by Jayne Castel
Draco’s jaw clenched.
This wouldn’t do at all. He’d wed Gavina De Keith in order to break the curse, and for no other reason.
And now, he and his friends would find out if the riddle was true after all—or just a cruel game set in motion by a long dead bandruì.
Draco’s belly twisted.
It had always been his fear over the years. The woman who’d cursed them had been cruel, and to make this whole thing a farce would be her final revenge upon them all.
The lower ward bailey was in chaos. Warriors and guards rushed by, carrying armloads of longbow arrows, crossbow quarrels, and stones to hurl at the attackers. And all the while, debris rained down upon them.
Just a few yards from Draco, a flying shard of slate felled one of the Wallace’s men. The man sprawled, his skull cracking upon the cobbles, the quivers of arrows he’d been carrying scattering.
Draco rushed to him, but one look at the back of his head, caved in where the slate had hit him, told him the man was dead. Scooping up the quivers, Draco turned and made for the postern door that would take him up onto the walls.
He stepped out of the stairwell to see one of the guards aflame. Blood-curdling wails rang out across the wall, as the men around him dried to douse the flames with their cloaks. Water didn’t work with Greek fire—it only made the inferno burn hotter. But the fire had taken hold now.
Screaming, the guard stumbled to the walls and threw himself off it.
His cries echoed through the smoky air before abruptly cutting off.
Jaw set, Draco strode along the walls to where Cassian was bellowing orders. Maximus was at his side, firing a crossbow. Despite that the weapon was heavy and cumbersome, Maximus made it look easy. As Draco looked on, his friend placed his foot in the stirrup at the front of the bow, pulling the string back to cock it. He then set a bolt in the barrel, nocked it securely into place, sighted his target on the ranks of soldiers now flooding up the defile below the castle, and fired.
Not even pausing for breath, his face set in hard lines, Maximus repeated the action. Cock, load, aim, and shoot. Cock, load, aim, and shoot.
Draco drew near to Cassian and Maximus, his attention shifting behind them to where the Wallace was overseeing a line of catapults. Wooden trebuchets had been set up along the wall, and they were firing chunks of lead, slate, iron, and stones—anything they could get their hands on to use as missiles.
A hail of arrows hit their defenses then, clattering against stone and wood shields.
Draco’s gaze shifted to the cliff-top opposite, settling upon the rows of men wielding longbows there. He then spat a curse.
Edward was famous for his archers, fierce Welshmen who wielded elm longbows. They let forth further volleys, bringing down two men loading the catapults.
The English had reached the gates now, although their spears were useless against the heavy iron and oak. Instead, they had carried a large oaken battering ram up the slope, and were starting to drive it into the gates.
Even at a glance, Draco could see the battering ram wasn’t heavy enough to break down the gates, especially since they’d been reinforced with iron bars.
An arrow whistled past Draco’s right ear, and he ducked. It wasn’t wise to be peering over the walls at present. Moving past Cassian, Draco handed out the quivers to their own archers before returning to his friends.
Cassian gave him a quick look. A shard of something had cut him across the forehead earlier in the battle, and blood streaked his face. However, the injury was no longer bleeding. “Is it done?”
Draco clenched his jaw once more. He understood Cassian’s urgency, for the same desire boiled within him. But after seeing the vulnerability in Gavina’s eyes when he’d left her, he wished Cassian didn’t have to state things so baldly.
Gavina was his wife after all.
Wife. How strange it felt to be wedded, almost as if this had all happened to someone else.
Draco nodded. “If we are right about the last pieces of the riddle, then the curse should be broken.”
Cassian glanced at him once more, his hazel eyes narrowing. “Let me put it to the test then.”
Next to him, Maximus had just fired his crossbow. However, instead of reloading it, he swiveled to Cassian and Draco, his peat-brown gaze intense.
Draco’s throat tightened. The three of them had waited so long for this. He couldn’t believe the moment was finally upon them.
Without another word, Cassian drew his pugio, held out his hand, and cut himself deeply across the pad of his thumb.
Blood welled, and all three men waited.
Since they’d been cursed, none of them bled long. When they made the blood sacrifice at the Bull-slayer’s altar, the wound would staunch within moments. If it didn’t do that now, then they could finally leave the curse behind them.
They stood in the midst of chaos, but in that moment, a calm settled over the trio. The siege could wait. This couldn’t.
Draco watched blood drip down Cassian’s thumb and splatter onto the stone ledge. And then, the bleeding abruptly stopped.
Draco glanced up at Cassian’s face, to see his friend was scowling. “What?”
“The wound is itching,” Cassian ground out the words. “I can feel it knitting … healing.”
Next to him, Maximus cursed.
Draco sucked in a disbelieving breath. “Already?” the word gusted out of him, disappointment crushing his ribs in a vise.
Cassian nodded. “Damn that bandruì to the pits of Hades … the curse hasn’t broken.”
The curse hasn’t broken.
Draco left the keep as night cast its dark veil over the world, making his way down the narrow steps outside the curtain walls to the dungeons. Few folk within Dunnottar knew about the rope ladder, and the rowboat that waited far below.
When things worsened—and they surely would, for the Scottorum malleus, the Hammer of the Scots, was only warming up—two people at most would be able to flee this fortress.
Who would it be?
Not me, Draco thought grimly. I intend to die here.
However, circumstance now appeared to be working against him.
He entered the dungeons, which were empty at present. Since David De Keith’s death, what few prisoners remained had been given their freedom in return for joining the ranks defending this fortress.
As such, no guards greeted Draco as he passed through the archway and entered a wide, dark tunnel. His boots whispered on damp stone, and he heard the pattering of rodents scurrying away at his approach.
He ignored the rats, heading straight for the mithraeum Cassian had created at the back of the dungeons.
The torches inside guttered, on the verge of going out. Cassian hadn’t been down here all day, as he’d been busy on the walls until the English ceased their attack at dusk. Draco fetched two fresh torches from their brackets and lit them. Warm light flooded the shrine once more, illuminating the wooden effigy of Mithras himself that stood next to the stone altar.
Draco’s gaze lingered on the statue a moment. He’d carved that for Cassian, many years earlier.
Approaching the altar, Draco knelt and lit a wand of incense. The pungent scent tickled his nose and caught in his throat, as it always did, yet the perfume comforted him.
Along with Cassian and Maximus, the Bull-slayer had been one constant in his life over the centuries. Heaving in a weary sigh, for his body ached from an afternoon of defending the walls, Draco drew his dagger and cut his thumb.
Blood welled, and he smeared it over the stone altar before him.
He held his breath as he did so, hoping that Cassian had been mistaken. Maybe, the curse just needed a little time to break. However, after a few moments, he felt that tell-tale itch and the bleeding stopped.
No, the curse held him in its grip as steadily as ever.
Draco’s vision blurred, despair overtaking him. He was pulled back then to those years trapped under the floor of Saint Margaret�
�s chapel. Despair had ripped him to shreds over and over again during his imprisonment, splintering his mind—but it didn’t matter how greatly he suffered, he couldn’t die.
“Great God Mithras,” Draco finally managed to choke out the words, his voice rough. “Slayer of the Bull. Lord of the Ages. The wheel turns, and the Broom-star is again in the sky. Draw back the mists and grant three men of the lost legion peace … at last.”
XX
UPON THE WALL
GAVINA LOOKED DOWN at the bowl of mutton stew in front of her, before reluctantly reaching for her wooden spoon. It was a late supper. Darkness had long since fallen, but after the events of the day, her belly had closed. However, since she’d been too nervous that morning to break her fast with porridge, as she usually did, she knew she should eat.
Seated alone at the large table in the laird’s solar, she felt on edge, brittle.
The day’s drama hadn’t ended with Draco’s departure from her bed-chamber. Shortly after, Elizabeth had stormed into her solar and demanded to know if the rumors flying about the keep were indeed true.
Had she wed Draco Vulcan?
Gavina stared down at the rapidly cooling bowl of stew. Indeed, she had.
As she’d expected, Elizabeth had been livid. “I know ye want to help Heather and Aila, but this is too much!” she’d railed. “Ye can’t remain laird now.”
“Aye, and maybe that’s for the best,” Gavina had replied, too emotionally drained by events to even argue with her sister-by-marriage. “Ye’d make a better laird than me anyway.”
Elizabeth’s face had gone white and pinched at that proclamation. For a moment, Gavina thought she might even slap her. But, instead, the woman had muttered a curse, turned, and stormed from the solar.
They both knew the truth of it; this fortress would eventually fall. It wouldn’t matter then who was laird of Dunnottar.
Gavina had spent the rest of the day alone. Mercifully, Heather and Aila hadn’t sought her out. They would want to leave her be, let Gavina and Draco spend time together.
Only, he wasn’t here. Gavina hadn’t seen him since he’d stridden from her bed-chamber.
Of course, most newly wedded couples spent the evening together after their union. There was usually a banquet held to celebrate, and then husband and wife would retire to bed together.
Gavina pushed the spoon around the bowl of stew. But her and Draco’s union had already been consummated.
They had no use for each other now.
Even so, a strange loneliness had settled over her as the day stretched on.
This is what ye wanted, she reminded herself, irritated by the turn of her thoughts. Ye should be relieved he’s left ye alone.
She was, but all the same, her mind had traitorously turned to Draco all afternoon. Her breathing quickened whenever she recalled how he’d taken her against the wall.
Gavina squeezed her eyes closed. Stop it.
She had to stop thinking about it. Lust had taken her by surprise, yet it was a distraction, especially now with Longshanks poised to slaughter everyone in this keep.
Drawing in a ragged sigh, Gavina tightened her grip on the spoon. She wondered if the curse was now broken. If it was, wouldn’t Aila come and tell her?
She hated not knowing. Draco could have returned here to give her the news at least. But none of them had.
Instead, she sat alone, in this stark, masculine space, with her supper. Despite the crackling hearth, it was oppressively silent in the laird’s solar.
Gavina took a spoonful of stew and forced it down, and then another. She then cast the spoon aside, frustration exploding within her. Pushing back her chair, she rose to her feet.
Supper be damned, she wanted answers—and she was going to get them.
A misty rain was falling when Gavina stepped out of the keep and wrapped a cloak about her shoulders.
“My Lady?” A guard keeping watch at the keep doors cast her a wary look. “It’s not a night to be outdoors.”
“I’m looking for Draco Vulcan.” she replied, brushing off his concern. “Do ye know where he is?”
The guard’s wary expression deepened. Most likely, he had no idea of what had taken place in the chapel while he and the other men kept the English army at bay.
However, he’d discover it soon enough.
“Vulcan,” Gavina repeated her husband’s name, her gaze steady. “Where is he?”
The guard cleared his throat. “He’s up on the western walls, My Lady.”
With a nod of thanks, Gavina drew her cloak tighter still and set off across the lower ward bailey. Torches burned around her, hanging on chains from the walls, some of them smoking a little in the gentle rain. Their golden light reflected off the wet cobbles.
Gavina mounted the stairs to the walls and emerged to find the ramparts eerily still. The outlines of cloaked and helmeted men stood out against the glow of braziers.
Moving carefully, Gavina picked her way along the wall, stepping over chunks of rubble that littered it—the aftermath of the day’s siege. Farther on, her gaze alighted on the silhouettes of trebuchets. At this hour, the wall seemed to be slumbering, ready to awake with the dawn.
Up ahead, she spied a tall figure.
Even though she couldn’t see his face, Gavina knew it was Draco. There was something about the way he carried himself that made him stand apart from other men. As she approached him, her gaze settled upon his profile.
Draco stared out into the night, his expression grim. He looked like a man holding court with the grim reaper.
“Draco,” she said softly, jolting him out of his reverie.
Draco turned swiftly and moved forward, looming over her. “Gavina? What are you doing up here?”
The soft light of the brazier behind them cast deep shadows over his sharp features. It made him look even more intimidating than usual. Gavina stared up at him and reminded herself that this was the man she’d wed that morning—the man she’d given her body to.
Otherwise, the fierce expression upon his face would have terrified her.
“I was looking for ye,” she replied. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it seemed to carry nonetheless. There was a brooding atmosphere upon the walls tonight. Darkness shrouded the castle, but Longshanks was ever watchful, camped on the cliffs opposite ready to strike with the rising sun.
“It’s dangerous up here,” he growled back. “You shouldn’t come up on the walls.”
Gavina’s spine stiffened. Her time as Lady of Dunnottar was drawing to a close. However, tonight she still ruled this keep, and she wouldn’t be spoken to like an errant child. She wasn’t goose-witted—she would never have come up here in daylight while the walls were being pelted with missiles.
“I haven’t seen ye since this morning,” she replied, ignoring his comment. “And I wondered how things have gone.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice further. “Is it broken?”
He stared down at her. This close, Draco smelled of smoke. Fatigue etched the sharply handsome lines of his face, and his eyes were hollowed. It didn’t look like the face of a man who’d spent the afternoon celebrating his freedom. As such, it came as little surprise to Gavina when he shook his head.
Nonetheless, her belly clenched, disappointment arrowing through her. It wasn’t for herself, but for him—and for her friends.
She’d done all she could to help them. But it hadn’t been enough.
“Why?” she whispered.
“I don’t know.”
“But I thought—”
“We all did,” he cut her off tersely. “Go back inside, Gavina … it’s getting late.”
Mouth flattening, Gavina took a step back from him. Aye, they were wed, but he wasn’t her master.
She wouldn’t be ordered around like a hound.
Instead, she turned to the west and approached the edge of the walls, her gaze sweeping over what lay beyond.
The glow of the English encampment lit up the sky, tu
rning it a deep shade of indigo, rather than black.
Like Dunnottar, it was quiet. There were no sounds of revelry or drunken voices drifting across the steep gully that lay between the castle and the cliff-top.
Edward Longshanks wasn’t celebrating his victory just yet. His men had taken Dunnottar once, but all those who lay siege to this fortress ended up cursing its defensive position, perched upon a rocky outcrop, at the top of a steep defile.
Edward would take the castle in the end, but his army would be depleted and exhausted when he did.
And so, the camp before her slumbered.
As she stood there, looking west, Gavina was aware of Draco stepping up to her shoulder. Even before this morning, she’d always been conscious of his presence. But now that they’d lain together, the awareness of him made her breathing quicken and her skin prickle.
“Maybe it’s too soon,” she whispered after a long pause. “Perhaps ye and I need to spend some time together before the curse will break?”
Her cheeks warmed as she said these words. She hoped he didn’t think she was keen to pass days in his company—she wasn’t. However, they’d taken things this far. They might as well do the whole thing properly.
“A ceremony and a bedding isn’t enough?” he asked, bitterness lacing his voice.
Gavina’s cheeks warmed further. She was glad the darkness hid it. “Evidently not.” She turned to him then, raising her chin so that their gazes met. “When ye finish here, please come to my quarters … I will have a bath drawn for ye.”
XXI
A CANDLE IN THE DARKNESS
IT WAS LATE when Draco finally dragged himself from the walls. Fatigue pulled down at him, and his eyes stung. He longed to return to the barracks and sprawl out onto his narrow cot amongst his snoring chamber companions. But he’d told Gavina he’d go to her after his shift ended.
The hallways and stairwells of the keep were deserted at this hour, apart from the odd sleepy guard. Bleary-eyed, they greeted Draco with a nod as he walked by. Reaching Lady Gavina’s quarters, Draco knocked on the door.