She drew a startled breath when Barrow’s fingers lightly touched her face, lifting her chin so she would meet his gaze. His blue-gray eyes were hard as steel.
“You father knows that should he further hamper your arrival, he will lose much more than one man’s sword arm.”
Barrow’s fingers were barely touching her, but the light contact could have been an iron brand. Ember didn’t dare move nor breathe. All she could think about was the way his hand burned into her skin but with a fire that didn’t cause pain, just an awareness of her flesh and her blood, alive with sensation, like nothing she’d ever known.
“You’re strong, Lady Morrow,” Barrow said quietly. “I can see it in your face. In the way you carry yourself. No matter how he tries to rule you, your father cannot break you. And soon enough you will be free of him.”
Her breath came quickly. How had this knight known the hope that had lain hidden in her heart? How could he so easily speak the words she had longed for, but feared? That she was destined for something greater than the life her father planned for her, the life her dear sister was about to begin.
Barrow stepped back, letting his hand fall to his side, and once again Ember felt a tightness in her chest, a knot of sadness and regret.
He smiled and the knot loosened a bit.
“We will meet again soon.” After a curt bow, he left Ember alone.
She closed her eyes, holding fast to his words. You’re strong, Lady Morrow.
Now, more than ever, she was determined to prove those words true.
Ember found Agnes with Alistair in the courtyard. The caravan of wagons, mounted warriors, and a char branlant for the three ladies awaited Lord Morrow’s order to depart.
“You must inform me if you fall ill,” Alistair was saying to Agnes. “We can pause to rest.”
Agnes smiled but shook her head. “I’ll not keep my sister from her adventure. Though I still can’t understand why she longs for a life in the north.”
“Where the men are wild and the beasts are monsters?” Alistair laughed.
“I’ve always wanted to see a fire-breathing sheep,” Ember said drily. “Will we be leaving soon?”
“Your father is readying his mount,” Alistair told her.
“It’s a shame you couldn’t stay for a few days,” Agnes said. “You’re so near your own family’s estate yet unable to visit them.”
“Another time,” he said. “And I’ve had word from them that all is well. My parents oversee their manor as always, though it must be different without us.”
“And what of your brothers?” Agnes asked.
“Robert is at court, hopefully not getting into trouble,” Alistair said. “You know what a mess the succession has been. He hopes to gain favor for our family with the king . . . whoever that might be.”
There was a catch in Agnes’s voice when she asked, “And Henry?”
Alistair looked away but answered. “Henry is building a new manor in Yorkshire. He and the lady Howard expect to take residence there next summer after they are married.”
Agnes’s cheeks went slightly gray. She nodded and said, “I think I should prefer to wait in the carriage.”
“Of course, my lady.” Alistair helped Agnes into the char branlant, then turned to Ember, offering his hand.
“No.” Ember stepped back. “I don’t want to be shut up in that box until I have to be.”
Alistair laughed. “I don’t blame you. It’s much more pleasant to ride in the open, particularly given the roads we’ll be taking.”
“Wonderful,” Ember muttered.
“But I think you’re about to be put into the box.” Alistair looked over her shoulder. Ember turned to see her father sitting atop his black destrier, barking orders to servants and warriors.
Her mother emerged from the manor, worried lines creasing her face.
“I would that this cursed journey be over before it has began,” Ossia murmured as Alistair helped her into the char branlant. “Come, Ember, your father will be cross if you dally.”
Ember sighed and took Alistair’s hand as she climbed into the carriage.
THREE
THE WARRIOR SISTERS were fighting again, but their fury remained a secret between them. Hushed voices belied the tension that boiled in the air of their shared quarters. Still fuming, Eira turned her back on Cian and gazed out the slit of a window that gleamed in the otherwise dreary stone wall.
Cian looked at her sister’s tight shoulders and sighed. “There’s nothing to be done.”
“I can’t accept that,” Eira said, not turning around. “And I refuse to believe that your heart rests easily.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” Cian said. “That doesn’t change our lot. I won’t tire myself trying to draw blood from a stone.”
Eira whirled, giving her sister a cold smile. “Our adversaries are not stone. And they will bleed.”
Cian drew a hissing breath. “Hush, sister. Your jest is too costly.”
“Our sacrifice is too costly.” Eira ran her palms over the heavy brocade of her dress. “Look at this farce.”
“I think you look lovely.” Cian’s teasing smile earned her a withering stare from Eira. “Italian silks are difficult to come by—you should be grateful for such luxurious gifts from our benefactors.”
“It is not a gift, it is a costume through which our lies are bought,” Eira said. “I tire of playing the puppet for the abbot and the nobles.”
“Their visits are rare,” Cian said.
Eira tugged the lacings of her gown free and then set to work unbuttoning the tight sleeves. “Not rare enough. And each time they appear, they ask for more.”
Cian pursed her lips as Eira shed her overgown and shimmied out of her kirtle, leaving only a linen chemise. Eira breathed in relief as she traded the cumbersome women’s clothing for sturdy chausses, over which she pulled on the Conatus tabard. The sturdy black wool fell to the middle of her thighs. The embroidered silver compass rose—the symbol of their order—spread the width of her chest, setting off a subtle shimmer against the dark expanse of fabric.
“I simply wish to be truthful in our affairs,” Eira said as she buckled her belt and reached for her scabbard.
“The truth could destroy us,” Cian said quietly. “I prefer wearing a dress to burning at the stake. You know the fate of the Templars as well as I.”