With a sudden roar, he threw the chest to the ground—
And with the force of a rampaging bull, shoved Magnus aside, slamming him violently against the stone wall. Magnus’s vision blurred.
The man stormed past, but Magnus righted himself, and twisted … lunging, seizing Gilroy around his chest. Only to be wrenched free and trampled as Gilroy barreled past, shoving a chair down atop Magnus as he fled through the door.
Magnus blinked, stunned by the force exerted by the man, then pushed the chair off himself, quickly rising to his feet. What the hell had just happened? Still clenching the necklace, he went to the door, and peered outward. The man was nowhere to be seen.
Magnus stood there on the threshold, his chest tight, the blood pounding in his temples, for the first time in a long while, indecisive … uncertain of what to do. Was Gilroy, at this very moment, informing the Lady Alwyn, or even the laird of the confrontation that had just occurred? Should he go straightaway to the stables for a horse, and ride toward Kincaid lands before any confrontation or capture could take place?
He clenched his teeth, agonized, his head filled with clashing thoughts and the silence of the corridor.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t just leave. If there was any chance he could still succeed at drawing the truth from the Alwyn, of knowing the why and the how of the plot that had brought about the destruction of his family and his clan and his life, then he must take it.
There was also Tara. He had made a vow to her, one he wouldn’t break.
Still breathing heavily, he secured the necklace inside the small leather pouch attached to the inside of his belt, and with care, entered the corridor.
His shoulders tight with tension and readiness, he made his return to the smoky din of the hall, all the while trying to fashion some reasonable explanation for being caught rummaging about in Gilroy’s room. All the while expecting to be confronted by Gilroy, with a company of guards. But that didn’t happen.
But why? Where had Gilroy gone?
Little had changed since he’d departed the room a short time earlier. Conversation still flowed. The musicians still played.
Tara sat alone, her shoulders straight. Not moving. Not eating or conversing with those around her. And Hugh? Magnus found him in the corner, leering at the dancing girl along with Ferchar and his customary companions, a goblet in his hand, which gave him some relief, as his attention was no longer on Tara.
He saw Gilroy nowhere.
Cautiously, Magnus returned to the company of Chissolm and the others, and took his seat. There, the conversation rose up around him, as he watched and waited.
It was not long before Lady Alwyn lifted a hand, signaling her intention to leave. He watched, riveted at the unfolding commotion, as voices called out for Gilroy. At any moment he might be forced to fight or flee. Several of the laird’s men stood and walked between the rows of tables, searching the room, but returned to the laird’s table shaking their heads. One of the other servants stepped in, directing the men to lift the screens, and provide escort to the ladies as they departed.
When Tara stood, everything male inside him came alive and aware, the danger of the moment heightening his response. She no longer wore the shapeless garb of a nun, but a blue kirtle that sheathed her body, making apparent the high, round fullness of her breasts, her slender torso and the flare of her hips. Her braids glinted beneath her sheer head covering, the color of a midnight flame. He wondered how her hair would look free and tumbling down her back … or draped across a pillow. His pillow.
He could not help but think it.
He had risked so much for her. Because of that he could not help but feel more, as he looked upon her. The animal part of him wanted to lay claim, in exchange for his sacrifice, even while his rational mind told him he had no right.
For a momentary instant as she passed by his table, she went unprotected by the screen. She turned her head, and their eyes met. Though the connection lasted only a second … perhaps two, it electrified him through, taking him back to the moment in the carriage where they’d looked into one another’s eyes, and breathed each other’s breath, more intense, even, than when they’d kissed.
When she disappeared from his view, his abdomen clenched with apprehension, because even with Hugh divested of his key, he did not know if she would be safe in that tower.
*
Tara turned the key, locking her chamber door after Mary and Anna, who had helped her prepare for bed.
Alone, again. A prisoner, again.
And yet she took some comfort in knowing the locked door would protect her from Hugh … although the troubling thought struck her that someone still had possession of his forfeited key. The laird, no doubt. She prayed he kept it hidden, where her dull-eyed, dull-toned betrothed would not find it again.
Whore.
The word had been a vicious affront against the gentle sister she’d known, and whom she held so dear in her memory. Why had he used such a word to describe her? Could it be possible that her sister had been in love with someone else, either here, or before she’d arrived at Burnbryde, and he’d found out about it?
The anger she’d heard in Hugh’s voice had been palpable, and only gave more life to her suspicions that he had harmed Arabel … and might find cause to harm her too.
Perhaps, however, she was safe as long as she did not draw his attention. He did not seem to care for her, as a person, overmuch. Only the idea of possessing and keeping her, as an object of pride. He had lost interest in her soon after making his threats. The dancing girl had held far more allure for him. She had not missed the moment when the dark-haired young woman had danced closer to Hugh, seemingly familiar with him. He had grabbed the dancer’s hand and pressed it hard against his groin. The brunette had laughed gaily and smiled as Tara’s betrothed had filled her other hand with what she could only assume were coins, and spoken into her ear, no doubt making arrangements to meet with her later. If the lady or laird had noticed, they’d given no indication.
She, herself, did not care one small bit that he found entertainment elsewhere, other than to feel a deep pity for the girl, who no doubt feigned her interest in exchange for money.
She crossed the floor, shivering as the chill crept beneath her night rail. Earlier that evening, while sitting at the laird’s table observing everything, she’d concealed her rather sturdy eating knife in her bell sleeve. Whilst Anna and Mary had been distracted with turning down her bed linens and tending to the fire, she had managed to discreetly drop the blade into her open trunk. Returning now, she lifted her folded garments and found the long-handled blade there along the interior wall of the trunk, and took her new tool in hand.
Less than a fortnight … she had less than a fortnight to determine another means of escape. Time already passed too quickly, hurtling her forward, toward a destiny she refused to accept. How she would succeed in getting out of here, she did not know, but she would not simply lay abed each night, praying that someone else would save her. Someone like Magnus.
After all, how could he possibly help her, with all the screens and locked doors and stone walls and guards and iron bars between them? It wasn’t his fault he could not perform a miracle. She did not hold it against him. She would only hold it against herself if she did not try.
Slipping on her shoes, she drew her cloak onto her shoulders, remembering the numbing cold of the night before. Knife and lantern in hand, she pushed the tapestry aside and opened the secret passageway. A wall of darkness and cold met her, as if to ward her away. But despite her heart clenching in dread and fear, she passed through and secured the wooden panel behind her and descended the dark stairs … assuring herself it was only the whisper of her garments against the stones that she heard, and not the warnings of long-dead ghosts … Arabel?… as she delved downward.
Her breath puffed out in front of her, as she turned one corner, and then another. At last she came to the barred window. Breathing unevenly, she set the lanter
n on the steps, so that its light would not shine too brightly out from the window and draw attention from the outside.
It was frightening here, alone in the dark and the silence.
Frightening also, knowing that Arabel had stood in this same exact place, desperate for a freedom she would never find. As she had the night before, Tara sent up a prayer that her fate would not be the same. She touched her finger to the mortar, and raised the knife. Perhaps chipping away here for hours, until her hands throbbed, wouldn’t set her free, but she had to try.
“Tara,” a man’s voice called from the darkness.
Not realizing exactly where the voice came from, she gasped, and shrank back.
And yet in the next moment, she recognized the voice as belonging to Magnus. The closest thing she had to an ally at Burnbryde. Her heartbeat jumped.
“Tara?” he said again, from outside the window, she now discerned. “It’s me.”
She moved closer to the bars, and peered out into the night.
No moonlight reached this narrow crevice, between the tower and the castle wall. She did not call his name for fear she was wrong, that she had been mistaken. She would not want anyone to know he sympathized with her, if indeed he did sympathize with her. She would not want to bring him to harm in any way.
But there … yes. She could just make out his shape in the darkness below, approaching the window, tall, rangy and male, and impressively broad at the shoulders.
“Yes,” she answered, her chest tight with emotions she didn’t understand, emotions so strong that tears flooded her eyes.
She only knew she’d been afraid, and so very sad and alone, and that the sound of his voice speaking her name … his presence here, lifted her up somehow.
“May I come up there, to speak to you?” he asked, looking up, although she could not discern any aspect of his face. “I have a ladder.”
“Of course,” she answered, blinking away her tears. She forced normality to her voice because she did not want him to know how much his presence meant to her, how much relief it gave her, because … because she didn’t trust him still. She couldn’t. Not completely. To do so wouldn’t be smart. Though she didn’t distrust him, either.
Nearing the window, he momentarily disappeared. There came the sound of wood striking dully against the stone, then creaking as he climbed up.
A certain eagerness quickened her blood. Soon, she would see his familiar face. A face that was not yet so familiar, that she could recall every detail, because she had only ever looked upon him in times of duress. But she recalled that his eyes were blue. Blazingly … startlingly blue.
He appeared, his head and shoulders rising above the ledge. His silver-blond hair gleamed in the lamplight, pushed back from his face and falling loose behind his ears—a face so attractive … and yes, so welcome … her blood and her bones seemed to surge forward to greet him.
“Hello there,” he said, his lips sweeping into a crooked smile. His breath clouded in the cold night air. “Again.”
Something felt different now, in the way they talked to one another. There was a gentleness to not only his gaze, but his voice. A reverence that calmed her.
“Hello again,” she repeated. Suddenly, she forgot all about the cold.
He climbed up a few more steps.
“Determined to chisel yourself out of there, are you?” he said, his gaze dropping to her hand.
She realized then that she still clenched the knife. She set it onto the ledge, and pushed it aside. “If I must.”
Moving with ease and no apparent fear of falling, he climbed off the ladder, his shoulders flexing beneath his tunic. He lowered himself onto the deep outer ledge, deftly turning crosswise to sit. This positioned him almost face-to-face with her as she stood looking out. He bent his long, booted legs, settling one foot flat against the ledge. The other he pressed against the larger, raised stones of the outer arch. Confined as such, in a space akin to a normal doorway, his large body filled the space.
He turned his face, leveling a look upon her, between the bars, so direct and powerful, that he took her breath away all over again. She thought to step away, to put more space between them, but she didn’t. Instead she remained close, so close she felt the warmth radiating off him, drawing reassurance from his size, his strength and most importantly, his sense of calm.
“I’m sorry you feel you must do that,” he said. “But I understand why you would, after watching Hugh tonight.”
He had watched, angrily. She had known that.
“I said it before, and I will say it again … I will not marry him,” she said, looking into his eyes, her rising emotions causing her throat to close on the words.
“He’s a beast,” he murmured coldly. “More now than before, though why I don’t know. I cannot help but hold myself responsible for your plight. That first night … I should have told you to go.” He shook his head, his lips drawn into a thin line. “I should have turned your carriage around and told you to return from whence you came.”
His jaw tightened as he spoke the words, and his eyes flashed with regret.
“You did not know me, then,” she said.
“Should that matter?” he replied.
“’Twould have done no good,” she answered softly. “Even with the outriders gone, the driver would have refused. He would not disobey Buchan’s orders. I believe even Sister Grizel would have insisted on finishing our journey and seeing for herself what awaited us.”
“If only my regrets ended there,” he muttered.
“What regrets?” she answered.
He shifted on the stones, turning toward her. His hand came between the bars. Though spaced too closely together for a child to squeeze through, they were wide enough for his arm to pass—but only his arm, for the bulk of his shoulder prevented any further trespass. His hand found hers and tightened around it. Her heartbeat increased at the touch. She felt no desire to pull away.
His blue eyes pierced her through. “When I saw him acting so roughly toward you tonight, I wanted to bludgeon him with his own damn fists, right there, in front of everyone. And believe me, I did so in my mind.” He gritted the words out, before exhaling in frustration. “But Tara, I sat and watched, as still as a statue. All I could think was that if I were thrown into the dungeon for crimes against the laird’s heir, his ceann-cath, I could do nothing more to help you escape this marriage to him.”
His words fell on her ears. Her eager ears. Her heart opened to him a fragment more, her gaze sweeping over his face, memorizing his features. His strong shoulders and arms.
“But I understand why,” she answered, turning her hand inside his, so she could hold his just as tight. She did understand. The words he spoke were true. She would not see him imprisoned for recklessly defending her. “I am no fool. I do not expect you to endanger yourself for me.”
“But I would … endanger myself,” he growled, his gaze snapping, seizing her hand upward, against his chest. “To keep him from hurting you. If he hurt you, I would never forgive myself for standing by.”
She felt the powerful beat of his heart, there against the back of her hand. Her own pulse raced, hearing his words, at being this close to him, so familiarly touched.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and shook his head slowly before opening them again. “If he hurt any woman—”
“I do not think he will hurt me,” she replied. “Not if I pretend to fear and obey him. Not if I assure him that I am resigned now to marrying him and being the subservient betrothed that he demands I be.”
“How can you be so certain?” he demanded, his brows drawing together, making him look fierce.
“I don’t believe he is compelled by lust,” she answered, the word bringing a blush into her cheeks. “But rather by the desire to control me. He seems to look upon me as a possession. As a symbol of his connection to the earl—a connection which pleases his father. As long as I acquiesce, and acknowledge his power over me, I believe I will be safe �
�� at least until the wedding.”
“A wedding that will not take place,” he answered resolutely.
Still, Tara’s fears rose in her throat, suspicions on which she could no longer keep silent. She prayed she did not make a mistake in confiding to him, in making such a dangerous accusation when she had no proof.
“But I do think he hurt my sister,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes. “I know they say ’twas a fever. Everyone does. But something is wrong, Magnus.” Her hands found the front of his tunic, and she seized hold of him there. He stared back into her eyes, listening. “Something isn’t right. No one seems to be able to say they saw her ill, other than the Lady Alwyn, who kept everyone else away, save for a priest she did not name. I don’t believe I’m being told the truth—”
He turned, shifting onto his hip, as she remained standing on the other side of the window.
A tear trickled down her cheek, and the cold chilled its path on her skin.
His hand came up to cradle her jaw. She sighed, taking comfort in his touch, his concern, his gentleness. Although the thick iron bars separated them, their bodies pressed closer, in what was almost an embrace.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. His face coming between the bars, he pressed a fervent kiss to her temple. “I’m sorry Arabel is gone.”
Tilting her face in his hands, he kissed her closed eyelids. A tremor went through her at the sensation. She’d never been touched thusly. So comfortingly. So tenderly. So when he drew her arms, slenderer than his, through the bars, and brought them about his shoulders, she allowed it. She wanted to be close to him—to touch like this. He made her feel stronger. Less alone. Less afraid.
“I’m sorry I was here, all the while,” he murmured, his mouth on her cheek, “and did not ask questions that might have saved her life. That I did not know she needed protection.”
She closed her eyes, wholly focused on the sound of his voice, rumbling in her ear, the vibration of his chest, when he spoke, against her breasts. They were the exact words she needed to hear. She needed to know that someone cared, that someone else felt regret. That Arabel had meant something, and that she did too.
The Rebel of Clan Kincaid Page 14