by Lynn Kurland
He turned around, then walked back into the room he’d just come out of.
Screeches greeted him. He clutched his nose and peered at a perfectly functional solar, a solar with a decorating scheme that wouldn’t have found itself in modern England unless there had been a rope separating its authentic self from overeager tourists. It definitely wouldn’t have contained a serving girl standing near the fire with an iron in her hand, screaming her bloody head off.
He wished, absently, that he could see straight. He was fairly sure it would have made all the difference. He took a careful breath.
“Nope,” he managed. “No. I refuse to accept this. Gideon promised me this wouldn’t happen, damn him to hell!”
The girl standing near the hearth expressed her opinion of his decision with more screams.
He couldn’t begin to guess exactly what time period the vignette he was looking at found itself in, but he supposed it was medieval. He couldn’t go wrong with a few remarks made in Norman French.
That he knew any of that at all was probably something that should have bothered him, but he’d had several years to become accustomed to several things that should have bothered him.
“My apologies, ladies, I am lost,” he said, using one of his standard medieval Norman French openings as he pulled the door shut. The other two were, Nay, seigneur, I am not interested in seeing the inside of your dungeon, and, Yes, and while those are very pretty serving maids, I have a pressing engagement elsewhere. He and Jamie had picked up those, plus many, many others, over several trips to places they probably shouldn’t have gone. He hadn’t intended to need them again.
Damned doorways.
He was tempted to simply linger where he was and see if he couldn’t get what was obviously a time gate to work again, but he didn’t think he would have that luxury. There wasn’t even so much as a hint of magic anywhere near where he stood, and he’d had enough experience with time gates to know what he was talking about.
“I gave all this up yesterday,” he announced to no one in particular.
The empty passageway didn’t offer an opinion. The serving maid on the other side of the door, however, continued to offer hers. Loudly.
He began to hear shouts from a distance. He decided they were coming from his left, so he would go right. He turned and stumbled that direction, wishing he’d paid more attention to the layout of Artane when he’d had the chance. He actually hadn’t intended to need the information because he hadn’t intended to need to make a hasty getaway.
The shouts became louder. He found a door on his right and jerked it open. There was a gasp and a not particularly pleasant smell. The garderobe, obviously, but he didn’t care. Apparently neither did the occupant. He was pulled inside and the door shut and bolted.
“My apologies, demoiselle, I am lost. I’m not interested in seeing the inside of your dungeon,” he added, just to be safe.
“Oh, by the saints,” a feminine voice said sharply, “will you just be silent before they find us both?”
Or words to that effect. He had spent a year in Paris on a grad school exchange and his French was actually very good. His command of the medieval Norman version of it wasn’t, particularly, but he supposed adrenaline was making it better than he probably deserved. All he knew was the curses his companion was muttering weren’t exactly what he’d heard on the street near Notre Dame, so maybe his year in France wasn’t going to be much help after all.
He considered reaching for his dirks, but there wasn’t any room in the privy and he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t pass out if he bent over. Before he could determine how he was going to get his leg up where it would be useful in freeing a knife, the door splintered. He pulled his companion out of the way of the sword that thrust through the opening.
“There’s a woman in here!” he shouted in what he hoped was intelligible language du jour.
The rest of the door was wrenched open suddenly and he was hauled out into the passageway. He fumbled for his erstwhile biffy mate and pulled her out with him. He had only a vague impression of a woman with long, dark hair and a face that was so stunning, he stopped to admire—and earned a fist in his gut as a reward.
He pulled her behind him where he could at least offer some protection, but that didn’t last long. He was facing a passageway full of medieval guardsmen with very sharp swords, and he wasn’t exactly at his best.
He managed to liberate one sword from its owner, but that didn’t do much to level the playing field. He was hopelessly outnumbered, his nose was killing him, and he didn’t have James MacLeod standing back-to-back with him to keep him from being skewered from behind.
He saw two of the men slip past him and reach for the girl. Before he gave it the thought he should have, he turned on them. He didn’t want to leave any sort of body count behind, so he disabled them as gingerly as possible.
“Run,” he shouted at the girl.
Well, that seemed to translate well enough. She looked at him with wide eyes, then backed into the shadows.
He watched her go for a moment, then addressed the matter at hand, which was getting back to the doorway and giving it no choice but to work. He used sword, hands, feet—all the things he had learned from not only Jamie but Jamie’s brother, Patrick, and several of Patrick’s less gentlemanly friends. While those skills bought him a bit of purchase down the passageway, they were no match for half a garrison of hardened medieval knights.
Well, them and the guy behind him who clunked him on the head with the hilt of his sword.
Zachary cursed, then slid helplessly into oblivion.
Chapter 4
Mary stood in the passageway, well out of the circle of torchlight, and gaped. She wasn’t sure what surprised her more, that an unarmed man had managed to hold his own for so long against mailed knights or that he had tried to protect her.
From her own father’s guardsmen.
She considered the complete improbability of that for another moment or two, then crept forward and knelt down next to the men who had been left behind. One of them had already begun to awaken from his stupor. He groaned, then squinted up at her.
“My lady, what befell me?”
“I think, Sir James, that you encountered a wall.”
He sat up and clutched his head. He looked at his drooling comrade, shook him until he regained his senses, then staggered to his feet. His mate managed it a moment or two later, then they lurched down the passageway together, trying mightily to convince themselves that something dastardly had felled them from behind without their having seen it. Mary thought it would be impolite to point out it had been a stranger’s feet to do the like.
She leaned against the wall and looked at the ruined garderobe door. The man had been dressed very strangely, his French had been terrible, and he’d apparently been just as willing as she to use the garderobe as a place to hide. If that wasn’t curious enough, there were yet other things to question. Why had he felt the need to hide from her father’s men? Why had he been in her father’s keep in the first place?
And why had he put himself at risk to protect her from men who would have given their lives as readily for her as they would have for her sire?
It was tempting to find him and have an answer or two, but she didn’t think she wanted to follow him to where he’d no doubt been taken. Artane’s dungeon was a very unpleasant place indeed, one easily secure enough to hold a man who had disabled several of her father’s fiercer lads. He likely deserved to be there for that alone, though ’twas difficult to think poorly of a man who had tried to keep her safe.
She decided she would make a discreet enquiry later, after Theo and Samuel had had the opportunity to do her investigations for her.
She made her way to the great hall to see if she might filch a bit of supper without being seen, then pulled back into the shadows of the stairwell. Supper was indeed being laid, but she decided abruptly that she had no stomach for it. And the reason for that was standing across the ha
ll plying a very loud, noisy bit of what passed for chivalry with him on her father. She couldn’t hear the exact flatteries Geoffrey was spewing, but she could tell how thickly he was layering them on.
And damn Robin of Artane if he didn’t suppress a yawn or two and remain where he was instead of simply looking at Styrr as if he’d lost his wits before turning and going off to find more ale.
She watched her mother come out from the kitchens, then cross the hall to stand next to her husband. Anne of Artane was, Mary had to admit objectively, a vision of loveliness and grace, serene no matter the chaos surrounding her, always a model of everything elegant and refined. Mary always felt a little like a grubby stable boy next to her mother, but her mother never made mention of it and for that she was very grateful.
She watched her father reach for her mother’s hand and tuck it into the crook of his arm. He wasn’t one for overly sentimental displays, though he had been known to offer the occasional gushing flattery to his lady wife—particularly when he thought no one was listening. It was a gruff chivalry, but her mother seemed to find it to her liking.
Mary had never expected that anything akin to it might be plied on her. Indeed, she had never longed for such a thing, not even in her youth when she’d indulged in the occasional bout of dreaming in the hayloft. Or, rather, she hadn’t until her twentieth autumn when she’d seen such a display of courtly gallantry that it had taken her a good year to rid herself of the aftereffects.
One of her father’s former squires, Christopher of Blackmour, had brought his lady Gillian and his small son to visit at Artane. Mary had heard the rumors of the Dragon of Blackmour, of course, and been prepared to see a creature of such fierceness that even she might have stepped back a pace at his approach. He hadn’t disappointed in public, for he was indeed very gruff and stern. But she had watched him a handful of times with his lady when he hadn’t thought anyone marked him, and his tender care of his wife had touched her in a way she hadn’t expected.
After those astonishing displays, she had found herself watching the men in her family. Her uncles, she had discovered, were rather chivalrous souls themselves. ’Twas no wonder her aunts were so content with their lives. There was something quite lovely about having some lad step up to meet harm not because it would give him reason to display his prowess with the sword, or because he might boast about it later and preen under the praise, but only because he had the means to protect a woman he loved.
A bit like that stranger had upstairs.
She realized suddenly that she wasn’t nearly as well hidden as she’d thought. She caught sight of Geoffrey of Styrr looking her way with an expression of triumph on his face, and she drew back instinctively. She stepped backward up the stairs only to run bodily into something that grunted in response. She whirled around to find a cousin standing there. She let out her breath slowly.
“Cousin,” she said.
Connor of Wyckham folded his arms over his chest. “Keeper,” he corrected. “Yours, as it happens.”
“Are you protecting me from Styrr, or myself?”
“Styrr,” he echoed with a snort. “Mary, he couldn’t finish an opponent if the lad were already bleeding from dozens of wounds and all he needed to do was wait. You could best him with a judiciously placed elbow.”
She smiled. “Thank you. And since I’m able to fend for myself tonight, I think I’ll be off now. My head begins to pain me.”
Connor smirked. “I can see why it would, given that your alternative is an evening passed with that babbling woman out there. Your father has a stronger stomach than either of us does.”
Mary nodded. Connor’s words were nothing more than she expected but far less than she could have hoped for. He, like everyone else, had a very low opinion of Styrr’s manliness, but no opinion at all about his nefarious qualities.
She was beginning to wonder if she might be imagining them herself.
That was definitely something she could reflect on at her leisure—hopefully in a keep far away. She slipped past Connor and started up the stairs, already thinking on which set of relatives might welcome a visit. Not a long visit, just one long enough to allow her father to come to his own conclusions about Styrr’s potential to irritate him for the rest of his days. A pity there was no one she could ask to take her—
She came to a halt halfway up the stairs. Of course there was someone she could ask to take her. There was a man no doubt languishing in her father’s dungeon who might be very willing indeed to trade a rescue for an escort. Or perhaps he could be bought. It wasn’t as if she had bags of gold, but she did have enough to bribe him to take her somewhere else. At least she knew the man would be able to keep her safe.
“Mary?”
She cursed under her breath. She’d forgotten she had a shadow.
“Nothing,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m thinking about horseshoes.”
Connor only grunted.
She continued on up the stairs and down to her chamber. Aye, she was now thinking about horseshoes indeed and how much damage one would do to Connor if she brought it down enthusiastically on his head.
She thanked him kindly for his company, then escaped inside her chamber and waited. She would give Connor time to grow hungry and seek out supper, then she would be about a little rescuing. She tucked her braided hair down the back of her tunic and waited for far longer than she thought necessary before she opened her door and peeked out.
Connor was leaning back against the wall opposite her door. She frowned.
“What are you doing still here?”
“I thought it wise, lest Styrr wander down the passageway and find your chamber to his liking.”
“I’m surprised you don’t have your wee brothers here to aid you.”
He shivered. “They make me nervous.”
“Which makes them so desirable as guardsmen,” she said. “Perhaps you should go fetch them to help you in your labors. Or at least go fetch me something to eat.”
“I thought your head pained you.”
“Food will ease it.”
He walked over to stop in front of her. “I don’t like what I see in your eye.”
She sighed lightly. Jackson was pigheaded, Parsival shrewd, and Thaddeus too intelligent for his own good, but Connor de Piaget was all those things combined to unpleasant perfection. He was only a score and one, but he seemed far older than his years. Perhaps that came from having Samuel and Theo as his younger brothers. She would have difficulty in keeping anything from him.
“There’s nothing in my eye,” she said. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”
He studied her for another moment or two. “I’d call it rebellion.”
“Can you fault me for it?” she asked pointedly.
He blew his hair out of his eyes. “There is no reason to fear Styrr.”
“Do you trust him?”
“Nay, but I’m suspicious by nature.”
“And I’m a very good judge of men.”
“You are,” he agreed, “but so is your father. He won’t give you to a lad who doesn’t pass all his tests. He’s refused enough men in the past to prove that.”
“Styrr is burying him in flatteries.”
“Do you think your father will be dazzled by that?” Connor asked with a snort. Then he paused, seemingly unwillingly. “I’m not sure if this will ease you or not, but he has doubled the watches whilst Styrr is here. Perhaps he is uneasy himself.”
Mary suppressed the urge to curse. The more men manning the walls and roaming about the hall, the more difficult she would find it to slip out the front gates with an utter stranger.
But escape she would because she had no other choice. She looked up at Connor and manufactured a look of concern.
“With such a heavy guard below,” she began slowly, “I wonder if you’re sufficient here. Perhaps you should fetch another lad or two?”
Connor drew himself up. “Am I not enough?” he asked stiffly.
“Strange hap
penings are happening in the hall tonight,” she offered. “Don’t you agree?”
He shot her a look of disgust, then turned away. “As if I wasn’t familiar enough already with strange happenings in my own family,” he muttered as he walked away. “Bolt your door,” he threw over his shoulder.
Mary had no intentions of it, but she wasn’t going to tell him as much. “I changed my mind. I think I’d prefer to go to bed,” she called after him. “Don’t wake me, aye?”
He waved a hand without looking back at her.
Mary waited until he had disappeared into the shadows before she made a production of closing the door—with her on the outside of it. She waited until she thought Connor might have gone downstairs before she followed after him. Luck was with her, for she found the hall in an uproar thanks to something untoward Lady Suzanna had found in her stew. Connor made for the front door, which left her free to blend in with servants and go in another direction.
It was a very dodgy trip to the cellars, made all the more hazardous by a brief stop into her father’s solar to filch the dungeon key she knew he kept hidden under the feet of his main coffer. She was rather more grateful than she likely should have been for all the things she had learned from Theo and Samuel.
Key in hand, she continued on to the kitchens, through them, then to the steep passageway that led down to the dungeons located in the foundations of Artane. There were no guards there. Then again, what soul with any wit at all would have wanted to be anywhere near the place? The chill was deadly. She thoroughly regretted having left her cloak behind.
She walked quickly down the passageway to the dungeon. She paused at the door and heard nothing, not even breathing. Perhaps her father had thrown the man out the front gates.
Or perhaps the man was dead.
That thought was more distressing than she’d thought it would be. If he was dead, then so were her recent hopes of an escort away from Artane. She wasn’t comfortable with reducing the poor man to escort alone, but she was more desperate than she wanted to admit. Perhaps he was still senseless. She quickly fitted the key into the lock and pushed the door open.