“By wits, I assume you mean tits,” Ryon replied dryly.
Lyle shrugged. “Wits, tits—either are impressive really. Especially in combination.” He tossed the scroll back on the desk. “I didn’t send that nor did I write it. Though someone’s been studying my handwriting because it’s awfully similar.” He walked to the door and called forth a guard to fetch a doctor.
“I didn’t think you did write it. Of course, I didn’t discover that until after I’d been shot.” Ryon was no threat to Lyle and they both knew it. Besides, if the king wanted him dead, he wouldn’t hire some young punk to do it. He’d have a trained assassin from his own personal guard do it quietly in his sleep, probably with a deep gash across the throat leaving him to choke on his own blood.
Morbid thoughts tonight.
I have been shot.
It was a mood killer. Especially coming down from the high he’d felt from being with Penelope today.
“Welcome to the party, my friend. Someone wants you dead,” Lyle said, almost sounding happy at the news. He even dared to laugh at the situation.
Ryon growled, then stumbled into a chair before he collapsed. “You make jokes about me being shot.” Honestly, he wasn’t really mad at his friend; it felt good being ribbed by him. Better than being dead anyway.
“They must not have been very good at their job. I take it he’s no longer living then?”
A nod. “You’ll find him in Karl Christenson’s old cabin.”
“I’ll have that taken care of straight away. I suppose the next question is, who wants you dead?”
Ryon didn’t hesitate. He already knew who was behind this. No one else would dare or be so cowardly as to hire someone to kill him.
“Patrick Gaines. The duke.”
Lyle chuckled as he tossed back a gulp of wine. “Eh, he wants my job. I’d sign it over to him if I didn’t think he’d ruin the kingdom. And perhaps if I didn’t hate him. He wants the pomp, but not all the work involved. Besides, he’s not king. I am.”
Ryon sensed there was more to the story than that. But he wouldn’t press his friend.
“I’m happy you’re enjoying this so much, however, I’ve been shot and am currently bleeding to death.”
“Ah, speaking off.” A rapt knock at the door and Lyle called out for the person to enter. A medic stepped forward and started with ordering Ryon to lie on the ground.
“Pull up your shirt,” the medic ordered, her eyes busy and professional. She was older with a head full of graying hair and sharp eyes and steady hands. She got to work on the wound. “I’ll have to pull the bullet out. It’s stuck near the back.”
So that’s what I’ve been feeling.
“Of course you do,” he said instead. He grimaced, the pain boiling in his gut like acid. Damn.
Lyle stood over him smoking another cigarette, a goblet of wine in his other hand. He looked like a regular debaucher. Bastard.
“Want me to bring ole’ Patrick in for questioning?” Lyle asked casually.
Questioning probably meant something closer to interrogation to Lyle. “No.”
“And why not? You think he’s conspiring to kill you, right?”
The medic kept her expression neutral as they debated.
“If I’m correct, then he’ll be at the Claiming tomorrow. I’ll defeat him in the ring.”
Lyle looked skeptical. “Even after getting shot?”
Ryon steeled his face, hardened inside. “Especially after getting shot.” That bastard was his.
Chapter 11
The day of Penelope’s Claiming was finally here.
If all went according to plan, she and Ryon would be embracing by nightfall, as intimate as a man and woman could be. They stood to pass far more than a physical barrier that lie between them. The Claiming would further establish the bond that had been growing between. No matter how fervently she’d tried to deny it.
She thought she’d feel excitement, refreshed and ready to watch Ryon challenge others for her hand in marriage. If there were any others. The Duke of Gaines had made his intentions more than clear on one occasion, but still, the duke seemed fickle. Who knew what was on his mind. Ryon, on the other hand, loved her. There was little doubt in Penelope’s mind that before the night was over, she would be claimed by Ryon, and fall asleep in his wonderful arms.
Sleeping in his arms? She could roll her eyes at her wistfulness. Already she was romanticizing the event. She couldn’t help it. She felt love-sick. Drunk on passion and thoughts of Ryon, and of their future. For the first time, she was beginning to see more to Ryon than she had thought, which made her respect and admiration for him and what he did for their people, expand by the minute. Like a sprouting weed that refused to die.