He dismounted with her. She tried to rise, praying that she could revive, scream for some assistance from this zealously loyal madman, and demand to be put down, but she didn’t need to scream; he was already setting her on her feet. As he did so, she wavered. She knew she was going to fall flat onto the dirt and stone, but he caught her, sweeping her up into his arms.
“Is she injured, m’laird?” she heard a groom inquire. “Shall I send for the king—”
“Nay, lad, she’s weary, cold, and worn, not hurt. I’ll take care of her, and see the king.”
Not hurt! she thought indignantly, yet even as she tried to struggle against him then, she went still. She stared up at him with concern, suddenly realizing what the stableboy had called him.
M’laird.
She’d realized belatedly that he had to be a fighting man, a knight, or a rich patron’s man-at-arms. No man was built so without hours practicing with the heavy accouterments of war.
But he wasn’t just a knight, he was a laird.
She fixed her eyes on his as he walked into one of the residence entrances of the fortress, and not through the main doors which would have led to the great hall—and the king. “M’laird? Well, sir, where are you taking me now?”
“To a place where you can rest until I’ve had a chance to see the king.”
She continued to stare at him, furious, powerless. “I shall kill you for this one day, I swear it.”
“M’lady, it seems I shall have a harder time preserving your life than my own, though I am aware of your intent to end my existence,” he said impatiently, his strides long as they moved down a hallway. She looked around herself uneasily. This section of the fortress held residences for the king’s court, and his most trusted advisors and champions.
She struggled up against him. “I demand that you take me immediately to the king.”
“You may make demands from here until hell freezes over, m’lady.”
“Damn you, where are you taking me?”
“Not to a dungeon, m’lady,” he told her, amused. “Though that might not be such a bad idea.”
He stopped in the corridor, using a foot to push open a heavy wooden door.
“Where—”
She broke off. He opened the door to a large room with handsome tapestries hung on the walls for warmth, a huge fireplace against one wall with rich furs strewn before it.
“Whose room is this?” she asked.
“Mine,” he told her, and entered with her. Once inside, he strode to the bed set in an arched inner chamber against the wall.
She leapt up; he pushed her firmly back. “You’ll wait here.”
She shook her head desperately, so tired, but now more dismayed than ever regarding this strange man who’d come after her so relentlessly. He obviously had great influence with the king, and she had so little time left for any argument or fight. She’d been gone more than a day now, she thought, and the king would indeed be furious. “Please! Please!” she begged him, rising again and placing a hand gently upon his arm. “Don’t do this! Don’t leave me here trapped. Help me. I swear that I do honor and love the king, but he is wrong in this. He intends to give me to that despicable—”
“Wretched, decaying, old Norman, Waryk de Graham.”
“Aye! You know! Oh, God, you must understand, there is another way. If you’ll just help me—”
“But I won’t. Excuse me; I’ll be back, m’lady.”
He walked away from her toward the door, and she shook her head again, following.
“Wait!”
“What?” he demanded, stopping and turned back with exasperation.
“Help me get out of here. Please. Help me escape that awful man. I swear, I can pay you with riches you can’t begin to imagine. Viking gold.”
She swallowed nervously as he reached her once again, standing before her, handsome face cast at a devilish angle as he looked down upon her.
She clenched her fists at her sides. “Aye,” she told him.
“Hmmm …”
“Lots of it!”
His smile deepened. “Tempting. But then, so much has been tempting tonight. But what if I weren’t interested in gold?”
Her heart seemed to skip a beat. “What do you mean?” she asked him quickly. She was afraid that she knew exactly what he meant. How strange, when he’d mocked her so. Yet, she had tried to tempt—and irritate and disarm—him. Had she been more successful than she had imagined? He was obviously a virile man, yet …
She assumed as well that women were easy for him. He was built like steel and rock, and he was young, and his features were handsome, his smile even sensual. Was he mocking her again?
He smiled slowly, watching her, as if reading her mind. “I have a fair amount of gold,” he said, stretching out an arm to indicate the richness of the room. “Plunder, you know. Battle gain.”
“All men want to be richer,” she said, moistening her lips.
“Well, riches mean different things to different people, don’t they?”
“Not to the king,” she murmured bitterly.
He shrugged. “What can you offer besides gold?”
“Jewels, Celtic art, you wouldn’t believe how fine some of the ancient pieces of jewelry we have are … and we have ancient manuscripts, excellent armor, horses—”
“But they aren’t really yours to give, are they?” he queried.
“Indeed, they are. They are riches that have belonged to my mother’s family—”
“At the moment, it’s irrelevant to whom these things really belong. They’re not what I had in mind.”
She met his eyes, feeling a strange sensation as if both fire and ice were filling her veins. She suddenly wanted to run from him with a greater urgency than that with which she had fled the fortress, and yet she was backed to an alcove, so there was nowhere to go. She decided on boldness.
“You mocked my ‘noble beauty’ before, m’laird. What would you want with it now?”
“I’ve been on a long battle campaign,” he said with a shrug. “You might be a pleasant diversion.”
“You certainly had plenty of opportunity for …”
“Rape?”
“Aye.”
“Yes, I had dozens of opportunities. But rape the king’s ward?” he taunted softly with mock horror.
“Seducing her would be better? You said that risking my person was treason. Wouldn’t such a bargain make you guilty of treason against your beloved king as well?”
“I’m not the one desperate to barter here, m’lady. My motives are my own. You are the one attempting to negotiate, so my sins need not concern you. You’re the one who needs to ask herself the soul-searching questions. How far are you willing to go to escape this marriage?”
“To hell and beyond,” she murmured softly, eyes lowered.
“Ah, really?”
“What are your terms?”
“You, here and now.”
“Never. What a foolish negotiation. You could betray me.”
“Then?”
“I’ll meet you anywhere—once you’ve let me free to reach the Vikings.”
“How would I know that you’d meet me as agreed?”
“You’d have to accept my word.”
“What if you were captured again by the king’s men? You’d still owe me a tremendous debt. I’d be out the reward of having brought you back here.”
“But I thought you weren’t interested in gold and riches.”
“We were making a different bargain.”
“I’d keep the bargain. No matter what, if you let me free now, I swear I’ll find a way to pay my debt.”
“Are you lying?” he inquired. She shivered fiercely, forcing herself not to wrench away as he lifted her chin to study her eyes.
“No,” she told him. She swallowed hard. Of course she was lying. But if she escaped and found Daro, and this knight came after her again, he would die. She would warn him that that was the way things were. And that would
keep her from paying any debt.
“Where and when do you intend to pay this debt?” he asked her.
She hesitated, knowing that she had to take great care. He seemed serious, he might really let her go. He’d mocked her, and laughed at her, but now he seemed to want her, and she had to use whatever weapons were available, be those weapons wiles, lies, and deceit. Yet she had to take care that her every lie had a grain of truth, else this enemy might too easily see through her.
“There’s a forest northwest of the fortress, no more than an hour’s ride, where a high crag just begins to shoot up from a valley. It’s the king’s land, do you know it?” she inquired.
“Aye.”
“There’s an old hermit’s cottage deep in one of the copses; the king uses it when he’s hunting, so it’s kept in good repair.”
He arched a brow slowly, studying her in a way that unnerved her once again. “I am familiar, I do know the cottage,” he said. “Go on.”
“If you let me go now,” she whispered, “I’ll meet you there on the night of the next full moon.”
“The night of the next full moon?”
“Aye.”
“That’s two weeks from now.”
“Aye.”
“You’ll be there?”
“I swear it.”
“Take care, m’lady. If you swear to me, make a vow, I’ll not let you break it. You would imperil your immortal soul, and your life, and we wouldn’t want that to happen. Not when you court death so frequently with such determination.”
“I said I’ll be there,” she told him.
He watched her, nodding. “You will be,” he said softly. “And still, I give you one last chance to think this through. Is this a bargain you really wish to make?”
She inhaled and exhaled nervously. “Aye!”
He suddenly turned away from her. He strode across the room and stared into the flames that burned in the fireplace. “I’m not going to help you escape, you know,” he told her harshly. The anger that deepened his voice was all the more unnerving. “I’ll allow you to leave the room. You’ll have to escape the fortress again.”
“I didn’t expect your help,” she said anxiously, moistening her lips. She looked longingly to the door.
“You could be brought back to the fortress within minutes,” he warned her.
“I know! Leave that to me, I know how to escape the fortress,” she told him.
“So it seems,” he said dryly. He spun around, staring at her again. “But if you’re caught, and you’re wed to this Norman lout, how will you carry out your vow to me?”
“If I’m caught again, I’ll agree to whatever the king demands. And I’ll no longer be a prisoner.”
“But what about your intended husband?”
“There are always ways to …”
“Deceive an old man?” he suggested. “Especially a wretched, decrepit, Norman lackey.”
“You’re being horrible, despicable,” she told him.
“No,” he said seriously, “I’m in the process of making a bargain. I want to be sure you’ll keep your part of it. I’m not being wretched, just thorough.”
“I don’t owe anyone anything. I’m being manipulated against my will, so what I do to or against a Norman who remains little more than an invader can be of little consequence to me. I’ve made no vows to anyone, no promises. The king makes promises for me. I will keep my part of the bargain I have made with you!”
She felt as if she were being wound more tightly with each passing second. She kept seeing the door. A thick door, yet once opened, it was a gateway to freedom. Freedom. Anything that she could say or do to escape seemed right at the moment.
“So that is it?” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Your final word?”
“Aye, that’s it!” she snapped.
He lifted a hand, indicating the door. “Go.”
She kept her eyes on him all the while that she slipped past him, anxious to reach the door. She was certain that he planned some trick, that he would stride forward and accost her as she reached the exit. But he didn’t make a move. He watched her impassively, yet she noted the pulse beating furiously against his throat. He stood so very still, allowing her to leave. She was almost quit of him. What did it matter?
What matters, she thought, is the way that he stares at me. As if I were a witch or a demon, some godforsaken creature, horrible in the extreme.
She opened the door, and still he watched her. He was going to pounce upon her, like a tiger, a prowling wolf, and when he did, he would rip her to shreds. He would wait, and watch—he had watched her before, letting her suffer through the night!—like a cunning predator, and at the last possible moment, he would make his move.
But he didn’t. She opened the door, and exited the room. She leaned against the door for a split second, expecting it to explode open behind her. But it didn’t. She took a deep breath and tore down the hallway.
Her footsteps were almost silent as she sped for the doorway. She had no idea of the hour, but it was fully night, and the darkness and shadows would hide her once she reached the courtyard. She couldn’t take any more chances. She had to slip into the stables, find her horse, and think of something to say to the night guard. On horseback, if she cleared the gate, she could reach the bridge, cross over, and ride hard. Stop for no one, nothing.
She spun around a corner, seeking the entrance where they had come into the residence hall of the castle. Yet when she had nearly reached the door, she skidded to a dead halt, for a man had stepped into the doorway.
A guard. A big man, large enough for the bulwark of his frame to fill the entire space of the doorway.
She backed away. Perhaps he hadn’t seen her.
“Lady Mellyora!”
She gasped, stepping backwards again. It was Sir Harry Wakefield. The very man she had eluded earlier.
“Come, m’lady, the game is up.”
“Sir Harry, if you’ll just step aside …”
“Now, ye know, m’lady, that I cannot.”
She turned to run down the hall in the opposite direction. She rounded a corner, unfamiliar with the corridors, but certain that there had to be other exits from the residence halls.
There, ahead of her, lay an archway. She ran toward it, dismay filling her along with an awareness that she was beginning to run in circles like a cornered rat.
She turned left toward an archway. And there, at the opening which should have allowed her access to the courtyard, stood another of the king’s men. This man she did not know, though he seemed vaguely familiar. He was huge, bald, and his right cheek was deeply scarred. He looked like the sorry end of many a long battle, and seeing him, she was suddenly forced to realize the enormity of what she was doing, that she was fighting a king. She had defied David, and he had discovered her missing, and he had sent out the most hardened, vicious, and mercenary of his troops to find her. She had been so desperate that she had allowed her captor to play her for a fool. He would have known that the entire fortress would be alerted to be on the lookout for her. He had probably helped plan for it to be so.
She turned quickly, hoping she had done so before the bald man could see her. Racing wildly down the next corridor, she saw a tapestried alcove to her left. Slipping behind the tapestry, she leaned against the wall, gasping for breath, breathing deeply as she debated her next move. Should she try running up a flight of steps, perhaps finding an escape by way of the parapets once again? Should she hide a while, wait? How could she possibly escape now when the king had warned every guard to be on the lookout for a wayward young woman?
She suddenly became aware that there was breathing other than her own going on in the alcove. She caught her breath, and held it. Someone else was in here. Someone silent. Someone trying to hide as well, or someone waiting to pounce on her?
She fought a rising sense of fear and reminded herself that these alcoves were the place of many a secret tryst, and she
assured herself that she was cornered with someone equally determined to keep his or her presence quiet.
She braced herself, hearing footsteps in the hall. “Have you seen her?” one man called to another.
“Aye, the Lady Mellyora came this way, but where she ran from here I do not know,” came the reply.
“Warn Tristan she’ll try the south entrance next,” came another voice.
The voices and the footsteps faded. Mellyora remained frozen, waiting. Then she heard a soft whisper. “Mellyora MacAdin?”
It was a woman’s voice.
A woman could betray her as easily as a man. She held silent.
“Mellyora!” The voice was a whisper, hesitant, afraid. “Mellyora! It is Anne Hallsteader.”
Mellyora exhaled on a long breath. “Anne! What are you doing in this alcove?” Anne was the daughter of the youngest son of a Danish jarl and a MacInnish heiress. Her father had been slain soon after her birth, and she had lived with her mother’s family since she’d been a child. Her home was north in the Hebrides, but close enough to Mellyora’s island fortress that they had seen each other often enough over the years. “What are you doing here?” she repeated.
“You tell me first. Why are they looking for you? What have you done? Why are you hiding here?”
“I haven’t done anything,” Mellyora replied quietly. She was growing accustomed to the darkness in the tapestried alcove. She could make out Anne’s shape, just feet away from her. By day, the tapestries were drawn back and richly carved chairs allowed residents and guests to sit and talk in small groups in relative privacy. By night, Mellyora had heard, much more went on, though she often wondered how, since this evening was proving that the alcoves could be crowded.
“I swear, I didn’t do anything. I’m just avoiding the guards—obviously,” Mellyora said. “My father died, you know. I am the king’s ward.”
“Aye, I’ve heard. They say he will wed you to one of his men.”
“Aye, and I’m seeking to … leave.”
“You’re in dire trouble,” Anne said with sympathy.
“Anne, what are you doing here?”
Anne was silent a long time.
Come the Morning Page 12