by Nora Roberts
The other man’s reply was drowned out by the clatter of hooves as the horses turned onto the paved road to the inn.
Arianne drew in her breath. She found that she was trembling with rage. No food for the prisoners for three days!
Marcus, she thought, choking back a cry of despair for her brother. So Julian planned to starve him right up until his hanging.
Fury rose in a bitter tempest within her. At that moment she wanted nothing more than to drive her dagger through Julian’s heart herself, plunge it deep until his life’s blood spilled across the castle floors.
But she quickly gained control of her emotions. If all went as planned tonight, Marcus would be freed within the next few hours. They would flee together, hide, and make their way to the secret camp where Felix, the captain of Galeron’s troops, was gathering Marcus’s scattered knights. Then they would plan how best to recapture Castle Galeron from Julian’s marauders—
Arianne’s thoughts broke off suddenly as black wings beat the sky above her head. She glanced up to see the crow wheeling, cawing harshly, toward the looming towers of the castle.
Arianne shivered. For a moment she feared that the crow was spying on her, carrying tales of her presence just outside the castle walls to Julian himself. But she shook off that absurd idea. Julian knew nothing, not even that she was here in Dinadan, for she’d been in disguise. No one, perhaps not even Morgana, her own lady-in-waiting, would recognize Lady Arianne of Galeron in the plain-gowned tavern wench who served ale and mopped floors at the Jug and Spoon Inn near the river road.
Standing in the windy darkness, the trees bending and sighing about her, Arianne stared for a moment at the castle that the villagers had of late dubbed Castle Doom. Even through the gloom, the outline of the towers and turrets seemed to glimmer with a cold white mist that chilled her to the bone. How strange that as children she and Marcus and Julian and Nicholas had all played and hidden and frolicked there, that once the gleaming stone fortress had been a place of rich beauty and gaiety, where minstrels performed and banquets were held and the people came and went in peace and harmony. Under Archduke Armand—Julian’s father and a distant cousin to Arianne and Marcus—it had been a shimmering place where the duke ruled with wisdom and tolerance and an eye toward the welfare of his people.
But the good Duke Armand was dead now, and Julian, his son by his second wife, had succeeded him upon the throne.
Julian was a very different sort of man than his father had been. A lying, cunning villain who even as a child had cheated at games in order to win, Arianne remembered scornfully.
If only Marcus had not left Galeron to try to forge a peace treaty with Julian. If only Nicholas had not been banished…
Nicholas.
No use thinking of him, Arianne told herself angrily as she spun away from the castle and headed swiftly toward the stables behind the Briar Knoll Inn. Lord Nicholas of Dinadan has chosen not to return to Dinadan in its time of need, ignoring the plight of your brother, whom he claimed as his closest friend, she reminded herself. Do not think of him. He is not what you imagined him all those years ago, when you were naught but a silly child.
A month ago, Marcus had come on his peacemaking mission to Duke Julian, to negotiate a treaty that would end the border raids into Galeron. Instead, he found himself imprisoned and his lands viciously attacked. Since then Arianne had been able to think of little else besides Nicholas, Duke Armand’s oldest son. As boys, Marcus and Nicholas had been the best of friends. They’d sworn allegiance to one another, pledged to stand by one another through fire and famine. But now, though she’d had Marcus’s captain send messages far and wide, Nicholas had not returned or responded.
He’d disappeared ten years earlier, after Duke Armand banished him, and no one had heard from him since.
I don’t need him, Arianne assured herself as she unlatched the stable door. My plan will succeed, and Marcus will be safe. I will get him out this very night.
Her throat tightened as she stepped into the dim stable. One torch flickered feeble amber light against the wall, revealing that he was here already, the dungeon guard she had met at the Jug and Spoon, the one she’d been discreetly questioning for bits of information, the one who had let it be known that he was not above accepting bribes.
“There you are, wench. Bretta, is it not?”
“Yes,” she replied, her voice low and only a little tremulous. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she walked toward him with what she hoped was a confident stride. “You are ready to strike a bargain, Galdain?”
“Not so quick, eh? The night is young. Sit yourself down, lass, and share a tankard with me.”
He’d been drinking already, Arianne noted with disgust as he tilted the tankard to his fat, moist lips and took a swig. The man was hairy as a goat and smelled like one too. She wrinkled her nose in distaste, trying to focus on the scent of the hay instead. The woolen tunic covering Galdain’s broad form was frayed and grease-stained, and blood spattered the front of it. Who had the man been beating tonight? She fought her revulsion and forced herself to meet his oily black eyes with outward equanimity.
“I have little time,” she continued briskly. “They’re expecting me back at the inn. Quickly now, tell me—your keys will open all of the cells in the dungeon?”
“That they will, wench.” His crude laughter rang out as he dug in his pocket and produced a large silver ring of keys. He dangled it before her, the keys clanging together discordantly. “See—I’m a very important man in the duke’s service.”
“If you weren’t, we wouldn’t be here at this moment,” she snapped, then quickly switched to a sweeter, more coaxing tone as she saw his eyes widen. She needed this brute, whether she liked it or not. Scalding him with her tongue wouldn’t bring him to heel, but gold and a honeyed smile would.
“I can meet your price, Galdain.” She withdrew three gold coins from the pocket of her cloak. “I’ll give you one now and the other two when Count Marcus is freed.”
“Count Marcus! Eh, what’s this? You never said he was the one you wanted me to let go.” Galdain frowned and took another deep swig of his ale, then wiped his sleeve across his dripping lips. “I don’t know about that. I’d be risking my neck. The archduke might well hang me in the count’s stead if that one gets away.”
“Five coins,” Arianne said, producing the additional coins like a magician and waving them under his nose. “Three now and two later—“
“Ten.”
Tension ripped through Arianne’s stomach. She didn’t have ten. If she gave this man five pieces of gold, it would leave her with only one—one that she might need to smuggle herself and Marcus across the border.
“I don’t have ten. You had agreed to three.”
“That was before you wanted Count Marcus. What’s he to you, eh?” he asked suddenly, suspicion darkening his beefy features. “Why are you trying to help that foreigner anyway?”
“That’s not your concern.” She heard the royal haughtiness in her voice and hastened to amend her tone. She opened her eyes very wide and reached out to touch his arm. “Galdain, please. Five coins is all I have. They’re yours if you will only keep your end of the bargain. Open the cell door and look the other way. Count Marcus will make his own way out of the castle.”
“The duke will have my head if I’m caught,” he growled. Sharp eyes studied the fine bones of her face, the beautiful violet eyes that shone from beneath slim auburn brows, the soft, full mouth, parted now as she stared at him. “You’ll have to make it worth my while,” he said slowly. “Five coins won’t free a rat, much less Count Marcus.”
Arianne drew in her breath. She wanted to strike this scoundrel, to draw her dagger and hold it to his throat and force him to agree, but that wouldn’t serve. Once he went back to the castle, there was no guarantee that he would comply with the plan. What could she do? She had precious little money, for she’d had to flee Castle Galeron quickly when Julian’s men had sprung their attac
k. There’d been no time to gather gold or jewels or even a parcel of her belongings.
All she had was the amethyst necklace and ring that had once belonged to her mother, both of which she’d been wearing the night of the attack. They were hidden now, deep in the pocket of her cloak. Should she give them over to this greedy, disgusting oaf?
Tears stung her eyes. “I have this ring. Here.” She produced it, her hands shaking. “You may have it when Count Marcus is freed.”
“How’d the likes of you get a beauty like this?” Galdain studied the warm, dark flash of the amethyst in the dim stable. His eyes glinted.
“Never you mind. It was lost, and I found it. That’s all you need to know.” She shoved the ring back inside her pocket. “Now, will you go back to the castle and keep your end of the bargain or not?”
“By the saints, I will. And I’ll take the coins with me. All of ‘em. And the ring. I don’t believe for a minute it’s real, but it’s a pretty bauble and could fetch a fair price in the village. I’ll also take you, sweet lady,” he sneered, licking his lips. “Come and persuade me, wench. Show me why I should let the damned count go free, and just maybe I’ll risk my neck to oblige you.”
He lunged toward her, but Arianne jumped nimbly out of reach. “Don’t you touch me!” she cried.
“You’re too pretty not to touch. Come, the hay is warm.” He sprang toward her again, and this time he was too quick for her. Arianne felt heavy arms imprison her, smelled the liquor and garlic on his breath, the stench of sweat permeating his thick body.
She kicked his shin, and her hand slid toward her dagger. “Let me go or pay with your life,” she warned breathlessly, her fingers closing over the hilt.
Then the dagger was free, and as Galdain groped for her breast beneath the cloak, she stabbed at him with all her might.
But the guard was lucky. He wrenched aside just in time, and the blade missed his heart. It slashed through his shoulder, and he drew back with a grunt of pain, glaring at her.
“I’ll teach you to try to murder me!” he bellowed, and with brute strength struck her full across the face. Arianne went spinning onto the stable floor, and while she lay there, dizzy, he kicked the dagger out of her hand.
“Now you’ll see how unwise it is to cross Galdain,” he muttered and fell upon her.
Arianne, still dizzy, tried to roll aside, but he was upon her before she could move. Heavy and foul-breathed, he pinned her to the floor. She fought and kicked, clawing furiously at his face, but could not get free.
“No! Damn your soul, no! Let me go!”
Fear and rage gave her strength, but not enough to throw him off her. She bucked futilely, and her nails grazed his cheek. “Damn you, get off me!”
“I’ll have you—and the gold—and the ring.” The guard’s voice grunted in her ear as he tore open her cloak. “Rich pickings, wench. Neither of us will soon forget this night.”
Suddenly a deeper shadow moved through the gloom of the stable, and Galdain, perhaps with a sixth sense of impending disaster, glanced up.
Arianne saw a shadow, nothing more. Then a huge hand appeared, seized the guard’s tunic, and hurled him across the stable.
“The lady said to let her up. It appears that a lesson in manners is in order.”
“Arggggghhhh!” With a wordless roar, the enraged dungeon guard hurled himself at his attacker.
Arianne struggled to her knees and watched the fight through wide eyes. The man who had come to her aid was tall, wide-shouldered, and far more heavily muscled than the burly guard. His short-cropped hair and plain cloak, tunic, and breeches were dark, unadorned in any way that marked him as a noble or a knight, yet he fought with the smooth, fierce skill of one trained in battle.
When he deftly struck a series of powerful blows, Galdain staggered back. But as the stranger started toward him again, the guard clanged out his sword.
The breath whistled out of Arianne. “No!” she cried.
In the next instant she saw the answering gleam of metal. Quick as lightning, the stranger had drawn his rapier. She heard his mocking, confident laugh as he faced the other man.
“Come, ruffian. Let us see how you meet an opponent of equal strength and skill.”
Arianne scrambled in the darkness for her own fallen dagger and held it tightly in trembling fingers, watching the thrust and parry. The tall stranger fought magnificently, with a quickness, strength, and ruthless skill that won admiration even through her fear. It was clear at once that the dungeon guard was no match for him.
Just as she was beginning to think that Galdain would cry for mercy at any moment and her protector would send him running, from outside the stable came the thunder of hooves, shouting and the sound of boots thumping on the frozen earth.
The stranger heard the commotion too. For just an instant his keen gaze flicked toward the door. It was all the opening Galdain needed. He lunged with his sword straight at the stranger’s heart, but the tall man swung his blade just in time and turned aside the fatal thrust. An instant later, he ran Galdain through, and the guard’s blood spilled in a crimson gush as he cursed, trembled, and fell dead.
Horror filling her throat, Arianne shrank from the sight. The din outside roared in her ears. She darted to the door and peered out.
Soldiers. At least a dozen of them, Julian’s own handpicked men in black masks and hauberks, with drawn swords. No doubt they were searching for the phantom Lord Nicholas or for Lady Arianne of Galeron, whichever they could get their hands on first.
They were fanning out—to search the inn, she realized, the stables, the grounds. They were everywhere.
She was trapped.
2
“Duke’s men, are they? Seems he’s sent enough of them.”
The stranger’s deep voice spoke wryly in her ear.
“Quick, there’s not much time.” Scarcely thinking, Arianne grabbed his powerful arm and tugged him outside into the misty darkness.
As one, they melted through the night and edged around the stables into the brush. Suddenly he seized her and dragged her down behind a tangled thicket.
One big gauntleted hand covered her mouth, while the other held her helpless against a lean male torso that was as strong as an oak. Arianne had never been held in any fashion by a man before. She’d had suitors, but none she cared for, and she’d kept them all at arm’s length. A rush of heat spiraled through her at this stranger’s intimate nearness, the pressure of his large, strong body against hers.
But there was little time to ponder her reaction, for the next moment a trio of guards stomped by, holding blazing torches aloft.
“Since yesterday sunset we’ve searched from the seacoast to the forest, and all the main roads, and there’s been not one sign of Lord Nicholas,” one man grumbled, his boots crunching less than five paces from where she and the stranger crouched.
“The duke’s own astrologer claims he’s dead.” The soldier beside him spat in the dirt.
“Well, I saw the gypsy woman’s eyes when she prophesied,” the third soldier muttered, glancing left and right, his eyes shining warily in the wildly flickering torchlight. “She knows more than you or I…something strange is afoot.”
They hurried on.
It was several seconds more before the stranger eased his hand away from Arianne’s lips.
“Don’t you dare touch me again,” she whispered furiously in the darkness. “How dare you…”
“Quiet. Do you want them to find us?” There was steel in his voice and in his sudden grip on her arm. Arianne was certain that later there would be a bruise. He yanked her up as abruptly as he had tugged her down, then pulled her after him through the woods, ducking beneath the low-hanging branches.
She kept up with him as best she could. There was nothing else to do at this point but continue fleeing through the darkness. Despite the stranger’s rough, even arrogant, conduct, she felt safer with him than she would if she were surrounded by Duke Julian’s soldiers.
Still they ran. On and on through the Great Forest.
At last, when they were deep within the black heart of the forest, the stranger slowed his pace. Glancing down, he noted Arianne’s flushed face and tortured breathing, loud in the hushed quiet of the wood.
“This way,” he told her curtly, drawing her past a trickling stream. “There’s a place I used to go as a boy. If it’s still deserted, we’ll be safe for now. We can spend the night there. I wish to talk with you.”
Arianne was almost too weary to hear his quietly spoken words. Her chest hurt, and the muscles in her legs throbbed as if they were on fire. Her one thought now was of the dead guard, Galdain.
Her plan was ruined.
Her despair showed in her drooping shoulders. How would she ever free Marcus from Castle Doom before Julian had him hanged?
She did notice, though, when the cottage came into view. It huddled, nearly hidden, at the bottom of a shallow valley, not far from the stream. Sheltered by great oaks and a thick stand of silver birches, it was a crude but sturdy little box, built of stone and mud, with a chimney and a door, but no window.
It was dark as a cave inside.
The stranger at last let go of her arm as they entered. In silence, he set about striking tinder. When a weak yellow glow beamed out across the shadows, revealing no occupants, human or otherwise, he kicked the door shut.
“What we need is a fire,” he remarked almost cheerfully and went to the hearth.
While he busied himself stacking and lighting the remains of several split and scarred logs and then lit a tallow candle set in a holder on a small table in the center of the room, Arianne shivered in her cloak and watched him, trying to gather her scattered thoughts.