by C. C. Wiley
He stood by the torch. His fingers danced over the gilded edges. An emerald stone, representing the green eye of a swan, winked back. He flipped it again.
Peering closer, his breath blew out in a whisper. “How is it possible that I missed it?”
His mind raced back. His concentration had been distracted by Sabine’s tantalizing charms. At the time, he did not notice the familiarity of the blade he lifted from the bundle she had been carting around ever since he found her. Prepared for another sleepless night, his only thought was set on escaping the confines of the cave.
A sense of urgency sent his blood racing. His glanced toward Sabine. She nervously chewed on her bottom lip. Her liquid brown eyes watched the blade twirling and reflecting in the light of the fire.
Darrick hissed as he let out the breath he had been holding. His nostrils flared. Turning on her, he held out the blade. “Where did you get this?”
Sabine edged away from the threatening dagger. She nervously tucked the folds of her skirt around her legs, refusing to look at him, or the blade.
His mood disintegrated until his clenched jaw felt like it would shatter. He was determined to have all the answers from her. Her denial would not be allowed. After all, did not the bards sing of his cold determination when the battle lines were drawn? Even his men knew not to cross his direct orders. This woman cowering before him would learn to answer to his mandates.
Silence echoed in the cavern. Darrick scowled, unflinching, waiting for Sabine to finally find her voice. She surprised him when she leaped up, and stood toe to toe.
Her hands balled into fists. Teetering on tiptoes, she leaned in with a defiant stare. “Your sister was carrying a pack with her. That dagger was in her pack.”
Bemused, he watched the maiden turn into a fighting shrew. He lifted a suspicious brow. Why did she overreact to his question? In fact, she did look as if she was caught thieving a pastry from cook’s bakery. Inhaling her womanly scent, he knew they were standing dangerously close. The sweet perfume was wrapping its tentacles around his senses. Shaking his head to clear it from distracting thoughts, he forced his jaw to unclench.
He exhaled and kept his voice to a cool ripple. “’Tis a simple question. Perhaps you misunderstood. If so, accept my apology. However, you will explain, again, how you came to have this in your possession.”
Sabine snorted. Stalling, she fiddled with the dirty gown.
Darrick watched her agitation mount. She was behaving like a mad woman. One moment indignant and raging at him and the next, she got all nervous and twitchy. He narrowed his gaze. She stood in front of him, her little nose almost pressed to his chest. He wagered she was dreaming about revenge and sticking the blade in his back.
Wondering what she would do next, he relaxed, comforted by the knowledge that he was the one that held the jeweled dagger. He vowed to allow her only one more moment to her thoughts, and then he would have his answers.
She brushed at the tears streaking down her cheeks. “What importance could the dagger possibly have?”
“Ah, your questions have returned. Why is it that you can never give a simple answer?” Seeing she did not plan to respond, Darrick smiled thinly and sighed, weighing his answer. “’Tis special. It was in my father’s possession. A talisman he kept with him at all times. Hidden in his boot.” Fear of how it came into his sister’s pack constricted his chest. “Only those he knew well or those that felt the sting of his blade had knowledge of this dagger. Perhaps my sister was responsible for his death.”
“No! Darrick, you’re wrong. Elizabeth would not hurt your father.”
“What proof do you have? People can be pushed to do things they would never dream of themselves.”
“I have no proof, but I know she did not carry the coldness in her heart to kill. She gave her life to distract her murderer from harming Chance. ’Tis not an act of a killer.”
Deep in thought, he stroked his chin. ’Twas not often that he was told he was wrong. It did not sit well this time, either.
“When I received word of my father’s death, it came on the whispers of an ambush of mercenaries. Elizabeth’s disappearance set other questions to flight. Yet now all I find of my father or my sister is a knife that connects them in some way. My sister would have been with the ones who killed my father.”
“’Tis usually more than one snake in the nest,” Sabine murmured.
Darrick handled the sharpened dagger, watching the metal blade flash against the firelight. The stone in the swan’s eye winked back, daring him to understand the secret that it held.
“What is it about the dagger that mystifies?” Sabine stood beside him. “The first time I held the blade, I felt it too.”
“The weight is wrong.” He frowned at the jeweled hilt. “’Tis been a long time since I have seen it. I was a child the last time my father allowed me to touch his precious blade. There was a special secret about the handle but I cannot recall it at the moment.”
He sat down and ran his hands over the gilt handle. He barely noticed when Sabine sat down beside him. His fingers danced along the edge and around the blade. A slow smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “I remember now. There is a hidden compartment. Father used it to carry missives for the king.”
He slid his fingers over the handle; this time feeling carefully for any irregularities. He noticed one tiny stone. It was raised a bit more than the others. Pressing on the side of the swan’s head, the emerald eye clicked and a miniature lever on the handle flipped up. The hilt opened, revealing its secrets.
A rolled up piece of fabric peeked out of the handle. It was wrapped around something hard and lumpy. Holding his breath, he unrolled the last bit of cloth, revealing a man’s ring. He touched the ring, tracing the design that resembled a swan’s head.
Sabine gasped. “It cannot be!”
Startled, Darrick turned to Sabine. Even in the poor lighting, he could see she was disturbed by its presence. “What is it?”
“My brother, Taron…” She whispered, reaching out to touch the glittering ring. “’Tis my brother’s ring. I am certain.”
“When did you last hear from your brother?”
“I don’t recall, ’twas so long ago.” She shook her finger under his nose. “You are wrong, Sir Darrick. My brother would never cause your family harm. He’s counted among King Henry’s favorites. King Henry himself gifted my brother with that ring.”
Drilling her finger into his chest, she added to her brother’s defense. “Taron’s only fault is that he was never home to protect our lands. He could never deny our king anything. He may always be away on business for his wretched friend, but he loves Clearmorrow. I am certain of it. Do not dare to think of harming him. He is the only family I have left.”
In her agitation, her hand banged into his and the fabric fluttered to the ground. On the backside was a faded scrawled message.
Darrick knelt and slowly lifted the material from the floor. In her rush to see, Sabine narrowly missed bumping into his head.
“If you could be patient, I will discover what it says. Sit over there,” he commanded, pointing to the cloak. As a second thought, he added with a growl. “If you please.”
Sabine folded her arms. “I’m not about to move from this spot. If Taron is involved in some way, I want to know what has happened.”
The woman was too stubborn by far. He feared that one day it would land her into more trouble than she had ever known. A chill spilled down his spine. “So be it. Deal with whatever gruesome details that might be written in the missive.” Moving the torn bit of fabric in the light, he noted, “The fabric comes from a lawn shirt.”
Once white, the material had faded to a dirty gray and sprinkled with brown. Perhaps dried blood, splattered from a wound. Scratched out in brown was a smudged message that he read silently. ‘Many lives at stake. Stop DePierce. Protect the beare
r of this message as if one of your own. Sir Taron of Clearmorrow.’
He folded the note and tucked it inside his belt. How can I protect her? Would she recognize the stains for what they are?
Sabine held her hand out for the missive and waited in silence.
His better judgment warred with her determined gaze. Knowing she would not be deterred from reading the note herself, he laid it in her hand.
Her fingers trembled as she spread out the bit of fabric and traced the line of each letter.
“Dear Lord, ’tis as I feared. Those bits of brown stain could have very easily come from Taron’s broken body.”
When she looked up, her horror tore at Darrick’s soul.
“Are we too late to help anyone?” Grief-stricken, she shook her head. “’Tis my fault. I waited too long.”
He smoothed her tousled hair from her face.
“No, this only means we are certain of our enemy. Your brother must have been at Balforth Castle with my sister. He may yet live and we will not stop until we know for sure. But we must first find my nephew.” He tilted her face to look at him. The anguish he felt reflected in her eyes. “You said you had all of my sister’s possessions with you. I would have you show them to me now.”
Sabine fetched the few remaining things she had managed to carry. She knelt with the bundle and carefully untied the string. First, she withdrew a small bag of coins, then a silver hairbrush. Her hand dropped hesitantly over the silver mirror.
Darrick stared at the odd collection of items Elizabeth chose to carry. He willed them to tell the tale of his sister’s last days. The danger of delivering the baby at Balforth must have been very great. She packed as if knowing she would have to travel fast. Did she know she carried a note in the handle? Did she understand the significance that both her brother and father possessed the same symbol as Sir Taron?
Could Taron be his nephew’s father? Although unconsecrated by the church and born out of wedlock, the thought of young Chance fathered by anyone other than Hugh was much easier to stomach. The idea of someone as vile as Hugh or Vincent DePierce touching his sister filled him with rage.
Darrick ran his hands over the growth of beard. How did Sabine fit into this? Why did DePierce want her dead? What did she know that she had yet to reveal? His thoughts came to a halt; she did it to him again. Every time he questioned her fear of returning to Balforth, she managed to distract him. Perhaps now was the best time as any to pry the truth from her.
Frantic barking echoed in the cave, interrupting his plans.
Sabine wrestled with Thunder, trying to make the dog let go of the blanket. Every time she tore it away and stuffed it back in her bundle, he pulled it out and ran to the tunnel that led from the back of the cave. The hair on Thunder’s back stood on end. His legs quivered with excitement. Trotting over, he dropped the blanket at Darrick’s feet and waited for him to follow. When Darrick did not move, Thunder lay down and groaned.
Her eyes wide with fear, she whispered out of the corner of her mouth. “Is it the stew?” She blinked twice, anxiously chewing her lips. “Do you think it was tainted?”
Darrick shook his head. “No.”
“Well then,” pushing the hair from her face, she squared her shoulders, “you cannot allow him to tear up the baby’s blanket. Kindly find the foolish hound something else to play with.”
He waved her quiet. “He’s found the scent. Pack up your things,” he ordered. “We’ve not a moment to lose.”
Thunder waited, eyes glittering, his haunches quivered with anticipation.
Chapter 16
Sabine jogged to keep up with the knight and his hound. They followed a narrow passageway she would never have found had she been searching on her own. They made an abrupt turn to the right and she ran into Darrick.
Sabine snatched her hands from the small of his back. He might have well been a chunk of ice. His questions hung between them. Her nerves were coiled. She would rather he would begin and be done with it.
She had intended to tell him about the letter hidden in the back of the mirror, and the unspeakable crimes she had seen DePierce commit. Her body trembled whenever she let the past drift in. It haunted her dreams when she slept and haunted her thoughts during the day. The memories were too fresh…too real.
The night she had appeared at his gate, begging for help, DePierce was overjoyed. His mouth had twisted in a soulless smile. In his excitement, he informed her that he had been expecting her and her chamber was already prepared for her stay. He knew what had happened at Clearmorrow before she could retell her harrowing experience. He had known before the attack had taken place.
Set on attaining what he wished, he was willing to punish her family in the process. Situated comfortably in a significant position of society, his lineage called for respect, none of which he could personally lay claim to.
DePierce’s muddled honor placed her into a narrow room in the tower instead of the dungeon with the other survivors from Clearmorrow. Typically cold and drafty, the chamber was barren of all furnishings, save for the hard cot. There was not one single thin blanket to warm her limbs. Not one chunk of wood left for the fireplace. She would have been overjoyed to find even a threadbare tapestry to cover herself, but that too had been nonexistent. She found little comfort that first night. But, unlike the village girls he had taken from their homes, her plight was vastly different.
With Rhys’s help, she was able to escape through the latrine hole before DePierce’s henchmen could do their worst. She never would comprehend why Rhys had been willing to risk his life for her.
Her departure from Balforth may have put the others in jeopardy. The blood on Taron’s shirt was a stark reminder of the duty entrusted to her. She was to protect her home. She had failed her family and people.
Guilt weighed heavily on her heart as she stumbled through the cave. Panic began to build. Would they ever find the exit? Moisture streamed down her face and traveled through the valley of her breasts. She let her gaze bore into Darrick’s broad shoulders.
Shoving the dark thoughts back into the corner of her mind, she reviewed her plan once they found Chance. “How long do you think we have been crawling through this tunnel?”
Darrick answered her with freezing silence and moved on. Without missing a step, he motioned her to speed up.
She was weary and sore from the blow to her head. Struggling to keep up she wondered how he was able to go on without rest. Her head pounding, she pushed on, determined not to hold him back. She prayed they would find the baby at the end of the underground passage.
“Surely your side must ache from the exertion so soon after your injury.”
His silence echoed against the pale white rock. Only the faint sounds of their breathing could be heard.
“We have to come to the end soon.” A hint of cool air brushed against her sweat-dampened cheek.
He stared up at the rocky ledge. The burrow narrowed to a steep crawlspace before it opened up to the hole in the earthen wall.
A gentle breeze ruffled Thunder’s thick black fur. Sensing their newfound freedom, the dog quickly scrambled up the stony ledge, showing them the way out.
Darrick pulled himself up the stone ledge. He gripped the rough boulders with one arm and held out his hand.
Looking up, Sabine’s head spun dizzily. As much as she wanted out of the tunnel, her fear of letting her feet leave the solid secure surface of the ground almost took over. Shifting her gaze, she focused on the strength of Darrick’s outstretched hand. His simple gesture to help her broke through fear’s hold. Forcing her arm up, Sabine grasped his hand and began her climb to freedom.
Silently, they moved as one, to the top of the shelf of rocks, their feet clinging to the narrow ledge. Their fingers still entwined, they rested against the stone and let the cool, fresh air rush past.
Darrick tucked a few st
ray wisps of hair behind her ear. Tilting her chin, he looked deep into her eyes, pouring into her soul. Sabine swore he searched for the truth wrapped around her heart, for the secrets that she would keep to herself. Her frustration rising, she opened her mouth to complain, to tell him to search somewhere else. His finger sailed across her lips for silence. His mouth pressed to hers in a kiss, spreading warmth throughout her limbs.
His cold silence seemed to be forgotten for the time being. She almost hoped he had forgotten his questions, but she knew better. Three times the fool, she knew Sir Darrick, Knight of King Henry’s realm, did not forget. Lives depended on him to keep a clear head.
Darrick lifted his mouth, and gazed around the cave. “How did that old woman climb up the face of the wall?”
Released from his embrace, Sabine’s mind was a jumble. She could not imagine how she had allowed it to happen. He had immediately dismissed the stolen kiss, acting as if it never occurred. Of course, she had welcomed the distraction. It kept her from thinking about her feet standing where they did not belong. And that was the only reason, she decided, that she accepted his kiss.
Now that the brief distraction was no more, she noticed the cramped space in which they stood. She shook her head, fearing her feet would remain frozen to the ledge forever. Sabine closed her eyes, refusing to see how far off the ground they stood. Her knees quivered, threatening to collapse. Yet, he did not seem to notice anything amiss. How was this possible?
“Thunder is never wrong,” he went on. “He would not lead us here without reason.” Darrick’s steel-gray eyes hooked on his prey. “Look,” he pointed. “Over in the corner. ’Tis a coiled rope wedged in that needle-shaped crevice. Someone has traveled this way before.”
A knotted rope, not far from their heads, hung from a wedge of rock. After testing its strength, he was satisfied it would hold his weight. He grasped the rope with one hand and braced his feet, pulling his body up to a wider ledge. Making a basket-swing with the rope, he dropped it down. “Put Thunder in the basket and I’ll use the rock and rope as a pulley.”