by Lynn Kurland
His command was absurd. There was naught to see in the inky black. Nonetheless, she offered him her hand.
She hadn't noticed the pain before, only a cool numbness. In the midst of deadly peril the injury had seemed the least of her worries. Now, as he tenderly cupped the underside of her hand, she grew aware of a deep throbbing ache underlying the sharp sting of torn flesh.
She sucked her breath between her teeth as he carefully examined her fingers one by one. When he tugged on the fourth one, she gasped in pain.
" 'Tis cracked, but I think not broken," he told her. "Have you a linen underskirt?"
She started at his intimate question.
"I'll need to make a bandage," he explained. "I don't intend to claw our way out of here only to have you bleed to death." His words were grim, but his tone was teasing, and she was glad of his gruff care. "If you'll allow me?"
She withdrew her hand and steeled herself as he crouched before her. His fingertips brushed her bare ankle before they found the hem of her underskirt, sending an enticing warm quiver up her leg. Then he shredded the flimsy fabric, and she winced as the loud ripping split the quiet of the cavern.
His hands upon her wrist were massive, but far from clumsy. Forsooth, he handled her with such tenderness that she wondered if he oft performed such tasks. She supposed a knight-errant, traveling alone from tournament to tournament, battle to battle, would have to know how to bandage his own wounds.
He wrapped the linen lightly about her hand, enclosing her fingers in a mitten gauntlet of cloth. His head bent over her hand while he worked, as if he could perform the task better by at least pretending to see. She shivered as his slow, measured breaths crossed the back of her wrist.
She wondered again what he looked like. He'd said he was dark and plain, but forsooth, she couldn't imagine him possessing anything less than godlike features by his rugged, masculine voice and his calming touch.
Where had he come from? And why had he joined her father's forces? She couldn't fathom her father hiring a mercenary. He had ample knights of his own. Then again, Sir Rag hadn't specifically said that he fought for her father. Mayhaps he'd only been passing by when the siege…
A strange chill settled upon her shoulders like a blanket of snow. Where had he come from? There was only one passageway leading from the castle.
"There, my lady," he said lightly when he'd finished, "as good as new."
Her heart thumped ominously in her chest. "How did… how did you come to be… next to the passageway?"
He stilled, for a moment seemed to vanish, so quiet was he.
"How did you come to be under the wall?" she asked with bated breath.
He cleared his throat, but her mind raced ahead of his reply. Of course. He wasn't one of her father's men. He'd come from outside the castle.
Her breath rasped against her ribs, and her words sounded hollow in her ears. "You… you were undermining the castle."
His lack of a response damned him.
Fear tripped bitterly on her tongue, and her words came out on a thin wisp of breath. "God's blood—you fight for him. You fight for The Black Gryphon."
four
Hilaire staggered backward, stumbling over the rocky ground, groping behind her with her good hand. She had to get away, get away from him before he…
"Fear not, my lady. I—"
"Nay!" she shrieked, blocking blindly before her with her bandaged arm. "Stay back!"
She heard him step toward her, and fright made her throat go dry. Two threats menaced her now—the darkness and her enemy—and she was cornered between them.
"My lady…"
"Get away from me!"
"I promise you…" He took another pace forward.
"Nay!" she screeched. Her heart hammered against her ribs as the two evils closed in, one promising to swallow her, the other promising…
"I won't harm you."
The sharp ledge pricked her back as she retreated to the limits of her prison. "Nay!" she hissed, cringing back against the wall. "Please."
"Fear not," he assured her, continuing his stealthy advance.
"Please," she whispered.
But all at once, he grasped her wrist.
"Nay!" she gasped, struggling wildly in his grip.
"My lady," he said, tightening his hold, "trust me."
"Let me go," she breathed, twisting her fingers in panic.
"I can't do that."
"Then leave me here," she bargained. Fear pitched her voice high, and she raced over the words. "Go on without me. Tell him I've died. I'll pay you. I'll pay you well."
"I made a vow."
"You vowed to see me safe." Lord, he was strong as a bull. Why could she not pry free? "Yet you'll hand me over to him. You'll give me to The Black Gryphon."
"My lady, I give you my word…"
"The word of an enemy?" Her voice was brittle with fright.
"My word as a knight. I vow I will not force you to anything against your will."
"But you are vassal to him. You are beholden to that… that beast!" she cried.
He released her so abruptly she nearly tumbled backward. Then, with a deep sigh of exasperation, he stepped away from her.
She was free. He'd let her go. She waited for a wave of relief to wash over her. But it never came. He'd loosed her, aye, but she still languished in the dark, trapped, frightened. And now she'd alienated her sole source of comfort. She'd doused her only light against the darkness.
Catching her breath, she wrapped her arms about her. Empty and cool, they were little consolation. She sought and found her harp and hugged it fiercely to her chest. But it, too, gave her no ease. And as she tried in vain to re-create the succor Sir Rag had offered her, the shadows of the night seemed to creep closer and closer.
He didn't seem to notice them. He'd begun to grapple again with the wall, gouging away steadily. But she felt their presence, tangible, menacing. She felt the weight of them, pressing in on her, feeding on her fear. Her heart fluttered, her breathing grew shallow. And as the dark wraiths advanced with their ebony cloaks to smother her, Sir Rag's digging grew distant, muffled, until the sound echoed curiously like the scratching of a rat in a hollow log. The edges of reality blurred into watery waves of black, then disappeared altogether.
She'd fainted. Or died. She wasn't certain which. The world was tipped askew. She lay flat on her back, and swirls of gray and silver, coal and pewter danced on an ethereal current before her eyes.
"My lady!" His whisper was urgent, anxious.
She moaned as a fierce throbbing in her head suddenly commanded her attention. Nay, she wasn't dead. Unless this was the punishment of hell.
He smacked her lightly now, clapping her cheeks with his rough palms until annoyance shredded the last of the silvery cobwebs from her eyes and she dizzily sat up.
"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice tense.
"I will be if you'll cease beating me," she bit out.
Her complaint evidently spurred great relief in him, for he let out a shuddering sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his being.
"I feared…" he began.
She waited, breathless. She knew what he feared. He'd feared she was dead. She prayed he wouldn't say it.
"I feared you'd steal all the air with your snoring," he said, and his words, so unexpected, so knavish, took a moment to register.
"Snoring!" she cried. "I do not…"
She shoved in his general direction and successfully toppled him. But the sweetness of triumph was naught compared to the sweetness of his laughter reverberating in the cave. It was a low rumble, deep and rich, like well-ripened mead. And though he offered but a sip of it, she curiously longed to taste more.
But he was the enemy, she reminded herself. He would turn her over to The Black Gryphon as soon as they were free. If they ever got free. She swallowed at the sobering thought.
Yet, until they escaped, they were jailed in this prison together, helpless, fighting fo
r the same liberty. In sooth, for the moment he seemed civil enough. He wouldn't harm her. He had no cause to harm her. At least not yet.
And, she realized with a sudden trip of her heart, Sir Rag was not unpleasant, for a foe. Actually, he was rather congenial, warm, and chivalrous, but for that remark about her snoring. And even that brought a brief smile to her lips. The man was obviously no lack-wit.
Aye, she thought, Sir Rag had given her succor and brought a twinkle to her eye. He had mocked neither her tears nor her fainting, but had gallantly offered her what comfort he could. How could she long despise him?
She could not. They were allies waging a war against a common enemy. So she'd fight beside him. For now.
Ryance still shook like a newborn foal. It was absurd. Aye, for one terrible moment, he'd thought she was dead. The dull thud as she hit the ground and her awful stillness when he flung himself to her side had hammered his heart up into his throat, where it seemed to lodge until he heard her breathe again.
But they were dying anyway. What did it matter if she fainted now? After all, sleep might spare her the unbearable thirst and paralyzing lethargy surely to come.
Yet what he'd almost said to her, what he'd almost admitted aloud was not that he'd feared she was dead. It was that he feared she'd left him.
As hardened as he should be to his own curse, to his own failings, he couldn't bear to lose another woman. Damn the Fates—if he did naught else on Earth ere he died, he'd at least redeem his soul by fulfilling this final vow. If it wracked his body and broke his spirit, he would see her out of this hell.
With renewed vigor, he attacked the wall, pounding and scraping as if demons chased him. To his astonishment, in a moment Hilaire joined the battle, fighting beside him. Soon the sounds of their frayed breathing filled the cave, punctuated by blows of rock on rock and grunts of exertion.
They might have gone on silently, wrapped up in their own thoughts, digging away until they either broke through to freedom or ran out of air. But an overwhelming need to enlighten Hilaire gnawed at Ryance like a rat. For pride or honor, he simply couldn't let her believe what she believed about him.
"He is not a beast," he murmured between blows, before he had the chance to think better of it.
"What? Did you say something?"
"The Gryphon." He continued to dig. "He is only a man. He would not harm you."
She sniffed. "He drowned his first wife and child."
The image came to him unbidden—his darling Mary and their daughter, Katie, frolicking upon the daisy-strewn lap of a May meadow. Katie had been the light of his life, Mary, the first woman he'd ever loved. And the last.
That year, the river had run high, swollen by spring rains till it swept and whirled toward the sea with delirious speed, the grasses and trees grown green and lush on the bounty.
Little Katie had called him a big black bear. He'd growled and stomped after the giggling pair, his wife and his daughter, and they'd dashed off to hide among the thick hedge and saplings along the river's edge. That had been his last happy memory with them. In the next painful moments, the two of them, his precious ladies, simply disappeared.
A crofter found them hours later, pulled them from the river. By then their faces were as pale and lifeless as linen. Their hair, bedecked with bits of twigs and leaves and weeds, wrapped around their drenched bodies like fishing net.
His voice grew husky with the memory. "Aye, they were drowned, but not by his hand. 'Twas an accident. He tried to save them. He did everything he could to…" To his horror, a wretched sob stuck in his throat. He swallowed it down like tough venison. "He tried to save them."
Hilaire made no reply. He wondered if she believed him. He wondered if he believed himself. He'd gone over the events a thousand times in his head. He'd chided himself for chasing them that day, for letting them out of his sight, Lord—for even allowing them out of doors. He'd searched wildly for them afterward, diving into the icy water time and time again, bellowing their names till his voice grew hoarse and he could call them no longer. Yet he was still racked with the harrowing obsession that he could have done more.
"You seem to know The Gryphon well," she said quietly.
"Nay. I've only heard what others say, those who knew him… before."
"Before?"
He thought of the lad he'd once been, and an ache filled his throat, like the profound longing for a departed loved one. He'd been happy once, full of life, eager and ambitious and brimming with young dreams. He'd made men laugh and maidens sigh. Now he only inspired fear.
"Before… he was cursed," he grumbled.
He wrenched a stone from its earthen bed. There was no point in dwelling on the past, on dreams that were long dead.
Hilaire bit her lip. Somehow she'd offended Sir Rag. She could tell by the violence with which he tossed bits of stone aside. He obviously didn't wish to talk about his overlord. He clearly bore some loyalty for his beastly master. Perhaps he was irritated with her for threatening to break her betrothal, or perhaps he was only angry with her for talking when she should have been digging.
She sniffed. She was doing her best, considering the wall was as hard as marble and she could only dig with one hand. As for squirming out of marriage, she supposed it was not very worthy of a lady, but contrary to what Sir Rag believed, there must be a kernel of truth in the gruesome tales about The Black Gryphon, and she had no intention of discovering it at her own peril.
So she redoubled her efforts, using a pointed rock to chip away at the soil; and she kept quiet, neither wishing to disturb her rescuer nor draw undue attention to her own shortcomings.
They worked side by side for what seemed like an hour, the only sounds their driven breathing, the dull thud of rock on earth, and the low rattle of his chain mail.
Earlier she'd shivered in the passageway. Now she was drenched in sweat. Salty drops rolled down her brow and stung her eyes, and her bandaged hand throbbed in pain. The air felt thick, and yet it was hard to draw enough of it into her lungs. She wondered what it felt like to suffocate. She was frightened. She didn't want to die.
Tears came unsought again. It seemed there was no end to the well of weeping. She tried valiantly to hide them from him. She didn't wish for him to think her a spineless milksop. He already considered her cowardly in running from her betrothed. She'd be damned if she'd disappoint him further.
"You need rest," he said, startling her.
"Nay, I'll be…" Her voice caught.
He wrapped his fingers around her forearm, and gently pulled her away from the wall.
"You need rest," he repeated. " 'Twill save the air."
She squeezed her eyes shut tightly. It was as she feared. Already they were running out of air. Already they were dying. She reined in her panic only by force of sheer will. And still a great sobbing gasp escaped her.
Suddenly both of her arms were clasped in his hands, and she could feel the weight of his blind gaze upon her.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, apologizing for her tears.
He bit out a quiet curse. Then to her astonishment, his hand crooked around the back of her neck, and he pulled her to his chest. The foreign scents of iron and leather filled her nose as he held her against his hauberk, and yet his arms, his enemy arms, lent her curious comfort.
He wasted no breath in chiding her, nor did he ply her with words of solace. He only held her, stroking her hair with one hand while she buried her sobs against his wide chest.
She should have felt shame, she supposed, blubbering her salty tears all over the poor man's armor. Yet he chivalrously made no mention of it. Forsooth, she felt so calmed by his embrace—the strength of his body, the gentleness of his hand, the warmth of his ragged breath upon her face—that she forgot for a short while that he was her foe.
Ryance felt the stone rampart surrounding his heart shudder as the woman nestled closer to him, as if she relied upon him, as if she belonged there.
What had made him reach for her
, he didn't know. It was no concern of his if she wept. She'd likely weep a pond's worth of tears before the ordeal was over. And yet taking her in his arms had seemed the right thing to do.
Now he was certain it was a mistake. She brought back too many memories, too much pain. Her soft sobbing snagged at his heart. The sweet scent of her hair insinuated its way into his soul. And the feel of her body against his,warm, innocent, trusting—was almost more than he could bear.
How long had it been since someone, anyone, had given him such trust, such belief? Oh aye, his men believed in him. They believed The Black Gryphon was a fierce and fearless warrior. They wagered daily on that belief with their lives. But no one had trusted him, Ryance, for a long time.
Nor should they, he thought bitterly. No woman should welcome his cursed embrace, and if Hilaire knew what was good for her…
Yet she felt so perfect in his arms. For one greedy instant he closed his eyes and imagined she was his, all of her—her silken tresses, her soft voice, her pliant body. The sweet vision nearly crumbled the bastion of his heart.
And then he let her go.
If perchance her soft moan was one of protest, he didn't wish to know. He set her gently aside.
"Tell me…" he croaked, barely able to speak across the empty space her sudden absence created. "Tell me about your family." If he kept her talking, she'd be less likely to dwell on the troubles at hand. And perhaps her chatter would distract him from his own foolish imaginings.
"My family?" Her whisper was rough, groggy, as if she'd just awakened. He didn't want to think of the sensual image it conjured.
"Aye," he said, turning again to delve at the wall and trying to lighten his tone as he spoke over his shoulder. "What is your father like when he's not a commander of men?"
"Oh. He is a good man," she said dreamily, "honest and fair. Just, but very firm."
"Ah. But I'd wager you have him dining from your fingers."
Her low giggle surprised him. "How could you tell?"
"I had a daughter once."