by Paula Quinn
He handed it to her through the bars and waited while she lit her cell.
“Ye were sayin’?” the priest went on. “Ye are…? And by the way, Commander MacPherson, ye will make certain Alan is buried tonight.” He looked at the dead man in the chair and shook his head. The commander didn’t reply or even acknowledge the order.
Prideful, she thought sourly and squared her shoulders. “I am Lady Aleysia d’Argentan, servant of King Edward, sister of Sir Giles d’Argentan.”
They were silent for a moment. They shared a brief, unreadable glance before looking at her again.
Torchlight bounced off the top of the priest’s bald head when he returned to his friend. “Ye will fergive us fer not believin’ that ’twas ye in the trees this morn. We know ’twas Lord de Bar.”
“Who?” Aleysia asked.
“I believe her,” her captor said, his features chilled with ruthlessness and an utter lack of mercy.
Aleysia met his frosty gaze head-on, ignoring his powerful stature, his chilling beauty…and the arrogant tilt of his dark brow. She, too, could be ruthless and merciless. Why she—
One corner of his mouth tilted up just a bit and sent a fissure of alarm down her back. She looked away from him for a moment to clear her thoughts. He frightened her but she would not cower. Not now. Not ever.
What about this did he find humorous? Was he mocking her confidence? He claimed to believe she was responsible for the traps and for the deaths of his men. Why would he smirk at her challenging stare?
“You do not believe I can kill you, as well,” she said, doing her best to sound as confident as he.
“From a tree, mayhap. Not if I stepped into that cell.”
Would he?
He was long and muscular, but not overly so. Authority and danger oozed from every part of him. He was going to be harder to kill—though she’d had the chance twice now and let it slip through her fingers. She was awaiting the best moment.
“Ye canna tell the men,” the priest said, jarring her from her thoughts.
“They deserve to know. ’Twas their comrades who fell by her hand.”
“First of all, Cainnech,” the priest said with more command than she expected to hear in his hushed voice, “she is a lady. Ye canna give her over to the men.” They both looked at her and she swallowed, knowing what the men would do to her. “Second, her brother was held in high esteem by the English king. She must be offered to him before she can be dealt with by ye.”
“Why?” the commander muttered. “Since when do we give a damn aboot what the English king thinks?”
“Since Robert does not want these wars to go on much longer. And third, we dinna kill ladies.”
“Who says?” The commander set his flinty gaze on her.
She smiled. Let him try. Hopefully, he and his men would be dead by morning if they found and drank the wine. She didn’t let herself hope that one of them cooked with the grain.
“I’ve told you what you want,” she reminded him. “Now tell me, where is Sir Richard? Does he live?”
“Fer now,” the commander said blithely and bent to haul the dead soldier over his shoulder.
“I will have my home back,” she promised, tilting her chin.
When he straightened, he openly mocked her with a smile that was anything but merciful or humorous. “I will decide what to do with ye both in the morn.”
He said nothing else to her, mumbled something to the priest and left the dungeon.
Fool.
She set her gaze on the priest. The commander might be finished, but she wasn’t. “How do you serve God and Robert the Bruce?”
He came closer to the cell. When he spoke, his voice was soft and soothing. “The Lord is no respecter of persons. Besides, is it wrong to want to be free?”
Of course not! She thought. It was what she was fighting for! Her freedom from being sent to Normandy or to King Edward and given in marriage to a man she did not love, to live under his rule. She would rather die.
“Your cause has little to do with freedom and more to do with killing everyone in your wake. To pillage and rape and to kill innocent people. The Scots are savages.”
“Cainnech hasna killed innocent people, nor has he raped anyone,” the priest defended. “He is lost, but he is a good man.”
Lost in what way? Did he not mean to come to Rothbury? Why was he telling her what kind of man the commander was? What did she care?
“I am Father Timothy, by the way.” He smiled, showing off a full set of teeth.
“Well, Father Timothy, I am going to kill your Commander Cainnech MacPherson. First chance I get.”
Chapter Five
Cain squatted at the open hole his men had dug for Alan MacRae, and lowered him down.
He hadn’t wanted one of his men sitting around in the dungeon waiting for an arrow to the guts while he laid in wait for the assailant. Since Alan already had an arrow in him…
Cain would bury him before the sun came up. It would give him time to think about what to do with Miss d’Argentan.
A lass. The Norman hero, d’Argentan’s sister, for hell’s sake. What was she doing running through trees, creeping through tunnels, stopping his breath with her courage and beauty?
He reached for the shovel and jammed it into the pile of soil prepared earlier. He tossed the dirt onto Alan’s body and cursed Aleysia d’Argentan to the farthest reaches of hell. She deserved to be tossed over to his men, yet he protected her locked away in a cell—and no one knew she was there. Again, thanks to Alan.
Cain shoveled more dirt down upon his soldier. Alan’s eight countrymen were buried nearby.
She had done it. He believed her. She was small and spry enough to leap through trees. But what convinced him was the hatred giving fire to her gloriously large, green eyes, the resolute dip of her mouth, her braw promise to kill him.
He’d never killed a woman. He did not want to do so now. What was he going to do with her in the morning?
He should give her to the men. He’d promised he would. But the thought of them touching her made him question his decisions.
She was protecting her home as he would have done. Alone.
The memory of her long raven locks tangled around his fingers sent a warm thread down his back. Her body, soft and unyielding beneath him, had tempted him to keep her there longer.
Aleysia. She smelled of the forest…and something floral and light. The solar above stairs was hers. She’d sent everyone away and stayed behind, most likely with Sir Richard.
Cain looked toward the rear tower, where his men were keeping guard over the old knight. He’d made himself useful when he refused to eat the bread or drink the wine. He blamed it on de Bar.
What was to be done with them?
Miss d’Argentan launched an attack on his men. He still had difficulty believing it. But he understood why she did it.
He finished burying Alan MacRae, said a prayer he no longer believed, and returned to the keep—to her room.
He entered and looked around. He imagined her sitting by the hearth, mayhap thinking about the day. Standing by the window, wondering if her traps would work. Lying in her bed.
His gaze slid there. Hell, he was weary. He pulled his léine over his head and sat at the edge of the bed to yank off his boots. He’d sent many men to their maker. But he found that the thought of killing a lass and an old man sickened him.
He lay back on the mattress with only his plaid wrapped around his waist and closed his eyes. He didn’t remember falling asleep or how long he was sleeping when the cool tip of a blade at his throat and a soft feminine whisper at his ear awakened him.
“This time I will not fail.”
Cain took a split second to appreciate her bold courage and the fact that she escaped the damned dungeon.
Moving faster than she could blink, he disarmed her and pulled her close. “If ye wanted to kill me, lady, ye wouldna have waited until I woke up.”
“I do not usually
kill men in their sleep,” she bit out, struggling to be free of his grasp.
“Yer first error.”
“One I will not make again.”
He liked where she was. He’d like to keep her there, atop him, beneath him. He didn’t care which. He liked the scent of her, the sound of her, staring into her eyes and seeing something familiar within the fire that once possessed him.
She was English, or she might as well be.
He should take her dagger and kill her with it. But madly, he enjoyed battling with her. Still, he couldn’t have her going around trying to kill him. He couldn’t put her back in the dungeon.
Strengthening the fortitude he’d honed at war, he pushed her aside. And with her dagger clutched tightly in his fist, he left the bed.
He pulled his léine back over his head, tucked it and her dagger into the plaid wrapped around waist, and yanked open the heavy door. He stepped halfway into the hall and called out. “Amish!”
Let them take her. She deserved her punishment.
He waited a moment and then called again, giving his second a chance to wake up and get his arse moving.
He saw a figure moving down the hall, coming closer and using the wall for support. Who the hell…William! The lad held out his hand to Cain and then crumpled to the ground.
Cain’s blood froze. Poison. He almost turned back to go deal with her once and for all, but William was in trouble.
Running to him, Cain knelt at his side. The lad’s skin was cool and pale. Hell, even his lips were white. His dark hair was damp with perspiration and clung to his skin.
“Will?” Cain gave him a gentle shove and then let himself breathe when the lad opened his eyes. “Did ye drink the wine, lad?”
“Aye, Commander,” Will said weakly. “Forgive me.”
“We’ll speak of it later.” Cain tried to sound stern, but it felt like his heart was beating in his throat. He wasn’t one for friends. Friends died. But Cain wanted more for William than an early death on the battlefield.
He fit his arms beneath Will and lifted him. When he turned for the room, he caught his prisoner tiptoeing away from the door and going in the opposite direction.
Hell, he couldn’t chase her now.
“Miss d’Argentan,” he called out and waited for her to stop and turn to him. “If ye run, I will give the order fer Sir Richard’s death.”
She stared at him for a moment, as if she were trying to decide if she believed him or not.
Finally, she moved her arse and stormed back inside the chamber. Cain followed her, carrying Will with him.
“Ye’re responsible fer this,” he hurled at her, his gaze darker than the deepest corners of the dungeon while he laid Will on the bed. “If he dies, ye die.”
“What ails him?” she asked, trying to appear unaffected by his threat.
“Yer wine is what ails him. He drank some.”
“How much?”
He shook his head. He didn’t know and the lad was no longer conscious. “What do we do?”
“I need to boil mulberry leaves in vinegar.” She moved for the door.
Cain leaped in her path and blocked her. “Ye think me a fool?”
“I want to live,” she said, looking up at him. “So either accompany me to the kitchen or get out of my way.”
She stared at him while he thought about what to do. He couldn’t let her go alone. She’d run and continue being a threat. He didn’t want to leave Will. Where the hell was Amish?
“What has happened?” Father Timothy appeared at the door, took one look at William, and ran to the bed.
“He drank the wine,” Cain told him as the priest began praying over lad. “She claims to know how to prepare an antidote. I am takin’ her to the kitchen.” He pulled on his boots and headed for the door. “Ye remain here with him.”
Father Timothy nodded and shooed them away.
“Will yer remedy work?” Cain asked her as they hurried to the kitchen.
“Aye, ’twill work.”
He looked at her, but when she returned his glance, he looked away.
“He is young…innocent of bloodshed. He was a servant to a master who took pleasure in beatin’ him.”
She was quiet for a moment, then repeated, “’Twill work.”
They reached the kitchen and he waited while she prepared the mixture, pacing while it boiled.
“You still have not told me where Sir Richard is,” she said, turning to him.
He stopped pacing and stared at her. “I need not tell ye anythin’. ’Tis yer fault William is in this condition.”
“’Tis your fault for coming to my home and thinking to take it.”
“I have taken it.”
Her full, beguiling lips curled slightly upward. A gleam of fire sparked across her eyes in the torchlight. “For now.”
He almost smiled back at her bold, but foolish confidence. He let his gaze take her in from her dirty boots to her waist-length glossy black waves. Her legs were long in her woolen breeches. Her waist was narrow and her bosom, humble in her tunic and snug-fitting bodice. She dressed like a warrior, ready for a fight.
“Where are yer guards? Why did ye send them away?”
She returned her attention to the pot and stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon. “Sir Richard and five of his friends are my guards. They were loyal to my father and to Giles and they are loyal to me. I sent them all away, but Richard refused to leave. He is innocent of what happened this morn.”
Cain leaned his hip on the chopping table and folded his arms across his chest. He watched her. He knew he shouldn’t but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her beauty was sublime and deadly. Like the allure of a siren, it was designed to weaken men and bring them to their deaths.
He knew it but he kept watching.
She’d killed his men and William was dying.
He kept William in the forefront of his thoughts. He liked the lad. At first, they’d thought him mute for he spoke to no one. But Cain had heard him crying out a name in his sleep—a name he called out every night after that. Julianna. He never spoke of her during the day, or about what had befallen them. Cain didn’t let the men push and Father Timothy made certain they obeyed. Over time, he began speaking more and even laughed, but he was shy and obedient and he never spoke of Julianna.
Cain clenched his jaw and pulled his gaze from her.
“’Tis ready,” she said and poured the mixture into a cup. “We must wake him enough to drink it.”
Cain nodded and took her by the elbow to lead her out of the kitchen.
“You said I would die if he died,” she reminded him while she kept her eyes on the hall ahead. “Will I live if he lives?”
“I havena yet decided.”
Why hadn’t he? What the hell was wrong with him? If it were anyone else, they would have been turned over right away to his men. She deserved to die.
But damn it, he didn’t want to add killing a lass to his many sins. And why did this particular lass have to be so hauntingly beautiful that killing her would be like rolling up the sky and the stars and tossing them into the fire?
Father Timothy mentioned her being returned to the English. Cain would write to Robert and ask what should be done with her.
Aye. That’s what he would do. Let the Bruce decide. But until then—
“Father Timothy tells me you are called Cainnech.”
“Cain,” he corrected.
She furrowed her brow and cut him a quick side-glance. “Why would you prefer Cain?”
“It fits better.”
“I see.”
Aye, he thought, let her see the truth then. He was an unmerciful, unrepentant killer, just like his namesake.
“I told Father Timothy I was going to kill you,” she said boldly, tempting him to smile. If he wasn’t such a superior warrior, he might be worried by her confidence.
“And what was his response?” he asked as they neared the chamber.
“He said I would
have to go through him first.”
Finally, Cain smiled.
Chapter Six
If she lived through the next few days, Aleysia never wanted to see the Scottish commander smile ever again. It made her forget her name and all her carefully laid out plans. She didn’t abandon them. Never that.
It was almost as dangerous as seeing him asleep in nothing but a plaid around his waist. The sight of him, illuminated in the candlelight, had made her feel like she had too much wine. He had slept on his back, one muscular arm tossed over his head. His broad chest was lightly dusted with dark hair. His belly was tight with muscles. There were at least a dozen scars covering him, including the one on his cheekbone, left by her arrow. It did nothing to lessen his handsome features. She had stared at him too long.
Oh, but when he disarmed her and pulled her down atop him in her bed, she had been less afraid of him and more afraid of his effect on her.
How could she find him more alluring than any man she’d ever met? Awareness of him ripped through her as she doubled her steps to keep up with his long strides. His height and the breadth of his shoulders cast her in shadows.
Why hadn’t he killed her yet? She told herself she hadn’t killed him yet because she needed him to tell her where he was keeping Richard so she could escape with him.
She looked down at the cup and thought of a way to bargain with the Scot.
They entered the room to a waiting Father Timothy and another brutish-looking man with bright red hair and beard and two long scars running down his face.
“D’ye have the mixture?” the priest asked, leaping to his feet when he saw them.
Aleysia held up the cup.
“Good, good,” Father Timothy reached out to take it and shot a furtive glance to the commander. “I told Amish aboot Aleysia, Richard’s granddaughter.”
“Uhm,” the commander mumbled and moved to the bedside. “How is he?”
“He comes back to us and then leaves again,” Father Timothy told him and then turned to Aleysia. “Ye can give me the mixture.” He moved to take it, but she pulled away. “Come now, Miss. We canna waste a moment.”