Aleysia. She smelled of the forest…and something floral and light. The solar above stairs was hers. She’d sent everyone away and stayed behind, most likely with Sir Richard.
Cain looked toward the rear tower, where his men were keeping guard over the old knight. He’d made himself useful when he refused to eat the bread or drink the wine. He blamed it on de Bar.
What was to be done with them?
Miss d’Argentan launched an attack on his men. He still had difficulty believing it. But he understood why she did it.
He finished burying Alan MacRae, said a prayer he no longer believed, and returned to the keep—to her room.
He entered and looked around. He imagined her sitting by the hearth, mayhap thinking about the day. Standing by the window, wondering if her traps would work. Lying in her bed.
His gaze slid there. Hell, he was weary. He pulled his léine over his head and sat at the edge of the bed to yank off his boots. He’d sent many men to their maker. But he found that the thought of killing a lass and an old man sickened him.
He lay back on the mattress with only his plaid wrapped around his waist and closed his eyes. He didn’t remember falling asleep or how long he was sleeping when the cool tip of a blade at his throat and a soft feminine whisper at his ear awakened him.
“This time I will not fail.”
Cain took a split second to appreciate her bold courage and the fact that she escaped the damned dungeon.
Moving faster than she could blink, he disarmed her and pulled her close. “If ye wanted to kill me, lady, ye wouldna have waited until I woke up.”
“I do not usually kill men in their sleep,” she bit out, struggling to be free of his grasp.
“Yer first error.”
“One I will not make again.”
He liked where she was. He’d like to keep her there, atop him, beneath him. He didn’t care which. He liked the scent of her, the sound of her, staring into her eyes and seeing something familiar within the fire that once possessed him.
She was English, or she might as well be.
He should take her dagger and kill her with it. But madly, he enjoyed battling with her. Still, he couldn’t have her going around trying to kill him. He couldn’t put her back in the dungeon.
Strengthening the fortitude he’d honed at war, he pushed her aside. And with her dagger clutched tightly in his fist, he left the bed.
He pulled his léine back over his head, tucked it and her dagger into the plaid wrapped around waist, and yanked open the heavy door. He stepped halfway into the hall and called out. “Amish!”
Let them take her. She deserved her punishment.
He waited a moment and then called again, giving his second a chance to wake up and get his arse moving.
He saw a figure moving down the hall, coming closer and using the wall for support. Who the hell…William! The lad held out his hand to Cain and then crumpled to the ground.
Cain’s blood froze. Poison. He almost turned back to go deal with her once and for all, but William was in trouble.
Running to him, Cain knelt at his side. The lad’s skin was cool and pale. Hell, even his lips were white. His dark hair was damp with perspiration and clung to his skin.
“Will?” Cain gave him a gentle shove and then let himself breathe when the lad opened his eyes. “Did ye drink the wine, lad?”
“Aye, Commander,” Will said weakly. “Forgive me.”
“We’ll speak of it later.” Cain tried to sound stern, but it felt like his heart was beating in his throat. He wasn’t one for friends. Friends died. But Cain wanted more for William than an early death on the battlefield.
He fit his arms beneath Will and lifted him. When he turned for the room, he caught his prisoner tiptoeing away from the door and going in the opposite direction.
Hell, he couldn’t chase her now.
“Miss d’Argentan,” he called out and waited for her to stop and turn to him. “If ye run, I will give the order fer Sir Richard’s death.”
She stared at him for a moment, as if she were trying to decide if she believed him or not.
Finally, she moved her arse and stormed back inside the chamber. Cain followed her, carrying Will with him.
“Ye’re responsible fer this,” he hurled at her, his gaze darker than the deepest corners of the dungeon while he laid Will on the bed. “If he dies, ye die.”
“What ails him?” she asked, trying to appear unaffected by his threat.
“Yer wine is what ails him. He drank some.”
“How much?”
He shook his head. He didn’t know and the lad was no longer conscious. “What do we do?”
“I need to boil mulberry leaves in vinegar.” She moved for the door.
Cain leaped in her path and blocked her. “Ye think me a fool?”
“I want to live,” she said, looking up at him. “So either accompany me to the kitchen or get out of my way.”
She stared at him while he thought about what to do. He couldn’t let her go alone. She’d run and continue being a threat. He didn’t want to leave Will. Where the hell was Amish?
“What has happened?” Father Timothy appeared at the door, took one look at William, and ran to the bed.
“He drank the wine,” Cain told him as the priest began praying over lad. “She claims to know how to prepare an antidote. I am takin’ her to the kitchen.” He pulled on his boots and headed for the door. “Ye remain here with him.”
Father Timothy nodded and shooed them away.
“Will yer remedy work?” Cain asked her as they hurried to the kitchen.
“Aye, ’twill work.”
He looked at her, but when she returned his glance, he looked away.
“He is young…innocent of bloodshed. He was a servant to a master who took pleasure in beatin’ him.”
She was quiet for a moment, then repeated, “’Twill work.”
They reached the kitchen and he waited while she prepared the mixture, pacing while it boiled.
“You still have not told me where Sir Richard is,” she said, turning to him.
He stopped pacing and stared at her. “I need not tell ye anythin’. ’Tis yer fault William is in this condition.”
“’Tis your fault for coming to my home and thinking to take it.”
“I have taken it.”
Her full, beguiling lips curled slightly upward. A gleam of fire sparked across her eyes in the torchlight. “For now.”
He almost smiled back at her bold, but foolish confidence. He let his gaze take her in from her dirty boots to her waist-length glossy black waves. Her legs were long in her woolen breeches. Her waist was narrow and her bosom, humble in her tunic and snug-fitting bodice. She dressed like a warrior, ready for a fight.
“Where are yer guards? Why did ye send them away?”
She returned her attention to the pot and stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon. “Sir Richard and five of his friends are my guards. They were loyal to my father and to Giles and they are loyal to me. I sent them all away, but Richard refused to leave. He is innocent of what happened this morn.”
Cain leaned his hip on the chopping table and folded his arms across his chest. He watched her. He knew he shouldn’t but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her beauty was sublime and deadly. Like the allure of a siren, it was designed to weaken men and bring them to their deaths.
He knew it but he kept watching.
She’d killed his men and William was dying.
He kept William in the forefront of his thoughts. He liked the lad. At first, they’d thought him mute for he spoke to no one. But Cain had heard him crying out a name in his sleep—a name he called out every night after that. Julianna. He never spoke of her during the day, or about what had befallen them. Cain didn’t let the men push and Father Timothy made certain they obeyed. Over time, he began speaking more and even laughed, but he was shy and obedient and he never spoke of Julianna.
Cain clenched his jaw an
d pulled his gaze from her.
“’Tis ready,” she said and poured the mixture into a cup. “We must wake him enough to drink it.”
Cain nodded and took her by the elbow to lead her out of the kitchen.
“You said I would die if he died,” she reminded him while she kept her eyes on the hall ahead. “Will I live if he lives?”
“I havena yet decided.”
Why hadn’t he? What the hell was wrong with him? If it were anyone else, they would have been turned over right away to his men. She deserved to die.
But damn it, he didn’t want to add killing a lass to his many sins. And why did this particular lass have to be so hauntingly beautiful that killing her would be like rolling up the sky and the stars and tossing them into the fire?
Father Timothy mentioned her being returned to the English. Cain would write to Robert and ask what should be done with her.
Aye. That’s what he would do. Let the Bruce decide. But until then—
“Father Timothy tells me you are called Cainnech.”
“Cain,” he corrected.
She furrowed her brow and cut him a quick side-glance. “Why would you prefer Cain?”
“It fits better.”
“I see.”
Aye, he thought, let her see the truth then. He was an unmerciful, unrepentant killer, just like his namesake.
“I told Father Timothy I was going to kill you,” she said boldly, tempting him to smile. If he wasn’t such a superior warrior, he might be worried by her confidence.
“And what was his response?” he asked as they neared the chamber.
“He said I would have to go through him first.”
Finally, Cain smiled.
Chapter Six
If she lived through the next few days, Aleysia never wanted to see the Scottish commander smile ever again. It made her forget her name and all her carefully laid out plans. She didn’t abandon them. Never that.
It was almost as dangerous as seeing him asleep in nothing but a plaid around his waist. The sight of him, illuminated in the candlelight, had made her feel like she had too much wine. He had slept on his back, one muscular arm tossed over his head. His broad chest was lightly dusted with dark hair. His belly was tight with muscles. There were at least a dozen scars covering him, including the one on his cheekbone, left by her arrow. It did nothing to lessen his handsome features. She had stared at him too long.
Oh, but when he disarmed her and pulled her down atop him in her bed, she had been less afraid of him and more afraid of his effect on her.
How could she find him more alluring than any man she’d ever met? Awareness of him ripped through her as she doubled her steps to keep up with his long strides. His height and the breadth of his shoulders cast her in shadows.
Why hadn’t he killed her yet? She told herself she hadn’t killed him yet because she needed him to tell her where he was keeping Richard so she could escape with him.
She looked down at the cup and thought of a way to bargain with the Scot.
They entered the room to a waiting Father Timothy and another brutish-looking man with bright red hair and beard and two long scars running down his face.
“D’ye have the mixture?” the priest asked, leaping to his feet when he saw them.
Aleysia held up the cup.
“Good, good,” Father Timothy reached out to take it and shot a furtive glance to the commander. “I told Amish aboot Aleysia, Richard’s granddaughter.”
“Uhm,” the commander mumbled and moved to the bedside. “How is he?”
“He comes back to us and then leaves again,” Father Timothy told him and then turned to Aleysia. “Ye can give me the mixture.” He moved to take it, but she pulled away. “Come now, Miss. We canna waste a moment.”
She looked at the commander when he turned to see what was going on.
“Where is Si—my grandfather?” She held the cup at an angle, letting a drop spill. “Bring him to me or I will let this cup fall.”
The commander stormed toward her in two giant steps. He seemed bigger suddenly, infinitely more deadly than she could imagine. His lips were tight, his nostrils flared.
She backed away but he kept coming.
“Ye make demands while this lad’s life hangs by a thread?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. He didn’t try to grab the cup before she made good on her threat. He simply stared her down with a glare that made her kneecaps weak beneath her. “If ye dinna feed that antidote to William before yer next breath, ye willna see daylight!”
She was surprised the walls of the chamber didn’t crumble around them at the force of his voice. That her blood didn’t freeze from his frigid glare.
She believed him. He would kill her. She should have stabbed him when she had the chance. She’d panicked. She’d hesitated. And now, she had to save one of them.
She brushed past the commander without another word—and with all the strength she could muster to move at all—and went to the bedside.
She looked down at the victim of her poison. William. He was quite beautiful in his slumber, with lush black lashes resting against his pale skin.
“He needs to be roused so he can swallow the mixture,” she said, keeping her gaze on William, rather than look at his commander again.
“Cainnech,” the priest said, “hold him up and I’ll try to rouse him.”
The brutish commander pushed past her and moved to the head of the bed.
Climbing into the bed, he sat behind the lad and fit his arms gently beneath William’s arms. He sat the young man up, leaning William’s back against his chest.
Father Timothy came to sit at the edge and began trying to rouse him.
When William’s lids fluttered open, Aleysia stepped forward and held the cup to his lips. “Drink this,” she said.
He looked up at her with dark gray, glassy eyes and smiled. “Julianna.”
Aleysia glanced at the commander behind him and noted the slight change in his expression. Compassion warmed his gaze, but just for a moment, before he tightened his jaw and pushed it away.
But he did care—at least about William. He wouldn’t have threatened to kill her if he didn’t. It piqued her curiosity about the lad. What was it about him that pricked the commander’s heart? Who was Julianna?
He is young…innocent of bloodshed. A servant.
“Aye, William,” she said softening her voice. “You must drink this now.”
He pressed his lips to the cup and drank a little then started to drift off again.
Aleysia placed her fingers to his cheek. “Come now, William, drink this for me.”
He drank more, slowly, but finally the mixture was gone.
“Now what?” the commander asked her over William’s head.
“We should see an improvement before dawn.”
Cain moved away from William and laid him back down so he could rest properly. He stood up and walked around the bed, passing her without a word, and went to stand with the red-haired Amish.
“I’m goin’ to speak with Richard the steward. Stay ootside the room. She is not to step oot of it. If she tries to leave, kill her.”
“Aye, Commander,” Amish said.
Aleysia shot them both a murderous look.
The bastard commander closed the gap between them in two strides. “I will bring yer grandfather back to have a brief word with ye. But if ye try to escape before we return, ye will both die. D’ye understand me, lady?”
She thought about where two knives were hidden in this room and how she’d like to fetch them and ram them into his guts. “What if I do escape and come and kill you?”
He looked as if he wanted to smile. But he didn’t. Instead, he let his gaze slip down her body, pausing at her feminine curves beneath her breeches and léine.
She felt her face begin to grow flushed, but he didn’t see.
He started to leave, but then stopped and flicked his gaze between her and Father Timothy.
He pointed
to the priest. “Come with me.”
Father Timothy didn’t argue. They both knew how dangerous she was.
He obviously cared about the priest. She doubted it was her soul he was trying to protect when he commanded Father Timothy to follow him.
She watched them depart, leaving Amish to guard the door. What could she do now but wait? Richard’s life depended on her remaining where she was.
She looked down at William. A bit of color had returned to his face. A good sign—for the other side, at least.
She left his side and went to fetch her hidden knives. She took one and hid it carefully in her bodice.
This time, she wouldn’t hesitate.
Chapter Seven
Cain sat atop one of the trestle tables, his boots on the chair in front of him in the great hall. He lifted his cup to his lips and waited for Amish to arrive with Miss d’Argentan.
“If you have harmed her—” the old knight began.
“She has not been harmed,” Father Timothy assured him.
“Yet,” Cain added, setting down his cup. “Yer Miss d’Argentan has boldly confessed to everythin’ and has much to answer fer.”
“How many did she…?”
“Nine, and one more who clings to life.” Cain felt his anger rising. “Pray that he lives,” he ground out through clenched teeth.
“Did she act alone in her crimes against the king?” Father Timothy asked him.
The knight lifted his chin and bristled in his chair. “He is not her king or mine.”
Rebellion. It was what got people killed—proven by the deaths of thousands so far. This English knight knew it and he didn’t seem to care. He was loyal until death to Edward and to Miss d’Argentan. He had even come up with an elaborate tale about the nonexistent Lord de Bar to protect her. A quality Cain couldn’t help but admire.
“Nonetheless, she is our enemy, as are ye,” Cain told him.
The knight looked away.
“How did she do it?” Cain asked him.
“She practiced every day for the last four years.”
Dedication. Another trait Cain admired.
“What drives her?” he asked. He expected the answer to be hatred over the death of her brother. He understood hatred. It killed him when he was a child.
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