Marie woke hours later, weak and disoriented.
Bess was there, attending to her.
"Where is Lorenzo?" Marie asked weakly.
Bess's expression was pained. "His Highness... has departed, my lady. To the English court. He left the day you fell ill."
Marie's heart clenched. "He left without seeing me?"
"Yes, my lady. He took half the guard. Signor Marcello stayed with the rest to keep you safe."
Marie turned her face away, eyes burning.
After a few days, when Marie was feeling better, Bess approached quietly.
"My lady, I must beg your leave. I have... family matters that require my attention in Scotland."
Marie looked at her, sadness overwhelming. "Of course, Bess. You may go."
Bess bowed and left.
Marie sat alone, feeling the weight of abandonment press down on her. It felt as though everyone she cared about was leaving her, one by one.
He left me. They all left me.
Days crawled past.
Marcello performed his duties perfectly but no longer met her eyes. No longer made conversation. He was present, watchful, dutiful—and utterly cold.
The warmth he had once shown had vanished, replaced by something close to contempt.
At the end of that week, Ann reached her limit.
"We are taking a trip," Ann announced one morning. "To the upstream property. We shall ride, hold a party outdoors, maybe sleep under the stars before winter comes to an end."
Marie welcomed any escape. "That sounds wonderful."
Marcello appeared in the doorway, expression tight. "My lady, I do not think the master would approve—"
"Your master left me without a word," Marie interrupted coldly. "I am free to do as I please."
Ann cut in smoothly. "Unless, Signor Marcello, you think the King's own guards less capable than yours?"
Marcello's jaw clenched. He saw the trap immediately.
Ann would have William in her party regardless. If Marcello refused to let Marie go, it would insult the King's protection—a political disaster.
"I shall have my men ready," Marcello said stiffly.
Ann smiled. "How kind. Though really, only you need come. I am sure Marie would appreciate having her husband's most trusted man there. To keep her safe from... unwanted attention."
The implication was clear.
Marcello bowed sharply. "As you wish, my lady."
In a shadowed alcove nearby, William and Matthew watched.
Matthew's hand clenched his sword hilt, his ruined face still bearing Lorenzo's marks—jaw wired shut, teeth missing, one eye nearly swollen closed.
"Italian bastard," he hissed. "Payback is coming."
William smiled coldly. "I shall admit, I did not expect the prince to fall for it so easily. Ann performed brilliantly. Since Marie could not drink the abortifacient willingly—the taste is too foul—putting it in her bathwater was genius."
Matthew grunted. "So the prince thinks she drank it herself."
"Exactly. And now he is gone, taking the longest route to court, torturing himself with thoughts of her betrayal. Our spies confirmed he left days ago. The King has what he wants: Lorenzo out of the way."
"Why does His Majesty hate the Italian so much?"
William's expression hardened. "Because Lorenzo is a foreigner who refuses to fear him. The King cannot stand anyone who does not grovel. Lorenzo walks into court like he owns it. Makes demands. Challenges His Majesty's authority openly. The King wants him humiliated and sent back to Italy in disgrace. What better humiliation than stealing his wife?"
"So we take her during the upstream party."
"Exactly. During the festivities, Ann's guards—the ones she has carefully placed and paid—shall strike. They shall kill Marcello. We shall grab Marie and make it look like she ran off with me willingly, escaping her brutal foreign husband."
"And then?"
"I ride with her to the King, declare our undying love, beg His Majesty's protection. The King gives us sanctuary and marries us himself. Lorenzo, still at court, shall be powerless to stop it. The alliance crumbles. The Italian goes home with nothing."
Matthew's one good eye gleamed. "And I get Marie."
"You get your time with Marie," William corrected icily. "Our arrangement stands. Triple the fee and you will get more than a few hours during the journey to London, before we reach the King."
"The King wants her presentable. To play the willing bride."
"Right. So do not damage her beyond repair. She has to be able to walk, talk, smile when required."William's voice sharpened. "If you ruin this because you cannot control yourself, we both hang. Clear?"
"Clear,"Matthew said, voice thick with want. "Just a few hours. I only want what the Italian took from me. What should have been mine."
William studied him with distaste.
"How long to London?"
"Three, maybe four days of hard riding. Then the King gets his victory, and Lorenzo learns what happens to those who defy kings England."
The plan was set.
The party left on a crisp autumn morning.
Marie was dressed for riding—high-collared linen shirt, fitted sleeves, riding breeches tailored to her body, tall leather boots.
She looked fierce And devastatingly, heart-stoppingly beautiful.
The shirt emphasized her narrow waist where it tucked into the breeches. Her curves strained against the fabric with each breath. The breeches showed every line, the swell of her hips, the curve of her backside.
Shockingly sensual—Marie dressed nearly as a man, yet still undeniably, overwhelmingly feminine.
That night, the party was loud. Wine flowed freely. Laughter rang beneath the stars.
Marie kept her distance from William, and even more from Matthew, whose broken face was a grotesque reminder of Lorenzo's rage.
She found Ann and squeezed her hand. "Thank you for this. I needed to escape."
Ann's expression flickered—guilt, maybe?—but she quickly masked it. "We are family. Family comes first."
Marcello stayed vigilant, tracking every movement near Marie. But after several cups of wine, even his legendary discipline wavered.
He retired to his tent, walking with the slightly unsteady gait of a man well into his cups, stumbling once or twice for effect.
Later, when Marie started walking toward her own tent, Marcello reappeared.
"My lady," he called softly from a corner
Marie turned, startled.
"Would you mind sleeping in my tent tonight?"
Marie frowned. "Why?"
Marcello, who had been so cold these past weeks, seemed to drop the act. A faint smile touched his lips. "I confess I prefer your more comfortable bed. I am getting too old for these campaign accommodations."
Marie understood immediately—he was doing this for her safety. As she moved to accept, she paused. "I do not understand why you have been so distant with me lately, Marcello. But I am... I am glad to see you behaving normally with me again."
Marcello's expression softened before he simply nodded and gestured toward his tent.
Marie entered the tent and began preparing for sleep. She settled on the long chair near the washing basin, a bucket of water and her bathing sponge at hand.
She drew the sponge across her skin carefully, her hair falling loose around her shoulders as she became lost in thought.
The memory rose unbidden—that night on the bearskin rug. Lorenzo's skin against hers, warm and smooth. The fire crackling. Lorenzo's mouth—God, the way Lorenzo kissed. Her neck, her breasts, everywhere.
Marie's breath hitched.
Then she remembered what came after. Waking to find Lorenzo gone. Not a word. Not a goodbye. Just... nothing.
She shook herself from the memory, jaw clenching with renewed anger. She finished washing quickly.
When she finally settled into Marcello's bed, she had to admit it was bad. Maybe the old man had a point about preferring softer beds.
She closed her eyes.
Deep in the night, Marie stirred.
She felt hands on her face—gentle, deliberate, achingly familiar.
She leaned into the touch instinctively, still half-asleep. But the warmth felt strange. Too real.
Then lips pressed against hers—soft, insistent.
Marie woke fully, her hand shooting beneath the pillow.
Her fingers closed around the small knife hidden there. A gift Lorenzo had given her months ago. "Keep this close," Lorenzo had said. "Always."
As her vision adjusted, she could make out a familiar form looming above her, dressed entirely in black.
"What is wrong with you?" Marie hissed, brandishing the blade. "Why are you even here?"