Chapter 27

Sam entered the front vestibule, amazed at how little it had changed since she had run away. It hadn’t been that long, really—just shy of a month—yet she’d expected Castle Haywood to show the signs of her absence. But the room looked as though time had frozen: everything remained the same down to the wax-coated chandelier that was still missing two candles and the splotch of burgundy on the blue area rug where a guest had spilled his wine. “This place is almost as over the top as the Center,” Braeden said under his breath, his nose wrinkling. Sam turned to Braeden in surprise. Castle Haywood, over the top? All she could see were the off-kilter curtain rods and the dull hardwood floors in desperate need of a good polish. It must have been different viewing Haywood through an outsider’s eyes. “Have you been inside Castle Haywood before, Sam?” Tristan asked. He tugged at the formal hunter green doublet he must have packed just for this occasion and smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle. “Aye, once or twice,” she said, pretending fascination with a nearby painting. She blinked as the painting came into focus. It was a watercolor of a lilac, one she’d painted herself five years ago. The duke must have moved it from her bedroom after she left. She swallowed down a lump that had formed at the back of her throat. Now was not the time to get sentimental. Sam felt a warm hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright?” Braeden asked quietly. “I’m fine,” she said with more surety than she felt, turning around to face him. She tried to smile, but the scabs on her lips stretched painfully and her attempt turned into more of a grimace. “You still look like you, you know,” Braeden said, his expression unreadable beneath the low brim of his new hat. “He won’t recognize me, I’m sure of it,” she said. Her eyes darted back to the lilac watercolor. “I’ve heard he’s clever, the Duke of Haywood,” said Braeden. “He is clever. Just not…observant.” “Hmph.” “Come on, Tristan’s going to think we’re conspiring against him if we keep to the corner like this.” Sam moved to join Tristan in the center of the room. Braeden grabbed her wrist, halting her in her tracks. “I can help you, if you’ll let me. If something happens.” Sam laughed mirthlessly. “If the duke recognizes me, it’s over. Trust me on that.” “I can help,” Braeden insisted, his grip on her wrist tightening. “I can make him forget you’re even in the room.” Sam raised her hand to touch Braeden’s cheek, but stopped halfway when she felt Tristan’s eyes on them. “You’re a good friend, Braeden,” she said, letting her hand drop to her side. Two circles of red bloomed beneath his high cheekbones. “We’re friends?” “Aren’t we?” Braeden’s lips curved into a rare smile. “Friends,” he agreed. Sam felt something shift between them, but a new voice, once she hadn’t heard in months, interrupted her thoughts before she had the chance to think too deeply on it. “Paladin Lyons, Masters Braeden and Sam,” the voice called with an affected accent – Gillain, her father’s steward. Now there was one person she hadn’t missed, and no doubt the feeling was mutual. Gillain was a pompous, arrogant man who lorded his stewardship over the other servants with a misplaced sense of entitlement. Some of the servants were Sam’s friends, and she’d borne witness to more than one of Gillain’s infamous set downs. She was also convinced that his dignified accent was fake. “His Grace will see you now. If you’ll follow me,” Gillain said importantly, his eyes skimming over their party, weighing and measuring. Sam flinched as the steward’s eyes met hers, and for a horrible second, she thought he saw through the pounds of cosmetics and swollen features. But he stared far longer at Braeden than he did at her, and apart from the pinched disapproval of his mouth, he made no reaction. Sam released air in her lungs she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She’d all but forgotten she needed to fool the castle servants as well as her father. Only her lady-in-waiting was privy to her secret, and even the servants who had been her friends would have a hard time holding their wagging tongues if they recognized her. And then there were the servants like Gillain, who would view her downfall as a personal triumph. As she walked out behind Gillain, Sam felt the tangle of nerves at the pit of her stomach wrap around her chest, all but strangling her heart and throat.  The duke, her father, the only parent she had ever known, would be waiting in the Great Hall, waiting to meet the first Paladin trainee from Haywood in a century. But would he see Sam of Haywood or Samantha? The Duke of Haywood reclined against a canopied chair on the stone dais at the back of the hall. He was as self-possessed as ever, one leg casually draped over the other, a goblet of wine in hand. He wore his hair to his shoulders and his full beard cropped close, as was the style.  He looked the same as she remembered, though when the light glinted on the chestnut of his hair, Sam saw streaks of gray that she’d never noticed before. In profile, the similarities between his features and hers were obvious—at least, when her features weren’t swollen beyond recognition. The prominent nose that was slightly overlarge in her thin face was regal in her father’s. The Haywood nose. All his bastard sons had it. As did his legitimate daughter. “Your Grace,” said Tristan, bowing deeply. Sam almost dipped into a curtsy out of sheer habit, but managed a clumsy bow. “Paladin Lyons…Tristan, my boy, it has been far too long,” the duke said genially. Sam gaped at the familiarity—and warmth—in the duke’s greeting. In her eighteen years, she couldn’t recall a time her father had spoken to her with such affection. “We have much to discuss, you and I. But first, bring your companions to the dais. I am eager to make your trainees’ acquaintance.” Tristan’s hand burned into the small of her back as he guided her and Braeden down the long hall. She heard nothing but the beat of her heart, drumming loudly in her ears. She only realized Tristan was talking to her when she felt his hot breath against her neck. “Introduce yourself to the duke, you idiot,” he hissed behind bared teeth. “Go!” Tristan gave her a small shove, and she almost tumbled into the duke’s lap. “S-sorry, your Grace,” she stammered. She bowed, lower than society dictated, until her nose nearly touched the ground. “Sam of Haywood. It’s an honor.” The duke grabbed her by the chin, dragging her head upwards until they were face to face. His fingers pressed into the sensitive skin around her jaw, and she thought she might pass out from the pain. “Sam of Haywood,” he murmured. Sam stared into vivid green eyes identical to her own. Her body tensed as she waited for those intelligent eyes to fill with recognition, for the anger that coursed through him like a river to bubble up and crash down on her in waves. She waited for him to tell her she was ten kinds of foolish, that she had brought dishonor to him, and more importantly, to Haywood. She waited for him to expose her as the woman that even heavy bruising, men’s garb and seven years of practice couldn’t hide. She waited for him to ruin the tenuous friendships she’d formed with her companions as they learned she had lied to them a thousand times over. But the words didn’t come.