them and placed his hands on her shoulders.

“Embrie, please look at me.” He turned her around, gently but inexorably. “I’m not sorry,” he repeated, his hold on her shoulders both warm and strong. “I’ve never been sorry that I met you. Not for a single moment.” His eyes were clear and honest, and Trystan could not withstand their scrutiny.

She pulled back and glared at him through her tears. “Don’t lie to me, Donevan… Your Highness… whoever!” Frustration and humiliation choked her. She couldn’t even call him by the right name. “You called me a bastard,” she stated flatly. “And a scheming, treacherous fraud.” Donevan winced. “And I won’t pretend you didn’t have every right to. So don’t you pretend you’re not sorry that I lied to you, betrayed you, and nearly got your father killed.”

The object of her scorn only folded his arms and gazed at her without rancor. “Yes, you did all those things,” he admitted. “And I confess I’m only just beginning to reconcile what I know of Embrie with everything Elaine has said and done. But there was no excuse for what I called you. No excuse for the way I acted that night you came to tell me the truth.” He held up a hand when Trystan tried to interrupt. “No, please, hear me out. I was cruel, vindictive and utterly unjustified in my behavior,” he told her firmly. “You need to understand, the only reason my father is
not
dead is because I met you.”

Trystan looked up at him in confusion and saw confirmation in his face. Somehow, he believed he was telling the truth. She dropped her eyes, refused to ask her questions, and he went on.

“The only reason I am alive and the conspiracy that threatened this kingdom is not, is because I met you.” He stepped closer then, his voice wavering oddly. “And while I am infinitely grateful for those things, I am even more grateful that I had the chance to know you—to be astonished, delighted and captivated by you—before all of those things happened.” Trystan made a brief, strangled sound of disbelief, but he forged on. “Otherwise, I might have believed my brother when he told me you were a heartless mercenary. I might have believed in the possibility that you had murdered Lady Westerby and fled. I might even have been convinced that you lied to me about my dancing.”

Trystan was startled enough that she almost laughed. He had been able to make her laugh, nearly from the first moment they met. It was one of the things she liked best about him. One of the things she was trying very hard not to remember, because if she did it would end with her crying over things she could never have.

“I admit that I lied,” she said finally, into the silence, “but never about your dancing.”

She thought about lies, and about truths. And while she was no longer lying to Donevan, she knew that in wishing he would go away, she was lying to herself.

She did not want him to leave. She wanted to spend what remained of forever smiling whenever she looked at him across a room. She wanted to talk to him about everything and about nothing. To laugh with him at the ridiculousness of life and cry with him at its inevitable sorrows. She wanted to run her fingers through his endearingly rumpled hair and make him happy when he was sad because the thought of him being sad broke her heart. And most of all, she wanted to take back every moment of her life since that afternoon in Lady Isaura’s sitting room.

But that could not be. Any more than she could suddenly become fashionable, wealthy and legitimate. Any more than she could truly be forgiven for all that had passed between them. Donevan was grateful because things had ended well, but if they had not, it would still have been her fault. And because she respected and cared for him now more than ever, both as a man and as the future king, she had no choice but to ask his forgiveness. It was a painful and difficult thing to do. At least it would have been, not so very long ago. Her pride, Trystan thought wryly, had undergone a rather drastic reduction of late. Perhaps it would not stand in her way after all.

She managed finally to look firmly into Donevan’s eyes as he stood there, so close, waiting for her to speak. “I know I have no right to ask, let alone expect to receive,” she told him, so quiet and diffident that the breeze nearly carried her words away. “But I can’t pretend that I don’t want your forgiveness. I have tried, since I realized what I had done, to rectify my mistakes. I know it will never be enough. That trust, once broken, is a difficult thing to mend. But,” she forged on, looking into the distance over his shoulder, “I’m going to ask. Because I need to find a way to forgive myself, if I am to rebuild some sort of life from the disaster I have made of it. And if I am ever to forgive myself, I need some sort of hope that you might someday forgive me as well.”

Her voice trembled and her lip quivered. Tears hovered, threatening to fall as she looked at him bravely. “Prince Ramsey Donevan Tremontaine, I have injured and offended you deeply and I am more sorry than you could ever know. Will you… could you ever find it in you to forgive me?”

Prince Ramsey Donevan Tremontaine closed the distance between them with a single step and took her pale, upturned face between his hands. A feeling of disbelieving joy shook her from head to toe as he gently brushed away her tears with his thumbs.

“Embrie, you beautiful, ridiculous girl,” he told her softly. “What I’ve been trying to tell you is… I already have.”

Ramsey hardly knew what he had intended, coming out to the wall, on that particular day. Or even what he had hoped. But when he saw her, eyes ringed by shadows, face drawn by sorrow and fatigue, every last doubt he harbored fell away.

Her reaction to him was perhaps inevitable. Anger, remorse, embarrassment. It must have taken an unbelievable degree of courage for her to face him. That courage, he thought wryly, was the only part of her character he had never had reason to question. And when she asked for his forgiveness, with heart-wrenching dignity, it took everything he had not to drop down on one knee and beg her to marry him right then and there. But he couldn’t. Not because he didn’t want to, but because there was something else he needed to do first.

When he said that he had forgiven her, the look of joy and relief in Embrie’s eyes was almost painful. But there was a shadow still. So many questions remained. The matter of her illegitimacy yet lay between them. And there was a story he needed to tell her. A story he had been longing to tell her for days, one that would hopefully put all those questions to rest.

“But you-“ She started to say something, probably another apology.

Ramsey met Embrie’s objection with a finger across her lips. It was time to tell her the rest. “Shush,” he admonished, with mock sternness. “The truth is, I’ve been wondering whether you would be willing to forgive
me
. I should have tried to find out why you did what you did. Instead, I had to find out when it was nearly too late. And,” he added, “from a most unexpected source.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, confusion written plainly on her face. “How could you have found out? No one else knew about my stupidity except Lady Westerby, and-” She broke off, and pulled back from him a little. “You must have thought I’d killed her.”

“No,” he said simply. “I didn’t. Not really. But I did ask.” He watched her intently as he said it. “I asked the one person who might have reason to know.” At her look of trepidation he could not help raising the question. “What did happen that night? If you don’t mind telling me.”

Embrie sighed, but unbuttoned her collar to show a ring of fading bruises. “Lady Westerby’s coachman must have told her what happened when I was at the palace. When I went back that night, to look for my horse, she found me. Tried to…” The memories were obviously unpleasant, but she went on doggedly. “I tried to get away, and we ended up at the top of the stairs.” Embrie shuddered visibly. “I don’t know which was more frightening: her hands around my throat or looking at her body after she fell down the stairs, wondering if she was going to get up and try again.”

Ramsey felt sick. In part because he knew what had happened next. “And then Rowan?” he asked, unable to stop himself.

“And then Rowan,” she answered softly. Then shrugged, as if to shake it off. “I suppose you know what transpired after that.”

“Yes,” he admitted, catching her hand in his and pulling back her sleeve to reveal the bandages on her wrist. Kyril had told him of her injuries but he was still somehow unprepared for the sight of them. “Yet another reason why I feel as though I am most truly in your debt.”

She pulled away again, obviously uncomfortable with his scrutiny. “What I want to know is,” she interjected quickly, “how did you find out all of that? How could you have known I was at Westhaven that night?”

Ramsey had wondered when she would get around to asking. She had to have been curious, especially when Kyril had told her nothing. “I take it Lord Seagrave was less than forthcoming,” he said in a lighter tone, hoping to put her more at ease.

“Lord Seagrave,” she answered, with a touch of her old sarcasm, “is apparently far more discreet than anyone gives him credit for.”

Ramsey laughed, relieved by her attempt at humor. “I’ll tell you,” he replied carefully, “but it’s a bit of a strange story. I think perhaps you should be sitting down when you hear it.” She gave him a look of equal parts curiosity and disgust, but was willing to be led back to the stone wall. As they neared it, Ramsey remembered her injuries and stopped her. “With your permission,” he said, and when she looked confused, he simply picked her up and set her gently on top of the wall. Embrie turned rather pink and said nothing as he sat next to her and began his tale.

“I had some visitors, while you were away,” he began suddenly. “Two, in fact. But the first was probably the most important, as well as the most shocking.” He watched Embrie closely as he continued. “I’m sorry there’s no way to prepare you for this, but… the first visit was from your grandmother.”