Her father reached for her, but she shook her head. “You must go.”
“Lord Werrick.” The Lion’s tone was soft as he silently indicated the hall.
Father hesitated, staring at Leila as though he would rather cut out his heart than leave.
“Please, Lord Werrick,” the Lion said.
Her father’s face crumpled in pain. “I will not rest until you are free.” With a harsh intake of breath, he turned away from her and strode down the hall.
Leila stepped back toward the iron bars and pressed her face to them as he left. The agony in her chest was exquisite. It tore her heart in every direction like a savage beast wild with blood lust and left her wounded and ragged. “Goodbye, Papa,” she whispered at the departing footsteps.
For she knew deep in her heart, it was the last time she would see her father before her death.
8
Niall took his time walking through the muddy streets on his way back to the prison. He hadn’t meant to listen to the conversation between Lord Werrick and Lady Leila, but it had been impossible given their proximity. Leaving would have been equally as impossible. The second his back was turned, the earl could have slipped Lady Leila a dagger and Niall knew all too well what the lady could do with weapons.
He stopped before the banded gaol door and dragged out the process of selecting the door’s key from the wide ring on his belt. Lady Leila was not the true blood daughter of Lord Werrick, though it was clear that he cared for her as if she was his.
Niall slipped the key into the lock and paused, clenching his back teeth against the stirring in his chest. He was well-acquainted with the pain of feeling undeserving of love and how deep it could furrow into one’s soul.
His own father had given him love and understanding, no matter how often Niall in his youth had floundered on the right path. But rather than encouraging him to be good, to make his father proud, it had twisted into his gut and left him agitated with guilt.
It appeared Lady Leila, despite the pride she wore like a crown, the possession of her powerful confidence and the control she held over her person—she was just like him. She felt guilty for a love she did not deem herself worthy of receiving.
Niall unlocked the door to the prison, slipped inside and locked it behind him once more. Brodie stood in the small guard room and nodded in greeting. Even his usual grin had faded in light of what he had most likely overheard of the conversation between father and daughter.
“Get a gambeson and helm for Lady Leila,” Niall instructed. “We need to move her and I’ll no’ have the village people recognizing her.”
Brodie immediately set to the task without question, as had the staff within the castle as they went about clearing out one of the rooms to make way for Lady Leila. Lord Armstrong had not been in the castle to consult and the matter of moving Lady Leila was most urgent. With Lord Werrick now possessing the knowledge of where his daughter was located, they had to remove her with haste.
Niall strode down the prison hall and into the room containing Lady Leila’s cell. She appeared to have recovered from her broken composure, her face no longer red from her tears and her back once more straight and proud. Her unfocused stare at the ground, however, bespoke of her despair.
“Lady Leila.” He spoke softly, but she started at the sound. “We must move ye to the castle.”
She tensed, no doubt anticipating she would be led through the village again.
“I’m having one of my men bring a gambeson and helm,” he explained. “It will mask yer identity. Then ye’ll walk to the castle with me, aye?”
Her brows drew together with the understanding she would not be put on display before the villagers once more.
“If ye try to run from me, or attack me in any way,” he cautioned, “I will kill ye.”
Her mouth lifted in a small smile that teetered on amusement. “I do not doubt that.”
Brodie appeared at that moment with the items Niall had requested. “I tried to find the smallest ones I could.” The dark-haired reiver hesitated before leaving and slid a worried glance at Lady Leila. Apparently, Niall was not the only one concerned for her.
Why could the witch of Werrick Castle not be a crone? Someone toughened by age and made bitter by a hard life, an old hag who spat and cursed at them. Why did the witch have to be a petite woman who had grown up as an earl’s daughter? Why did she have to arouse this fierce need to protect her?
Niall handed the gambeson to Lady Leila through the bars. “Put it on.”
She stepped closer to accept the offering and took it with her long, graceful fingers. But she did not immediately step back and don it. Instead, she looked up at him, hitting him with the full force of those lovely blue eyes, in which an entire world of depth and mystery was held. “Why are you so kind to me?”
“I was just asking myself the same thing.” He smirked.
“You needn’t be.” She hadn’t said it with malice. Nay, the words came out gently, more like a plea than hurled in spite.
He shouldn’t be, he amended in his own mind.
She pulled the gambeson to her and proceeded to remove her cloak to put it on over her shirt. While she did this, Niall opened the door to her cell and handed her the helm. The band of metal running down its center to protect the nose of the wearer would aid in hiding her identity.
She accepted it from him, but this time did not meet his gaze. Her brows pinched, her look pained for only a second and was gone, replaced by her lifted chin and her usual show of strength.
But it had been there, that crack, that glimpse of her hurt.
“This way.” He led her from the cell. She followed without protest.
Before they exited the building, Niall instructed Brodie to reclaim the ruined kirtle from Lady Leila’s cell and have it sent to the castle. If nothing else, it would be one less thing Lord Armstrong would be displeased about in this whole mess. Mayhap the thing could be laundered clean once more.
Niall pushed open the heavily banded door to the village prison and strode out. Except this time, Lady Leila hesitated before following.
“Guards dinna pause in doorways,” he whispered in reminder.
Lady Leila, unrecognizable from the woman who had donned the fine kirtle, now appeared a youth in a gambeson inherited from his father. She stepped outside and tilted her face to a narrow patch of sunlight where it gleamed down on her.
“They dinna revel in sunshine either,” he murmured.
She lowered her head and strode forward with the confident gait of a warrior. Soon they would be at the castle and she would be locked within a chamber where she would be safer. Mayhap then he could stop thinking of her, worrying after her—this woman he should hate.
The walk to the castle was uneventful until they passed through the heavy stone curtain walls and into the bailey. A familiar figure stalked toward them. Niall tensed in preparation for the last person he wanted to encounter with Lady Leila out in the open and vulnerable. For as soon as Alban turned in their direction, he headed straight for them.
Leila’s limbs were soft, and a tang of fear tickled at the back of her throat. She’d tried to swallow it down—to no avail. With each villager who passed them, she had waited with trepidation for their wrath. Their rage had haunted her in her cell, colder than even the chill in those whitewashed walls, and penetrating far deeper within her.
There had been madness in their eyes, a wild desperation, as though the spilling of her blood could douse the contagion and end the great mortality.
Now though, the people were not unlike those of the village outside of Werrick Castle—sagging under the duress of illness, withered by the sapping of life.
The Lion tensed at her side. Leila followed his gaze and the waning energy of her body roared to life once more.
Alban was heading straight for them, his eyes narrowed with spite. “I heard ye had to handle Lord Werrick.”
The Lion ignored him.
“Who’s this ye’v
e got with ye?” Alban nodded toward Leila.
She resisted the urge to tuck her head lower, hoping that the helm would be sufficient to mask her identity.
“Is Lord Armstrong within?” the Lion asked curtly. “I need to speak with him.”
“Why’ve ye got yer helmets on?” Alban interjected.
“’Tis a matter for me to discuss with yer da,” the Lion said in an unflinching tone. “No’ ye.”
Alban sneered and strode around them as if he meant to leave. Before he could go past them, however, he swept his hand up and struck the bottom of Leila’s helm. It had fit her loosely from the start and popped off with ease. Leila sucked in a gasp and shot a glance toward the open portcullis where the villagers might still recognize her.
“Her?” Alban growled. “I thought that witch was in the prison, rotting where she belongs.”
“I need to speak with Lord Armstrong posthaste.” The Lion grabbed Leila’s arm and dragged her toward him, taking the position of captor with his prisoner once more.
Though his hold on her was firm, it was not painful. As with all things, he took care to ensure he did not hurt her. She was close enough to catch his scent, the unmistakable warmth of masculinity mingled with leather and the slightest hint of cedar. It was a pleasing smell, though she conceded that as grudgingly as she admitted to his kindness.
“If ye wish to speak with me, I’m right here.” The cool voice of Lord Armstrong sent prickles of gooseflesh rising over Leila’s arms.
“My Lord.” The Lion turned around, bringing her with him.
Lord Armstrong settled his small eyes on Leila. “Is this our prisoner? What is she doing here? Why is she wearing the armor of one of our reivers?”
“Her father demanded she receive the proper housing of an earl’s daughter while she is held,” the Lion said. “He wouldna leave if I dinna grant it. I’ve already had a room cleared out for her.”
“And ye sneaked her through the village rather than making her walk?” Lord Armstrong settled his gaze on Leila and her unease turned to revulsion as he sampled her with his eyes. “Where did her kirtle go?”
“Too damn wet to wear and no’ die in the prison.” The Lion widened his stance, a subtle show of his determination to stand by his decisions. Mayhap this was why he had earned his epithet. He did not back down from a challenge but stood his ground and defended it as he even now defended her.
“More’s the pity if she were to die.” Lord Armstrong scoffed. “Get that gambeson off her.”
“She’s no’ been found guilty by Father Gerard yet,” the Lion countered.
The Scottish earl’s face folded down into a frown, an obvious reflection of his displeasure with the Lion’s defiance. “Give the witch to Alban. I want ye to come with me.”
The Lion tightened his grip on Leila. “That isna necessary.”
Lord Armstrong’s frown deepened, scoring the lines on his face deeper. “Ye would do well to remember yerself. Lion or no, ye work for me. Mind yerself with this lass, or I’ll think ye bewitched.” He shifted his attention to Alban. “Take the witch to her room and get a kirtle upon her.”
“I’ll see it done.” Alban’s insinuation slicked over his words the way oil did over water. He grasped Leila’s wrist, directly over the torn skin from her bindings, and squeezed painfully before tugging her. The Lion’s hold on her slipped and Leila plunged toward Alban, all but crashing into his chest. While her gambeson had held the musty remnants of someone’s sweat, the one Alban wore was sour with it.
She did her best to hold her breath as he unfastened the gambeson from her torso before spinning her around to jerk it from her back and pin her hands together.
“She’s to be put in the left front tower.” The Lion issued the one simple order before turning his back to Leila and walking away with Lord Armstrong.
It wasn’t until he was gone, until she was at Alban’s mercy, that she realized she missed the Lion’s quiet stoicism at her side. He had kept her from having to walk through town with the villagers, he had not mentioned what had passed between Leila and her father, and he had even now tried to ensure her safety.
“Walk,” Alban commanded. “Or I’ll have to make ye.” His fingers dug into her wrists.
Leila bit back a cry of pain and walked forward. While the silence between her and the Lion had been somewhat companionable in coming to the castle, the quiet between her and Alban stretched on like an unspoken threat. He had been commanded to get her back into a kirtle. She was not so naive as to wonder at his intent once she was disrobed and at his mercy. Nor was she so weak that she would not fight.
Even as they walked, she considered what she’d seen when he approached them. Had he worn a sword at his belt? Surely, he had. Mayhap a dagger? Possibly. But which side?
Her head ached from trying to probe at the image, but she could not resurrect the necessary information in her mind.
He shoved her into the yawning entrance of the castle where the shadows swallowed them, leaving the world dark and cold. A chill raked its way down her spine.
“Are ye scared, witch?” Alban’s grip loosened on one wrist long enough for him to drag a finger over the goosebumped flesh of her forearm. “If no’, ye should be.”
She clenched her jaw and said nothing. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his words truly did frighten her. Her mind darted around for something else to think on and immediately went to her father.
Only, that wouldn’t do. Not when seeing him had nearly shattered her composure. It had been good of the Lion to not mention the conversation he’d no doubt overheard. The one where he must realize Leila was not Lord Werrick’s daughter, where she had bared her soul, unearthed her unworthiness of all she had. Yet he had not spoken of it. Nor had he regarded her with pity or scorn. It was as though he truly had not heard it. And as that was impossible given his nearness to them, she was all the more grateful for the courtesy. Just as she had been grateful for the way he’d guarded her in the prison to ensure her safety, and how he’d provided her with warm, dry clothing.
It was only when Alban had begun to push Leila up the stairs that she realized the comforting thought she had been clinging to as they made their way through the castle. It was not of her father, but of the Lion. Her heart shrank in her chest. Was this how it happened then? How she fell in love with the man who would kill her? Was she so foolish?
Alban pushed the door open, startling a maid who was dragging a trunk across the floor. The red-haired woman looked at Alban with wide eyes.
“Leave,” Alban stated.
The woman’s gaze slipped to Leila and pity flashed there before she scuttled from the room.
“Bring a kirtle.” Alban called his order after the woman, though it was said with a lack of concern, as though he didn’t care whether Leila had the garment or not.
Leila stared forward at the room with Alban still holding her hands behind her. The room had been stripped bare of most of its furnishings, save for the trunk left in the middle of the floor and a simple carved bed set in the corner. No doubt everything else had been removed to ensure she did not devise a way to escape.
Alban released Leila and shoved her hard into the room, so she sprawled forward awkwardly. She would have caught her balance were it not for the sharp-edged trunk her shins hit, sending her sailing over it. She crashed to the floor as the door to the room slammed shut and the key clicked the lock into place.
She leapt to her feet as Alban approached, his face revealing a smug smile of victory. “Take off yer clothes.”
9
Leila glared at Alban, refusing to even deign to respond to his command that she remove her clothing. He had no sword at his belt. She’d at least been able to determine that.
He took a slow, menacing step toward her and let his shoes thunk heavily onto the wooden floorboard. It was evident he was trying to intimidate her. Mayhap he expected her to run, to give chase around the room until he finally caught her and
gained the upper hand.
Leila stood her ground. If he was going to advance on her, the attack would begin on her terms, not his. She would have the element of surprise on her side.
“I told ye to take off yer clothes.” He reached out and pinched at her shirt. “I want to see ye—”
Leila’s fist slammed into his face. He stumbled backwards, the fool. He’d underestimated her once before, and clearly was doing so again. She swept her leg toward the back of his knees, so they buckled and sent him falling toward the floor. He hit the ground with all the grace of a sack of rotten vegetables and issued forth a satisfying oof. A dagger was affixed to the side of his belt.
In that split second, she had to make a decision: to either snatch up the dagger or kick him in the head. The latter would no doubt kill him, a crime that would guarantee a lifetime of being hunted down. A crime that would have vengeance exacted on her entire family until not one remained alive.
She grabbed for the dagger. Unfortunately, he anticipated that would be her move. He grasped her wrist as she reached for the weapon and tugged with the weight of his body, dragging her to the floor with him. She rolled forward in an attempt to lessen the impact of her fall.
A strong arm knocked her to the side and something hard and sharp slammed into the side of her head. She reeled for a moment, addled by the force of the blow. It was all Alban needed. He was on her in an instant, pressing her with the weight of his body.
“I told ye to take off yer clothes.” He peered at her chest, angling his neck to better see down her shirt.
Pain radiated from her head where she’d been struck so sharply and brutally that she was certain she was bleeding. From the corner of her eye, she made out the trunk that had been abandoned in the middle of the room. First it had tripped her; now it had given Alban the upper hand.
Leila’s Legacy Page 8