Blood Between Queens by Barbara Kyle Read Free Book Online

bobbed quick curtsies when they saw her, barely pausing as they continued to scatter lavender and rosemary sprigs from the basket each girl balanced on her hip. Concentrating, they backed up with slow steps, moving away from her down the long room. The perfume of the lavender scented the damp air.
    Yes, she had obediently told Lord and Lady Thornleigh, I will tell Will. I promise . She had lied. She would not tell Will that she had been born a Grenville. The very name made her shiver. She would not tell him—not now, not after they were married, not ever. It horrified her to think what he might have done if she had confessed it to him that night of the fireworks, confessed in all innocence, before she’d known about the feud, the bloodshed. “It was how he lost his father.” The truth would have killed his love. He would never have proposed. It was impossible even to consider telling him now. To tell him would be to lose him.
    She had stopped, waiting for the maids to leave, and looked down at the lavender by her foot to hide the anger that coursed through her again. She had lied to her guardians, but so had they. Was it not a lie to keep the past violence between the two families a secret from her? They should have told her. Should have warned her. Should not have kept her in ignorance like a stupid child. Well, she would not let her chance at happiness with Will be snatched from her. She was not responsible for bad things other people had done.
    She saw no obstacle to keeping her secret. The Thornleighs would not speak of it themselves and would believe what she would tell them in a day or two: that she had told Will the truth and it had made no difference to him. They would gladly let the matter rest there and consent to the marriage, for they had no wish to make it known that they had misled everyone about Justine, about her tainted blood. As for Frances, Justine’s aunt, she would not speak up either. Frances had cut all ties to her Grenville kin when she had married Adam Thornleigh. She wanted no stain from her brother’s treason.
    I can get away with it, Justine thought, her hope crushing any doubt. And why shouldn’t I? Everyone will be happier this way.
    But there was another lie, one lodged deep in her breast like a stone. Eight years ago it had buried itself there. It had burrowed so deep and lay so still, she had given it less and less thought as the months and years passed and eventually had all but forgotten it. Now it shifted, jarred by Lord Thornleigh’s words. “The past died with your father.”
    Restless, she went to the window, crushing the lavender under her shoe. She hugged herself as she looked down on Bishopsgate Street where the rain made a muck of mud and horse dung on the cobbles. Merchants, clerks, and servants moved briskly as they came and went from the Merchant Taylors’ Hall across the street, their shoulders hunched under the downpour. Pack mules plodded, their drovers stoic in the rain. Farmers’ carts clattered.
    She had lied from that very first day when Lord Thornleigh had found her hiding in the stone tithe barn at Yeavering Hall. Lied by what she had not told him—not told anyone—about what she’d seen the night of the fire. She could smell the smoke, remembering. Smoke so acrid it had woken her in her bed at Yeavering Hall, coughing. Servants, woken by it, too, were dashing about in nightdress.
    “It’s the mill! It’s up in flames!”
    “The master’s there!”
    Father! she thought in panic. The household folk rushed down to the river, men and women alike, to see to the blaze. Justine crossed the courtyard in her bare feet, no one stopping her, the last servants dashing past her toward the riverside mill. She could see, over the courtyard wall, the orange glow of the flames, and black smoke billowing against the moon. Cinders, spiraling up . . .
    Later, the servants came straggling back, dazed and exhausted from trying to put out the flames. “The master,” she