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over the gelding's gray withers. “Why not?”
This time, de Jarnac met her gaze squarely. “I'm in a hurry.”
“I won't slow you down. I promise.”
“Yes, you will.”
“I'll pay you.”
As soon as the words were out, Attica knew they were a mistake. She saw his jaw tighten, saw the dangerous light that leapt again into his eyes. He straightened, his inspection of the horse finished. “I have no need of your money.”
All she could do now was push ahead. “I'll give you this”— she lifted the heavy gold chain from around her neck— “if you'll agree to act as my escort.”
He didn't even bother to look at the chain. “Sorry. Not interested.” He ran his hand one last time down the gelding's sweat-stained neck. “The gray's not mortally injured, but it's lost a lot of blood and is dangerously skittish besides. I think we'd best put your man on one of my horses.”
“Then what of this?” Attica asked in desperation, yanking the ring from her thumb and holding it out to him.
Fire shimmered in the palm of her hand. Made of gold in the shape of an eaglet and studded with pearls and sapphires, the ring was the most precious thing she owned. Not because of its monetary value—although that was considerable—but because Stephen had given it to her. It was an exact replica of the ring their father, the comte d'Alérion, had given his only son on the day of his knighting. Stephen had had his own ring copied as a gift for Attica at the time of her betrothal. It cost her a pang even to think of giving it up, but she held it out determinedly.
“I told you,” said de Jarnac, “I don't want—” He broke off, his gaze narrowing as he moved suddenly to pluck the ring from her outstretched hand. He stared at the ring for a long moment, then lifted his frighteningly intense gaze to Attica's face. She could not even begin to guess at his thoughts. “You're a d'Alérion,” he said. It was not a question.
She just managed to swallow her surprise. She hadn't expected him to recognize the ring. “Yes.”
An unpleasant smile curled the knight's hard mouth. “The comte d'Alérion has but one son. And you, my fine young friend, are not he.”
“I …” Attica swallowed. “I am the comte's natural son.”
De Jarnac tilted his head. “Indeed?” His gaze traveled significantly over her fine clothing. “Your father appears to be unusually generous with his bastards.”
“He … he loved my mother very much,” said Attica, almost choking at the thought of what the comtesse d'Alérion would say if she could hear her daughter now. She wondered which would insult Blanche the most—the suggestion that she had given birth to a natural child or the idea that there existed even a hint of affection in her union to Robert d'Alérion.
“I see,” said de Jarnac, and Attica was afraid he saw far too much. “And exactly why, M. le Batard d'Alérion, are you so anxious to reach Laval?”
Attica cast about wildly for some probable explanation. The problem with always priding yourself on your truthfulness, she thought in despair, is that when you really, truly, do need to lie, you're not very good at it. “My uncle,” she said finally, borrowing a portion of the tale she had told Fulk. “He is dying. We have always been quite close, so he is asking for me now.”
“Oh?” De Jarnac crossed his arms over his chest. She had the sudden ridiculous sensation that he was enjoying himself. “And exactly who is your uncle?”
Too late, she realized she should have left her uncle out of it. But then, if de Jarnac did agree to escort her, he would find out who her uncle was in any case when they reached Laval. “He is the castellan of Laval,” she said, making up her mind to tell the truth.
It was another mistake. De Jarnac's gaze locked on hers. “Renouf Blissot is your uncle?” He began to advance on her with slow, menacing steps. “Are you telling me your mother was a Blissot? That Richard d'Alérion got one of his bastards on a woman from the same family as his own comtesse?”
Attica almost