Paladin

Chapter 19 Part I

Tristan removed his hand from the viper’s hip--the forward woman had put it there herself. “My lady—“ he began, unsure of how best to put her off.

 “Call me Lilah.”

“Your Grace, we both know that’s not your real name.”

The duchess of Catania pouted prettily. “It is for tonight.”

Tristan sighed. “My lady, there is no denying you are a beautiful woman—“

“Thank you, Paladin,” she purred, attempting to entwine herself around him.

“—But I am certain His Grace would not approve of our entanglement.” Tristan gripped her gently by the shoulders, holding her at bay.

The duchess snorted indelicately. “His Grace and I have an understanding,” she said. “And I do so love what the Paladins do for our country. Surely you deserve to be rewarded for your service.”

Tristan was fed up with her coquettishness. “Find another Paladin to so reward. Or better yet, find your husband.” He skimmed the room, looking for Sam and Braeden, and found Sagar instead. He took the proffered lifeline. “Excuse me, but I think I see an old friend.”

Sagar was well in his cups, and after enduring twenty minutes of his incoherent babbling, Tristan decided it was time to leave. “Have you seen my trainees?” he asked. He thought he’d seen a glimpse of Sam while the duchess still had her claws in him.

“Who? Oh, the lad with the funny eyes and the short one with the mouth?” Sagar scratched his head, an intense look of concentration on his face. “Think I saw ‘em leave together.”

“Nice of them to tell me,” Tristan grumbled.

Sagar elbowed him hard in the ribs. “Can’t blame ‘em. You didn’t look like you wanted interrupting.”

“I would have appreciated the interruption,” he said. “I better go after them and make sure they don’t get into any trouble.”

“You’ve turned into a right prude, you know that?” said Sagar. “You used to be the one causing trouble, not the one cleaning it up. ‘Tis a sad day for the Paladins to have lost the great Tristan Lyons to respectability. Think I might need to have me another drink to toast his passing.”

Tristan bit his tongue to prevent saying something he’d regret. “Have a good night, Sagar.”

A number of others – both men and women – stopped Tristan as he maneuvered towards the tavern’s exit, but he spoke to them just long enough to be polite before extricating himself from the conversation. He had no idea where his trainees were, he was relatively sober in a room full of drunkards, and he was in a bear of a mood. If he was being honest with himself, he had been in a foul mood for over a week. Lady Samantha’s death had affected him far more than it should, though only the gods knew why.

It was already well past midnight when he finally escaped the party, which despite the late hour showed no signs of abating. He made his way upstairs and to his room without disruption, hesitating behind the door that separated his room from Sam and Braeden’s. It was late but, damn it, they should have told him they were leaving. He knocked.

Sam answered the door, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He blinked a few times before registering Tristan.

A long silence passed between them. Sam’s eyes traveled up Tristan’s body, from his rumpled tunic to his face. A flicker of something passed behind Sam’s eyes – sadness or disappointment, Tristan wasn’t sure. He resisted the urge to smooth out the wrinkles in his shirt. He’d done nothing to be ashamed of—if anything, he’d been unusually well-behaved. He turned down a damn duchess, for the gods’ sake, not that he had to explain himself to his own trainee.