Mattia. What a pathetic name. “A girl, I take it?”
“Yes,” she said, unwrapping the cooing baby and lifting her up so Catherine could see the lack of male bits.
“Put it away,” Catherine said, waving her off, and Luna hastily wrapped the child back up. Satisfied, Catherine rose from her chair and walked around the desk, breezed past the girl and her baby, and cracked open the door to the hall. Bren was standing there at the top of the stairwell, leaning against the wall, with his hand resting atop the hilt of his sword. It looked like he was sleeping.
“Bren,” she said sharply, and his eyes popped open.
“Yeah?”
“Come in here. Now.”
He kicked himself off the wall and followed her back into the solarium. Catherine walked up to Luna and held out her arms.
“Give the child to me, Luna,” she said.
Luna hesitated, momentarily pressing the child tighter against her chest before offering her to the lady of the house.
“Thank you,” Catherine said, gently rocking the child for a short moment. An ugly thing, but then again most babies so young were ugly. She looked at Bren and nodded. The big man let out a sigh as he drew his sword.
“Sorry, lady,” he said, the only warning he gave Luna before his sword cleaved open the woman’s throat. Her body dropped, not even a scream in protest, as blood poured across the fine floor. Catherine watched it flow as Bren sheathed his blade, then handed the baby over to him.
“Bring her to Ursula, and tell her to find a suitable wet nurse.” She kicked Luna’s corpse. “Then get back up here and get rid of this. . thing. Have Penetta and Lori mop up the blood afterward. I don’t want so much as a stain to show.”
“Will do,” Bren said. “Oh, thought I’d let you know, your special guest has arrived. He’s waiting for you at the pier. Odd fellow.”
Her heart fluttered. “Thank you. Now go.”
Bren hurried out of the solarium, trying in his gruff voice to soothe the weeping infant and failing miserably. Thank the gods you have actual talent with a sword; otherwise, you’d be useless. Catherine snatched up the letter she’d been writing when Luna entered, rolled up the parchment, tucked it into her bodice beside the one already stowed there, and swept out of the room.
As she descended the staircase, she breathed deeply, trying to find a balance between her excitement and her guilt. Luna was the ninth, and last, of Matthew’s mistresses in Port Lancaster, the sixth to have had a child by him. Luckily, the Brennan family curse-the scarcity of male offspring-had stricken Matthew as well. Catherine was thankful for that, for while she could eliminate his whores in the name of preventing future embarrassment, the prospect of murdering children did not sit well with her. The girls would be well cared for, but if he’d had a male child, under Neldar law that child could potentially challenge for the family fortune somewhere down the line. For Catherine, this was an unacceptable risk after all she’d suffered for.
Thinking of the children made her contemplate her own, and she stepped off the stairwell onto the estate’s third floor. She heard laughter and walked briskly down the hall, stopping when she reached an opened door. She peeked around the doorframe, saw her four girls sitting on the floor and laughing as their nursemaid Brita read stories from an old tome. She turned away, her heart thrumming in her chest as she slipped from the bedroom and crept farther down the hall. At the next doorway she dipped inside to find little Ryan Brennan, two years old and angelic in his nakedness, sleeping soundly in his crib. Though she did not want to wake him, she couldn’t help but reach down and place a hand on his small back, feeling his little lungs expanding with each breath. Ryan’s flesh was warm and a shade darker than Matthew’s or Catherine’s. His hair was slightly different as well, his curls tighter than hers and her husband’s had ever been. She smiled. Matthew wasn’t the only one who’d kept secrets.
Ryan stirred, and Catherine backed away before he woke. She stole a quick glance out the window. It was approaching the high point of the day, the sun climbing into the sky. She did not have much time.
She beat a quick retreat, hurrying down the stairwell to the estate’s next floor. For a moment she hesitated, thinking of heading to the pier to greet her guest as quickly as she could, but in the end she stepped off the stairwell. Best to get this regrettable business over with first.
This time when she reached a door, it was closed to her, and she paused to let down her hair and flatten the wrinkles in her finely crafted cobalt dress. After taking another deep breath, she rapped on the door.
“Who is it?” a brusque yet feminine voice asked.
“Catherine.”
“Come in.”
The invitation had no warmth to it, which filled Catherine with dread, but she shoved open the door nonetheless. Standing in front of her bed inside the large chamber was Moira Elren, the exiled daughter of Clovis Crestwell, Karak’s first child. Moira had been in the Brennan house for over a year, given to Matthew as collateral by Peytr and Rachida Gemcroft for the Brennan estate’s assistance when the merchant fled Haven for the Isles of Gold. Though Moira was certainly aging and almost a score older than Catherine’s thirty-six years, she still appeared to be younger, the gift of the blood of the First Family that ran strong in her veins. She had washed the dark dyes out of her hair after helping the women of Port Lancaster slaughter the last of Karak’s soldiers who remained in Neldar; her short-chopped locks were now their original silver, making her sapphire eyes seem all the paler. The woman also looked to be a waif, with the typical dainty facial features of the Crestwell line and a slender form made to appear even frailer with the tight black leathers she wore, but that appearance was deceiving. Moira more than made up for her lack of strength with incredible quickness and guile, and Catherine had never seen anyone more deadly with a sword. Even Bren, though he weighed more than two of her, feared the small woman. Tread lightly here, she thought, and though her heart pounded, she put on her most confident face.
Moira sat down on the featherbed in the middle of the spacious bedroom. “What do you want?” she asked. Catherine looked around, saw the room still bare save the bedding and a heavy bag resting on the floor. Moira had moved into this room a week ago, yet there was virtually no sign she lived here.
“What is that?” Catherine asked, jutting her chin at the heavy bag.
“My things, not that it’s any of your business,” Moira replied sharply.
“I assure you, it is my business, Moira. You are my hostage, my compensation. Your duty is to me.”
Moira threw her head back and laughed. “My duty was to your husband, not you. That deal was broken the moment you had his bodyguard impale him with a sword.” She scowled then and turned away. It was a look Catherine had gotten quite used to.
It had been three days after Matthew’s death that Catherine finally told her hostage what truly happened in Rat Harbor. She disclosed all of it-even paying the bandits whose attempt on her husband’s life had failed because of Moira’s presence. Moira’s reaction had been. . unfavorable, and nothing Catherine said about Matthew’s failings as a spouse and merchant improved things.
“I don’t care what you think about the deal, Moira. The facts are the facts: You are a servant now, nothing more and nothing less. You will do as I say, when I say-end of discussion.”
Moira swiveled around to face her. Her movements, combined with her silver hair and pale flesh, made her look like some evil specter. Quick as a cat she crouched down, her hand darting beneath the bed and withdrawing one of her light shortswords. With a single flick of her wrist the scabbard clattered across the room. Moira pointed naked steel in Catherine’s direction.
“I am not your slave,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. “The next time you dare act as such, I will cut your throat.”