Behind Closed Doors by Betina Krahn

Author:Betina Krahn
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Zebra Books
Published: 2019-09-08T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

The evening drew on, and tension rose as the time for the bedding approached. At Elizabeth’s nod, Anne and old Lady Cobham claimed Corrie from Rugar’s side and escorted her out to prepare her for the bridal bed. Things became steadily more strained as wine cups were drained again and again, and Rugar glanced ever more frequently toward the door where Corrie had disappeared. It seemed an eternity before the archbishop took note of the late hour and proposed one last toast to send the bridegroom on his way.

Freed at last, Rugar bowed handsomely to the queen and to the company, then beckoned Torgne to follow and strode out into the wide, arched hallway.

“It’s damned well about time!” He grinned, his heart racing at the thought of Corrie waiting at the end of that hallway. He grabbed Torgne’s arm and drew him to a halt. “You’ll keep watch outside the door?”

Torgne gave him a sour look. “Only if you swear you’ll keep it quiet. I do not intend to pass the night on a cold stone floor, listening to you . . . pleasure your bride.”

Rugar grinned. “I’ll do the same for you someday.”

“You’ll never have to. Your experience has cured me of women altogether. Court women are too loose, and virgins are far too treacherous,” Torgne grumbled. Rugar laughed.

“And my package?”

Torgne looked startled and glanced back over his shoulder. “I must have left it . . .”

“I can’t have a proper wedding night without a gift for my bride,” Rugar declared. Torgne huffed in disgust and turned back to retrieve it while Rugar strode on alone. His blood was humming, his mind fixed on Corrie and on the unexpected delight of knowing that she belonged to him.

As he passed a cross-hall, he heard a scuffling noise off to the right and turned to look, coiling from defensive habit. But the hallway to his right was empty and dark.

It was out of the left hallway, behind him, that three burly figures suddenly sprang at him and bashed him over the head. His knees buckled, and he crumpled into a heap on the stone floor. His grizzled, rough-clad attackers paused, listening and peering up and down the hallways, seeming confused. After a cursory search of the passage, they dragged his limp body down the side hall to a little-used set of servants’ stairs.

Within the space of a few heartbeats, all trace of Rugar Kalisson was gone.

Torgne retrieved the small, cloth-wrapped package which he’d left on the banquet table, nodded again to the queen, and hurried out to catch up with Rugar. But the corridor was empty, and though he followed it all the way to the end, there was still no sign of his friend. He retraced his steps, recalling uneasily the queen’s dark looks, when a rasping male voice burst upon his ears from a side hallway.

“The baron, pisshead,” the voice scraped harshly, “where the hell is he?” Torgne darted to the wall and flattened against it. Then, inching slowly forward, he peered around the corner.

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