He wondered what his father would think of that and knew ’twould have been a fearsome disappointment to the man who believed he founded a dynasty here at Airdfinnan.
“How can you leave them all?” he asked abruptly, interrupting Jacqueline’s tale.
“What do you mean?”
“You are surrounded by a family and ’tis clear you regard them with affection. How can you surrender that to become a novitiate?”
“How did you leave your family?”
“I believed I had to, to save them, but you have no such reason. You know that they will not be permitted to visit you nor you to visit them. You will have no tales of them, you will not even know if they bear children, if they wed, when they die.”
“You echo my mother.” She sounded stubborn. “I made the best choice for me with all I knew at the time.”
“And now?”
“What person of merit retreats from their word?”
“A person who has learned to appreciate what they might lose.”
“I told you that a woman could only choose between the convent and the altar.” Her voice was resonant with challenge. “I cannot see that there is any other alternative for me. My choice is made and I embrace it fully.”
He suspected then what she wanted of him, what under other circumstances, he might have readily granted. But Jacqueline would not have an alternative presented from him, for he had naught to offer her. Angus waited in silence, knowing she deserved a man who could give her all the treasures known, who could make her happy, who could ensure her safety and well-being.
While association with him had only brought her to a dungeon from which she would probably not escape. It seemed he had already done sufficient damage without promising her what he could not grant.
He did not take what was not his to take, and he did not guarantee what was not his to give. ’Twas as simple as that.
Angus felt Jacqueline watching him, until finally she heaved a sigh. He heard her climb the stone steps to the trap door and push against it impatiently. Angus did not tell her that ’twould not open—she knew the truth of it. She knocked and shouted, but there was no response.
“You would think that he would at least address us,” she said irritably. “He could sentence us, or order our death. ’Tis most vexing to be ignored.”
“He will not suffer there to be an opportunity for his men to be swayed by the truth.”
“You cannot mean that we will be left here to simply starve!”
“It may be thirst that claims us first.” Angus shivered despite himself for his garments were still wet and the coldness of this place was troubling him. Perhaps he would take an ague and die first.
That gave him a thin hope. “If I die first, you must be certain to tell them so.”
“’Tis hardly likely that you will die first. You are larger than I am and more robust.”
“And I am wet and chilled to the bone. Nay, Jacqueline, ’twill be me and I will have your pledge that you will tell them of it.” Angus did his best to convince her of the merit of this scheme. “When you do, you will do your utmost to persuade them that you do not believe I was Angus MacGillivray. Do you understand?”
He should have known better than to expect easy compliance. She strode down the stairs, made her way unerringly to him and poked him hard in the chest. “You will not die! I shall not permit it.”
Angus chuckled. “I had no idea you had such influence.”
“Do not mock me in this!” She struck his shoulder and the wet cloth smacked against her hand. “You are wet.”
“Aye. This is what comes of lurking in a drain for hours on end.”
“And you would stand here, like a fool, waiting for illness to descend upon you.”
“It would seem to make little difference.”
“It makes every difference. Now, shed your garb and shed it now.”
“I will do no such thing.”
“You will not be shy in complete darkness, not after what we have done together and not when your very life is at stake.”
“You will not dictate what I shall do.”
“I will, if you are fool enough to not follow sense yourself.”
And he had been witless enough to think her faint of heart. Had that been only days ago? Jacqueline certainly showed no such shyness now.
“It matters not,” Angus began to argue, but she seized his chemise in her hands and tore it from his chest. ’Twas already half-shredded by his own actions, but still her action startled him.
“Stubborn wretch of a man,” she muttered.
Angus protested but her hands were on his wet chausses and he chuckled at her determination as he caught her hands in his own. ’Twas not all bad to have someone care for his welfare again. “I see that you will not be swayed. Perhaps you might leave me some garb.”
“Only if you discard it.”
“Ah, vixen, for it has been long since a woman tore my garments from my back in her lust to have me naked.”
She gasped in outrage and Angus wished he could have seen her blush.
“You will not shock me into retreating on this,” she whispered with heat. “I would see you well, Angus, and there is no argument you can make to dissuade me.”
There was naught a reasonable man might say to that. He shed his chausses and wrung them out, the water dripping coldly on the stone floor even as he stood nude in the darkness. He heard Jacqueline doing something but could not guess what, until she laid her palm in the middle of his chest.
“You are too cold, so turn and brace your hands upon the wall.”
He did so, uncertain of her plan, and she began to rub him down, as though he was a warhorse who needed to be rid of his sweat. The cloth she used itched as wool did and launched heat over his flesh in a most pleasurable way. Indeed, she warmed him truly. When her breasts brushed against his arm with only a whisper of linen between them, he knew she used her own kirtle.
“Where did you learn to do this?”
“My mother insists upon doing thus with those unfortunates who inadvertently fall into the sea. She believes that invigorating the skin coaxes the body to recover from the shock.”
“A most practical woman.”
“What works for horses, as my mother says, will work for men.”
“Your mother is fond of horses?”
“As am I. She hunts often, with a peregrine as they do in France, but I have no taste for the hunt. I prefer to simply ride.”
“And you tend your own steed.”
“Of course! The grooming builds a bond betwixt rider and steed.”
“According to your mother?”
“Aye.”
“She has taught you well, and must have learned herself of horses from men who are accustomed to relying upon their steeds.”
“Her family are nobly born. My uncle is a knight and a lord, both my father and first step-father were knights, as well. I had never quite believed her tales of destriers and their size until I saw Lucifer.”
“He is a fine beast.”
Her hands stilled. “Where is he truly from?”
“Damascus. He was bred in Damascus.”
She leaned so close that he felt the fan of her breath. “Why did you call it hell?”
“Because ’twas my hell.”
“How so?”
“Do you always ask so many questions?”
“If I waited for you to tell me of things, I should never learn anything at all,” she accused, amusement underlying her words. “Indeed, I might die of curiosity.”
“I had no idea it could be a fatal affliction.”
She laughed and leaned against him. “Which reminds me—how did that sentry obtain your cloak?”
Angus could see naught in his comment that might remind her of his cloak. “He stole it from me.”
“And you pretended to be a leper.”
“I am not such a fine sight that ’twas difficult to persuade him of it.”
She chuc
kled again, tapping her fingers on his shoulder. “I must tell you that you sorely troubled him. He was scratching himself in the hall as though he was truly afflicted. I would not be surprised if his own fears forced sores to rise on his flesh.”
“And you are much amused.”
“He stole your cloak and I feared he had killed you for it.” She spoke fiercely. “He deserves to suffer for his crimes.” And she returned to rubbing his back with such vigor that Angus feared she would scrape the hide from his bones.
But he had neither the will nor the heart to stop her. It had been a long time since any fretted over his welfare and he was inclined to do anything that might encourage her to continue her chatter.
“So, why was Damascus your hell?” she asked pertly, and nigh dismissed his good intent with but a few words.
“Because I was imprisoned there. Cease your rubbing, I am quite dry enough.” He turned but she retreated, keeping the wool from his grasp.
“Why?”
“I will not tell you of it.”
“For how long?”
Angus propped his hands upon his hips. “You are a cursedly stubborn woman, wherever you are.”
“I seek only the truth.”
“And you will not have it. I will not speak of that place.” He was resolute and she must have heard the truth of it in his tone.
“Then tell me of Lucifer. How did you come by him?”
“There is no wager here. I do not have to tell you one thing or the other. Indeed, I do not have to tell you anything.”
“Then we shall sit in silence and wait to die. Aye, that is a far finer plan,” she retorted more sharply than he might have expected. “Let us feel the hours drag by with agonizing slowness and brood upon naught but our own misfortune. Perhaps we will perish sooner for such a resolute refusal to aid ourselves, even if it does feel to be a much longer time.”
Angus said naught to that. ’Twas undoubtedly better that she was vexed with him. He was far too aware of her presence, of her fragility, of the threat he could pose to her when his terrors assaulted him.
He knew they would find him here.
’Twas only a matter of time.
Angus looked and discovered that the thin line of light had gone. He swallowed, all too aware that darkness fell in truth. He would stay awake as long as he could, for ’twas in sleep that the greatest fears attacked.
He must ensure that Jacqueline was as far from his side as possible. He knew not what he would do when the demons of memory claimed him and he would loathe himself if he struck at her, thinking he fought some vision from his past.
Jacqueline sighed and spoke more tentatively than was her wont. She was always prepared to put sharp words behind them, and ’twas a trait he much admired. “I would thank you for coming to my aid, however I have compromised your intent. ’Twas noble of you to try to save me.”
“I did not come for you,” Angus lied, deliberately keeping his tone harsh. “As you undoubtedly recall, I had already released you from my own captivity. ’Tis not my responsibility to ensure your safety for all time.”
“I see.” Her tone turned irritable. “Then why are you here?”
“I came to retrieve Lucifer, of course. The beast was wickedly expensive and I can ill afford to lose him.” He sighed as though troubled by lesser matters than he was. “Though it seems again that he is aptly named. This folly may well cost my soul.”
Her silence was eloquent.
Indeed, Angus nearly winced from it.
“I had no idea,” she huffed finally. He heard a rustling, as though she drew her kirtle over her head once more. Angus had no doubt that she faced him, with her chin thrust in the air. “I will say goodnight, then, and wish you pleasant dreams.”
’Twas better this way, Angus reminded himself, though that did naught to ease his certainty that he was a lowly cur. He donned his damp clothes and braced his back against the wall, seating himself upon the stairs that he might watch for the first glimmer of dawn.
And in his weakness, when the lady’s breathing slowed and the darkness pressed upon him, he collected her and gathered her close. ’Twas only to ensure that she was warm, he assured himself, knowing even as the thought was formed, ’twas a lie.
Jacqueline, less irked with him in her sleep or so cold that she cast aside her disgust, curled against his chest. Angus wrapped his arms around her, compelled himself to remain awake and waited impatiently for the dawn.
* * *
Jacqueline awakened, cosseted by unfamiliar warmth. It took her a moment to recall her circumstances and another to realize that Angus cradled her against his chest. She sat up with a start and his arms fell away from her. There was a faint bit of light in the chamber this morning, perhaps due to the angle of the sun, and she eyed him warily.
His expression was guarded, a perfect echo of her own uncertainty. There was a good measure of stubble upon his chin, and shadows beneath his eyes. He looked dangerous and disreputable.
“’Twas warmer for both of us,” he said simply, then set her aside and began to pace the width of the small room.
“You did not sleep.”
“What difference to you?”
“Did you?”
He sighed, granting her a censorious glance. “Nay.”
“Whyever not? Did you fear we would be assaulted by night?”
He almost smiled. “Nay, I am not so noble as that. I simply had no need to sleep.”
“Liar. You look to be exhausted.”
“It matters not.”
“Of course, it matters!” Jacqueline bounded to her feet and strode after him, matching his pace though he ignored her. “You have need of your sleep if we are to take advantage of opportunity and escape. ‘’Twill avail naught if you are exhausted, for I cannot carry you.”
“Ah, yes, the prospect of escape.” He halted and spared a pointed glance to the trapdoor. “And how would that be managed?”
“I do not know! Not yet, at any rate.”
“I do.” He spoke firmly. “’Twill not be managed. We shall be left here to die like dogs, forgotten in the shadows.”
He resumed his pacing, but Jacqueline would not leave the matter be. “We will not die here. We cannot die here.”
“There is precious little we might do about it.”
“Well, we must at least have the conviction that all will come right.”
He slanted her a glance. “Must we?”
“Of course we must! For ’twill.”
“You cannot bend all to your will, Jacqueline,” he murmured and she wondered fleetingly whether he meant that she had bent him to that will. He looked so forbidding that she did not ask.
She did not want to hear his denial.
“If we are to make the most of whatever opportunity is presented,” she reiterated firmly “then we must have our wits about us and hope in our hearts.”
Angus paused his pacing. “I think it unwise to deceive ourselves in this. You are woman of sense, so use that sense. There is no merit in believing matters to be other than they are.”
“I understand how dire our circumstance is, but I know that despair will assist us less than hope. God grants aid to those who aid themselves first and I will not admit that I am defeated until I truly am.”
He regarded her for a long moment, then inclined his head. “I stand corrected. Your counsel is most wise.”
“Then you will sleep?”
Angus gave a breathless laugh, then glanced around the chamber as though dangers lurked in its corners. “Not willingly. Not here.”
“Does this place remind you of Damascus?”
He stiffened, a sure clue that she had found a truth. “Why should it do as much?”
“’Tis a dungeon, and if you were imprisoned in Damascus, I should think ’twas in a dungeon...”
“Do not think, Jacqueline.” Angus left her on the step as he began to pace the cell restlessly.
“Why should I not think?”
“Because ’twill make you curious,” he said with more savagery than she thought the matter deserved. “And there are matters about which you should not be curious.”
His countenance was so grim that another woman would have abandoned him to his mood. But his warning came too late—Jacqueline was already curious and she meant to do something about it.
“We must do something to keep our wits about ourselves.” Now she paced alongside him, though there was scarcely room. “I have told you tales—’tis your turn to tell me one.”
He watched her grimly. “I have no tales to tell.”
“You have a thousand tales but you choose not to tell them.”
That ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Is it not the same?”
“Nay!” Jacqueline stopped before him and glared up at him. He looked bemused, not angered, which she knew considerably increased her chance of winning some confession.
As long as she did not ask for too rich a prize.
“Tell me of Lucifer,” she cajoled. “How did you come by him?”
Angus chuckled and shoved a hand through his hair. “Vexing wench. If I tell you of Lucifer, will that sate your lust for tales?”
“Probably not.” Jacqueline grinned, unrepentant. “But ’twill do, as a beginning.”
He sighed heavily but she was not fooled. “I suppose I owe you something for your insistence upon seeing to my welfare.”
She laughed. “I suppose you do.”
“You will be cold,” he suggested with apparent idleness. “Sit beside me that we might share our warmth.”
Jacqueline could not deny him that. ’Twas not all bad to be close to Angus MacGillivray.
She sat beside him on the steps and curled under welcome weight of his arm. He smelled of soapwort, ’twas true, and of his own flesh and she tingled where they touched.
When he urged her closer, she nestled trustingly against him. “Now,” she demanded, tapping a finger upon his knee “you have no further excuses, Angus MacGillivray. Tell me of that destrier and how you came to ride him.”
He took his time finding the beginning, but Jacqueline was content to wait. Aye, prompting him would only feed his natural reticence. “I was in Damascus,” he said finally.
“Before or after your imprisonment?”
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