Free The Virgin's War by Laura Andersen

unhurt, but Vicomte LeClerc was shot and killed in the melee. I’m sorry, monsieur,” the soldier said to Felix. “It was pure bad luck.”
    Kit didn’t think so. No doubt Catholic assassins were always happy to try and kill Navarre, but to miss him and just happen to shoot Renaud instead? He didn’t like coincidences.
    “How long ago?”
    “Last night. The rest of the men are seeing to the necessities. We were sent ahead to warn Blanclair.”
    “Why warn us?” Felix asked, too shrewd by half even when traumatized. “If Navarre was the target?”
    Stephen answered. “Because your grandfather went to some lengths to keep his visit to Navarre quiet. The Huguenots have many enemies. He wanted you kept clear of possible reprisals.”
    “Shall we escort you to Tours?” the soldier asked.
    “No. We will see to ourselves. Continue on and let Blanclair know what has happened. Write to Madame Charlotte first of all.”
    “Yes, sir.” The men were trained to obey, even if they thought their orders unwise. When they were out of sight, Stephen brought his horse round so the three of them could talk.
    “We’re not going to Tours, are we?” Felix asked. To Kit, the boy seemed to be all eyes, wide and fixed but dry. For now.
    Kit and Stephen shared a long look, then Kit answered. “Stephen is right. Even if your grandfather’s death was an unlucky accident, there are definitely assassins watching the area. The last thing he would want is to put you in immediate danger.”
    “What about
Tante
Charlotte?”
    Stephen said, “She will be wise. I wrote to her before we left Blanclair, laying out the situation. I do not think anyone will trouble her, not unless we draw attention back that way. The question is, where can we go to keep you safe?”
    “Calais?” Kit mused.
    “We’ll be expected to head to our fellow English, which means we shouldn’t. Nor should we go farther south into Huguenot territory. I suggest we make for Le Havre.”
    “And find a ship? Not easy if you intend to keep us anonymous. We haven’t enough money to both hire a ship and hide our identities.”
    “There is a man in Le Havre who will help us, with very few questions asked. And I have all I need to pay him.”
    Kit raised a skeptical brow as Stephen pulled back his doublet and jerkin to reveal a ruby-set fox pin on his shirt. “Doesn’t look terribly expensive,” Kit said dismissively.
    “It doesn’t have to be. It only has to be unique. There is a man in Le Havre who will accept this pin as payment in full. He will help us with whatever we need.”
    “And who is this very accommodating man?”
    Stephen smiled grimly. “Mariota Sinclair’s business manager.”

A fter a winter spent profitably between Newcastle and York, Maisie Sinclair drew a metaphorical deep breath and, with a nicely judged amount of notice and fanfare, crossed the border and entered Scotland for the first time in four years. On a day of patchy April sun and squalls of freezing rain, she rode into Edinburgh and dismounted before her late grandfather’s house in the Canongate.
    If it had been left to her brother, no doubt the doors would have been locked against her. At the very least the household would have been caught surprised and unprepared for her arrival. But Robert, with all his resentments and dislike, was not solely in control of the Sinclair concerns. And so Maisie was met by well-dressed staff and smiling faces and the full complement of board members who endeavoured to keep Robert from destroying the company his grandfather had so carefully built.
    “Maisie, lass, how you have grown in beauty.” That was Andrew Boyd, his spare figure still upright and elegant despite his sixty years. He had been the late William Sinclair’s partner since the age of twenty-five, and if anyone truly ran the concerns these days, it was Boyd.
    She smiled, and tipped her cheek up to be kissed. “Well, you can hardly claim that I have grown in height.”
    As she