by Paula Quinn
Chapter Three
Cain stood on the high battlement wall of Lismoor Castle, formerly owned by the d’Argentans. Now, it had been claimed by Cain for King Robert. He spread his gaze over the strath to the village drenched in the golden light of the setting sun. Was their enemy hiding in one of the houses? He should have burned them all down. He still might.
The search of the keep and the surrounding area had turned up little. The assailant had not been found. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t be. But tomorrow was a new day. Cain wouldn’t have his men wandering about in the dark and stepping into a trap—or whatever else the culprit had waiting out there.
Where was he? Who was he? Was he even a he at all? It couldn’t be a lass who had waged war on his men today—running and leaping through the trees, almost killing him.
Father Timothy didn’t know of any women related to the deceased previous owner.
Cain shook his head at himself. What was he thinking? A lass. He was a fool. An exhausted one. That was why he was allowing his thoughts to ponder madness. He laughed softly into the cool, heather-scented breeze.
How long had it been since he’d even spoken to a woman? Six months? Over a year since he’d lain with one. Hell, he didn’t have a permanent bed. Most nights, he slept beneath the stars close to where he would be fighting the next day. He’d given up comfort and desire for familiarity.
He closed his eyes as the haunting echoes of men crying out in death returned yet again to plague him.
He was seven years old during the battle of Falkirk, when Edward I and his troops defeated the Scots, led by William Wallace. He watched the slaughter of his countrymen as the Scot’s bowmen and finally the schiltrons, armed with their shields and long pikes, were killed. When he had to walk among the dead and dying and drive a post into the bloodstained ground to mark an English body that needed retrieving, he vowed to avenge his kin and his countrymen someday.
And he had. He’d killed thousands of English since that day, including the men he had lived with for eight long years. His homestead in Invergarry was once again his. Berwick was back in the hands of the Scots where it belonged. He’d helped Robert win his wars. He’d taken back his home and killed the men who had taken it from him. Was it enough? Enough for watching them kill his father…and later, his mother? For seeing them carry away his wee brother Nicholas? For watching Torin run before they took him as well? He longed to be free of the English, free of the shackles, though they were made of memories and not iron.
Was it enough for all the years of beatings and being ordered about? Of defying an enemy army with just a priest at his side?
“Commander?”
Cain turned at the sound of Amish’s voice. His second was holding an old man by the collar. An old man Cain did not know.
“Who is this?” he asked softly, turning to fully face them. He knew immediately this couldn’t be the one who fled through the trees today. The man was older than Father Timothy.
Cain didn’t reach for his axe. If the stranger made a move, he’d be dead before he drew his next breath.
“He is—”
“I am Richard,” the old man said, straightening his shoulders and gathering his mettle, “the steward of Lismoor.”
Amish yanked the man by the collar to silence him. “He was found exitin’ the dungeon.”
Cain raised a curious brow. “There is a dungeon?” He crooked his mouth at the steward when Amish nodded. “Perfect.”
He pushed off the wall and closed the gap between them. The man looked up at him with faded, guarded, blue eyes. The mettle he’d gathered moments ago shrank until he finally looked away.
“Richard, the steward of Lismoor,” Cain said in a deep, deadly voice. “Ye will spend the night in the dungeon. In the morn, ye will be handed over to my men to do with as they please. After that, whatever remains of ye will be scattered aboot the village—or ye can sleep in a bed tonight and yer life will be spared.” He rested his hand on the steward’s shoulder and led him to the edge of the wall. “All ye have to do is tell me what I wish to know.”
“I will tell you what I can, Sir.”
“And also what ye canna.” Cain tossed him a smile tinged with malice and led him around the perimeter of the wall. Richard wasn’t the man he was looking for but, perhaps, the assailant was out there watching the castle, seeing a man he knew in the hands of his enemy. Perhaps, he might try to do something about it.
“Whose steward are ye?” he asked.
“Sir Giles d’Argentan’s, Sir.”
“He is dead. Is he not?” Cain asked, walking him around and looking out over the land.
“He is. Everyone has left, save me.”
Cain turned to face him, his brow arched in doubt. “Everyone?”
Richard did not blink. “Aye, everyone.”
Cain’s smirk grew wider. “Then ’twas ye in the trees this morn?”
A faint glint of fear mixed with anger shot through the steward’s eyes. He knew something.
“No. ’Twas not me,” he told Cain in a remarkably steady voice. “’Twas Alexander de Bar, my lord’s cousin. He came here after Bannockburn. He took care of the villagers. They accepted him as their lord and did as he asked in exchange for his protection.”
“What did he ask them to do?”
The old man glanced toward the village. He likely didn’t realize that regret and guilt were shadowing his eyes.
Mayhap he did because he blinked back to his stoic expression. “He asked them to help him construct traps, and then he asked them to leave.”
“And his guard?”
“He had no guard, Sir.”
Cain listened while the steward told him about this cousin of the d’Argentans who had taken over Lismoor with Edward’s consent, and his passion for revenge against the Scots.
When the old man was done, Cain knew many things about de Bar and one thing about the steward. He wasn’t being truthful. Richard wanted him to believe he was so loyal to the d’Argentans that he’d remained on at Lismoor to see to everything after his lord was killed. Judging by the ease with which he spilled everything he knew about de Bar, Richard held no loyalty to him—so why was he so afflicted that he had to struggle to keep his composure? It was as if he were protecting someone else. But who? Who else could have done this if not de Bar?
Cain didn’t have much to go on save a sweetly fragranced comb and a long hair, both found in the main solar in the keep. He didn’t know what he was thinking. He refused to believe a lass had anything to do with such a savage day.
He heard a sound behind him and turned to see Father Timothy stepping out onto the battlements.
“One more question before I decide what to do with ye in the morn,” Cain told the steward. “Does de Bar have a wife? A sister?”
Richard’s weathered face visibly paled. “No, my lord. There are no women here.”
Cain drew out a short sigh and motioned to Amish. “To the dungeon then.”
He waited until his second came close to the wall before he handed Richard over so that if anyone was watching from the village or the forest, they might see their loyal friend in danger. It was a long shot, but the steward was protecting someone—a lass?
Cain lifted his hand and rubbed the back of his neck, a habit born from waking on the cold ground, and dismissed the ridiculous idea of a lass once and for all.
Whether de Bar or someone else, Cain hoped the culprit was just as loyal and this might lure him out.
He watched Father Timothy stop Amish and his prisoner to speak to them and then finally come forth.
“Try to get a confession oot of him later,” Cain said and turned back toward the darkening landscape.
“His confession goes from me to God and no one else,” the priest said stubbornly.
Cain flashed him an impatient scowl but he didn’t press it. He knew about the rules of Father Timothy’s service, for the priest had taught him much from the Holy Book and had hoped Cain would someday swear his life to Go
d.
But when Cain finally left the Bruce’s service, he wasn’t going to swear to anyone else. He would live out his life alone, back in the Highlands, free of the English, free of everyone.
“Duncan saw to yer wound then?” the priest asked, narrowing his eyes on Cain’s cheek.
“Aye, ’tis nothin’ of concern.”
“Come,” Father Timothy urged. “We’ll speak of all this at the table. I am hungry.”
Aye, they all were, but wary of falling into a trap, Amish and his hunters had returned with only a few fowl and half a dozen hares. “’Twill not be enough.”
“Thankfully,” the priest informed him, “Duncan discovered a few casks of flour and oats and young William has been bakin’ bread. I told ye ’twas a good idea to bring him—what is it? Why are ye—where are ye hurryin’ off to?”
“To the hall,” Cain called out. “Our enemy is clever, Father. The grain Duncan found is likely poisoned.”
Father Timothy made a quick sign of the cross and then followed Cain to the great hall.
The aroma of roasted hare and freshly-baked bread made Cain’s mouth water as he strode into the hall. The men were settling into their seats. It didn’t appear as if anyone had eaten yet.
“Men!” he shouted, commanding their attention.
Someone’s grumbling belly echoed in the silence.
“Take yer bread from yer trencher and put it aside. Dinna put it to yer lips. It may be poisoned.”
He squared his jaw at the murmurs of frustration and disappointment in their eyes. They were hungry. He would find a way to see them fed.
“And the wine we found?” William asked.
Cain stared at him for a moment, remembering the lad was likely barely a score years old. They didn’t know for certain. They had picked him up in Berwick two months ago, after he’d escaped his English master. He’d been badly beaten and hadn’t had much to say. Father Timothy took him under his wing, as he had Cain.
Cain didn’t blame young Will for not suspecting anything nefarious. The lad knew nothing of war, only its aftermath. But the others…he raked his gaze over them. “Dinna drink the damned wine until I know fer certain that ’tis not poisoned.”
“How will ye know?” someone called out.
He told them about the steward, keeping it brief, then scooped up a hunk of bread from the table, along with a cup of wine and left the great hall.
Chapter Four
Aleysia crawled on her hands and knees through the narrow tunnel, praying as she went that her dear Richard was still alive. If he wasn’t, she would find a way to kill them all.
She’d been too far away earlier to shoot her arrow at the bastard commander while he dragged Sir Richard around the battlement wall. He’d wanted her to see, perhaps draw her out into the open.
But she went underground.
The tunnel wasn’t overly long, about thirty feet, beginning behind the castle at the edge of the forest and leading to the dungeon. She’d had it built in case all else failed and she was thrown into the small iron prison. This was her escape route.
The entire length of the tunnel was reinforced with wood planks around the sides and overhead to help prevent collapse. There was no light, for it was nearly impossible to crawl on one hand while holding a torch in the other. Equally difficult was a cloak, no matter how short, so she’d left hers behind.
She didn’t mind the pitch black or the cramped space. She’d made herself get accustomed to it by entering it every day the moment it was finished.
She wasn’t afraid. She’d stopped being afraid a few months after she learned about her brother and the terror of the wild Scots coming for Lismoor and killing everyone had settled over her. And then she had done something about it.
The last four years changed who she was. She’d come to Lismoor as a lady. Now she was a warrior.
When she came to her destination, she pressed her ear to the thin, wooden door painted to look like the stone wall of the dungeon.
Silence returned.
Was Richard inside? She couldn’t wait a moment longer and pushed on the door.
Cautiously, she entered the dungeon, looking for a guard on duty as she moved. She found one beneath the only source of light, in a chair by the doorway. He looked to be in a deep sleep, which didn’t surprise her. It was long after midnight. She glanced quickly at the cell but could not see inside. Her knight had to be there or a guard would not have been posted.
The enormity of what she had to do hit her and though her breath turned to mist in the cool air, she broke out in a sweat. Could she kill a man while he slept? Shove her dagger into his throat? Dear God…she couldn’t hesitate now. She had to save Richard.
She licked her dry lips and lifted her dagger. Something near the guard’s belly caught her eye as she moved forward—the torchlight flashing against metal. An arrow tip. The rest of the shaft was inside him.
What? This was one of the men she’d shot with her arrows. He…he was already dead! Her heart drummed so hard she feared she might die right here with him. She took a step back and hit a wall. Of hard muscle. She spun around but before she completed the turn, strong fingers closed around hers and squeezed her dagger free.
Once he’d eliminated the threat of her weapon, he spun her around the rest of the way to face him and yanked her arms behind her back. He held both her wrists in one of his large hands and pressed her against him.
“A lass.”
His voice was like ancient thunder reverberating through her blood. His breath, caught slightly on a thread of hesitation and urgency, was warm along her cheek.
She made the mistake of looking up. Torchlight flickered across the cool, sapphire surface of his eyes as they roved over her features. His hair was dark and long, worn pulled back at the temples in the style of the savages she’d heard about. Despite the rugged beauty of his visage bathed in the golden light, he was a Scot—bold, arrogant, and untamed.
“Your keen perception is startling,” she bit out, fighting to keep her teeth from chattering. It was one thing to practice. Nothing had truly prepared her for being captured by her enemy, for finding terror and warmth in the circle of his indomitable embrace.
She had to think! Remember what she’d been taught. She looked away from him, as if that would somehow make him less real, and pulled back her knee.
She caught him in the groin. He went down on one knee, pulling her with him. She’d hoped he’d let her go but the beast was determined to hold on.
She drew back her knee again and, this time, caught him in the jaw. He reeled backward, finally letting her go. She didn’t waste a moment to escape, save to run to the cell. It was empty. Richard wasn’t there.
She had no choice but to leave without him. For now.
Without looking back, she ran and leaped for the doorway to the tunnel.
She looked into the darkness with a hopeful heart. Could she truly make it out? She should have killed the man while he was down. But this was a trap. He’d used Richard to draw her out of hiding. If she killed him, his men would kill Richard—if her friend wasn’t dead already—and then come after her.
She plunged into the darkness but the Scot caught her by the legs and heaved her back. She clung frantically to the wood planks, almost pulling one free in an effort to escape him. She kicked as his hands rode up her thighs to her waist, until he finally pulled her free and latched on to her wrists.
He flung her over on her back and climbed atop her. She closed her eyes, though she couldn’t see him in the dim light. Would he rape her before he killed her?
“What do ye know aboot the traps in the trees?”
She expected a knife in her neck, not a question. She opened her eyes and swallowed what felt like her heart.
“They were built to kill the Scots,” she told him the truth without regret.
“Who built them?” he demanded in a guttural whisper.
What had Richard already told him?
“Where is h
e?” She tried to fight his weight on her, but it was no use. He didn’t budge. Was that armor beneath his léine or solid muscle? “What have you done with Sir Richard?”
“Sir Richard?”
Before she had another moment to think, he yanked her up by her arm and pulled her toward the cell. “I will have the truth.”
“Oh, will you?” she challenged and with her free hand, pulled a small dagger from her bosom. She swiped at his face but he bent backward as if he could see in the dark. Bastard.
He snatched her wrist and bent it backward until she dropped her dagger and cursed him.
“I’m going to kill you,” she vowed tightly.
“Doubtful.”
He pulled open the unlocked door to the cell and tossed her inside, and then slammed the grate shut and locked it.
“Where is Sir Richard?” she demanded, clinging to the metal bars.
“If ye want to see him again,” the bastard commander snarled, returning to the torch and the dead soldier beneath it, “ye’ll tell me who is the one responsible fer killin’ my men today.”
“I am,” she said boldly. She didn’t care if it was foolish. It felt satisfying telling him.
His jaw tightened, drawing her eyes to its strong, square cut and shadowy contours.
“And who are ye?”
Both Aleysia and her captor turned at the sound of another male voice. The priest. Aleysia scowled as he stepped into the light.
She sized them both up. She had to. She would most likely have to kill them at close proximity. It was best to know exactly what she’d be up against.
Of course, she didn’t want to kill a priest. If he even was a priest. How could he pray to God and be on the side of savage Scots? If she had to kill him, she would.
He was thin in his dark robes, and short in stature, barely reaching the bastard commander’s shoulders. He looked to be about twenty or so years younger than Richard. If it came down to her or Richard’s life, taking the priest wouldn’t be too physically difficult.
She made the sign of the cross and mouthed a quick, silent prayer. When she opened her eyes, the priest was coming toward her with another fiery torch. Had he been holding it when he entered the dungeon?