Читать книгу His Conquest - Diana Cosby - Страница 9

Adrenaline pumping, Seathan dragged in another gulp of the stale air permeating the tunnel as he hauled his captive alongside. He ignored the pounding in his head and how at times his vision blurred. With each step, the muted din of guards scouring the dungeon for him faded.

Candlelight illuminated the aged pathway cluttered with cobwebs and trickles of moisture edged with growth. He pushed forward. Naught mattered but achieving his goal.

Revenge.

By God, he would have it.

Images of Dauid’s stoic silence as he’d stood beside Lord Tearlach, the memory of the other Scottish rebels being dragged from the secret meeting, savaged his mind. Like blasted sheep led to a slaughter.

Thank God his brothers, Alexander and Duncan, had split off from him the day before the attack and had ridden with William Wallace to meet with Robert Wishart, the Bishop of Glasgow. If not killed in the slaughter, they, too, would have been tortured for rebel information and sentenced to hang.

Disgust rolled through Seathan as he thought of the Parliament held by King Edward at Berwick the summer past. He’d ordered prominent Scottish landowners, burgesses, and churchmen to swear fealty to him, then sign and affix their seals as proof. The Ragman Roll was naught but parchment scrawled with names of those without the backbone to fight for their country’s freedom or those who signed under duress.

Numerous nobles embroiled within the rebel cause had signed without intending to support the English crown, including Bishop Wishart of Glasgow and Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick. Then, there were those like himself and William Wallace, who refused to sign, consequence be damned.

Rumors of King Edward’s gloating that day as he’d watched each Scot sign the parchment fueled Seathan’s anger. As if to rub salt in a festering wound, before he’d headed south to England, the king had installed the Earl of Surrey as governor of Scotland and Hugh Cressingham as treasurer.

Confident he’d quashed the last of the rebels’ resistance, King Edward had ridden home to deal with the turmoil wrought by Flanders.

The English bastard believed he’d conquered Scotland, destroyed its people’s will to fight. He’d ridden from Scottish soil, leaving them naught more than pawns to be ordered about.

But he was wrong.

The Scots would never cease in their battle to reclaim their freedom.

The woman at his side gave a weary sigh.

Seathan glanced toward her, and a new thought came to mind. “You said you wished to go to the Highlands to be with your mother’s clan?”

In the flicker of candlelight, wary eyes met his. “Yes.”

“You are English.”

She hesitated. “Half. My father was.”

“Was?”

“He is dead.”

Suspicion flared at her claim, but her grief-stricken expression proclaimed her words true. “I am sorry.” She shrugged, but he saw the emotion she tried to shield from his view. He understood all too well the pain of losing a parent, and of the responsibilities arising from such a loss. “Your mother?”

“Dead as well.”

“How?” he asked, his heart softening a degree.

“It matters not.”

From the coolness of her reply, it did, but to disclose the reason to him would splinter the tough exterior she carefully built. A facade he, too, had forged out of sheer necessity. Any similarities between their lives, however, ended there. The challenges he’d faced were far from the pampered existence this noblewoman had enjoyed.

Her fingers curled within his palm. Seathan tried to ignore the softness of her flesh, how the velvet of her skin pressed against the roughness of his calloused hand, and how too easily he could imagine her fingers upon his body in a silken caress. Though she’d kissed like a siren, he’d tasted her innocence.

Who was this noblewoman? More important, what had prompted her to free him?

Or rather, who?

Though she was cloaked in a cape of worsted wool, her serviceable garb hid neither her refined quality of speech, nor her regal bearing.

Unease crept through him. Even as he’d accused her of having a part in Lord Tearlach’s twisted game, mayhap to free him for the thrill of the chase, his charge made no sense. Not that he’d put such past the Sassenach, whose amusement at Seathan’s capture had eroded to fury when he’d refused to divulge any information under torture about William Wallace or the rebels’ plans.

Which had led to Tearlach’s order for Seathan to hang at first light.

If the viscount wasn’t behind her actions, then who? Her request for an escort to the Highlands rang sour. A noblewoman needing protection would not seek out a man beaten to the point of near collapse. She had chosen him for a distinct purpose.

“Linet?”

“Yes?”

“Naught, I but wanted to know if indeed that is your real name.”

Red streaked her cheeks. “Proof I am not lying to you?” She shook her head. “Worry not. I expect nothing more from you than your vow given to escort me to the Highlands.” She faced forward and continued walking at his side.

If only it were so simple to believe her. Lives of thousands lay at stake. He would be a fool to accept words easily given. No, he’d watch her, listen for her to stumble and expose her true motive.

As he walked, a chill shook his body, then another. He forced himself to continue, each step punishing muscles long abused. He released her hand. The last thing he wished to do was reveal his deteriorating condition to her, but he needed to prepare for the worst. If possible, to make a plan before he passed out.

“Once we are safely away from Breac Castle,” Seathan said, “we must hide.”

Linet studied him a long moment. “Your injuries are slowing you down. For that I am sorry. How much longer do you think you can continue?”

The sincerity of her words caught him off guard, but he needed not her sympathy. “Nay doubt my ability to travel if need be.”

“I never doubt men like you.”

Unsure whether she paid him a compliment, he ignored her claim. Her opinion mattered little. After he delivered her to the Highlands, he would never see her again.

The candle sputtered.

“Halt.” Seathan shot her a warning look, shielded the candle with his free hand. The flame trembled, then grew. The wavering light barely illuminated a foot before them. Though he didn’t want her to see his weakening, his need to ensure she didn’t bolt swayed his decision.

He reached for her.

She stepped out of range. Within the cast of yellowed light, outrage sparked in her gaze. “You believe holding me is necessary?”

“Aye.” Her defiance intrigued him. He stepped forward, caught her hand. “I will take no chances until the castle walls are far behind us.” Then, when it came to her, he would still use caution. Though truth rang in her words, questions about her motive sat ill within his mind.

On a frustrated sigh, she relaxed her hand within his. “There are several dangerous twists ahead. They must be taken with care.”

He raised the candle. “Lead the way.”

An order given, Linet mused, by a man comfortable with taking the lead regardless of the task. But in this, they shared the same goal—to escape. She started forward, and Lord Grey kept pace at her side.

A rat scurried before them, then disappeared into the darkness. They skirted shards of pottery strewn around the next bend.

“Breac Castle is a Scottish stronghold. Or was,” Lord Grey said.

“So I was informed,” she replied, well aware the Scot but probed for information. Linet neglected to add that the transfer had occurred twelve years past, when King Edward had seized Breac Castle and bestowed it upon her father for his staunch support of the crown.

Except a year later, with the death of Queen Margaret, the Maid of Norway, who was pledged to marry King Edward’s heir, Edward of Cavernarvon, division had cut through Scotland.

She remembered her father’s disgust for those of unworthy lineage who had come forward claiming ’twas their birthright to gain the throne. Then, how her father had placed himself within the English king’s eye by backing Robert Bruce, lord of Annandale, in his bid to claim the Scottish throne.

Linet was proud of her father’s stand, for supporting what he believed was just. The past few years had exposed King Edward’s true ambition, not to ensure that Scotland gained a king, but to become its sovereign.

After the capture and sack of Berwick, the Battle of Dunbar, then King John’s submission to King Edward, the English ruler had achieved his goal.

Her father believed in a fair hand, something the English sovereign seemed to overlook.

Sadness swept her as she remembered the people slaughtered for King Edward’s self-serving goal. Thank God her father and mother had not lived to see the town of Berwick razed, including every man, woman, and child. And once the massacre had ended, English knights had torched the tragic heap.

The senseless slaughter still burned in her heart. How could any man lust for power enough to take a life, especially that of an innocent child? She might forgive many things, but never that.

King Edward had dared claim the sack of Berwick a victory, but in her heart, he had delivered much more than war against the Scots.

But desecration.

Had her father suspected King Edward’s dark plans to conquer Scotland? If so, it made sense that he’d kept his belief a secret.

A secret he’d never shared with Fulke—a son who held in esteem the English king and his caustic methods of gaining power, a son who shared the English king’s trait of greed. Characteristics she despised.

She slid a covert glance toward Lord Grey—a rebel who opposed King Edward’s carnage, a Scot who dared risked all for his beliefs.

Though dangerous, this man possessed the qualities she’d admired in her father. But neither his qualities nor his similarities to the man she’d looked up to changed the hard fact.

In the Scot’s mind, she was the enemy.

How he viewed her mattered little. Once she arrived at her mother’s village in the Highlands, she would be free to live the life she chose.

Linet’s heart ached as she took in the sturdy walls of stone offering a path to escape. She would miss Breac Castle, the memories made over the years, the laughter shared.

But not her brother.

After Fulke’s treachery, he no longer held her respect.

Or her love.

Lord Grey shoved forward with predatory intent. “They will search the tunnels for me, will they not?”

“Eventually,” Linet conceded, staring straight into his suspicious gaze. Once her brother had discovered her absence along with the Scot’s, Fulke would search every nook of the castle for them, including the hidden passageways. “But not because I am in league with the Viscount of Tearlach,” she added, surprised to find it important that the Earl of Grey believed her.

“No? Then why?”

As much as she wished to explain, for her safety, she would tell him nothing more.

At her silence, a smile as cold and dangerous edged his mouth. “You have secrets, my lady, but you have chosen the wrong man to deceive in this game you play. Before our journey is over, I will know each and every one.”

Tension wove through her. “The only game played is one you conceive within your mind.”

He grunted. “Should I not find your appearance on the eve before I am to be hanged an unlikely coincidence?”

“Should you not give thanks that I risked my life to save yours?”

Eyes alive with suspicion studied her. “You risked your life, but not for my sake.”

“Perhaps,” she admitted, inwardly shaken to discover that she was no longer motivated solely by her determination to halt her brother’s plans. Despite the meager time she’d spent with this powerful Scottish lord, she was drawn by his strength, his tenacity to fight for what he believed in. She understood why men followed the earl without doubt. And more unnerving, she found herself caring that he lived.

Around the next turn, candlelight exposed a haphazard pile of rocks that formed a wall. Linet halted. A cave-in. Sweet Mary. Their most direct route to escape was ruined.

The earl turned to her with an ominous frown. “The tunnel is blocked.”

“I did not know. I swear it.”

He studied her for a long moment, glanced toward where the pathway had split several steps back. “Where does the other tunnel lead?”

“To the cliffs. But the route weaves through the castle and would take hours to travel. With but one candle to guide us, we must choose a shorter route.”

“And that would be?”

“We must pass through the stables, sneak past the guards, and enter yet another tunnel that leads to the cliffs.” She paused. “But I caution you, it is a treacherous path.”

“More treacherous than returning to the dungeon? Nay, I will take the risk.” His hand trembled as he turned, the candle held high.

She caught the sheen of sweat dripping down his face, the stiffness of his gait. She couldn’t worry about him, nor the feelings he inspired. For each of them, fate held a different path. Never could Seathan represent more than revenge against her brother.

“I will make it,” he said as if sensing her doubt.

The edge to his voice warned her not to argue. But determination wouldn’t push muscles exhausted or a mind fevered. With his hand firm around hers, she kept pace as he headed back toward the other tunnel, and prayed they’d make good their escape.

The fresh scent of hay infused the cool rush of air as Seathan inched the plank open, the faint tinge of smoke from the extinguished candle fading.

A horse whinnied, another shifted. Rain pounded on the wooden roof. He frowned at the next blast of thunder. The storm would make their travel more hazardous, but its rumbles would provide them cover.

Had his brothers found the meeting place where he and his men had been betrayed by Dauid? Were they now braving the harsh weather in search of him? Or had Alexander and Duncan yet to return from their meeting with William Wallace and Bishop Wishart?

Bedamned.

He hated the not knowing. Until he had traveled at least two days by foot, he could learn naught. Worse, once he and Linet escaped Breac Castle, Tearlach’s men would be scouring the forest for him, increasing the danger to his brothers.

Seathan searched the stalls through the slats. No one worked within. “Come.” Seathan tugged her forward. Keeping to the shadows, he crept through the well-kept stable.

“You are trembling.”

The worry in her voice had him damning his body’s weakness, and her keen eyesight. “Keep moving.” He inched forward, careful to keep out of sight of anyone within the bailey.

Lightning flashed. Thunder rolled in its wake. The rain of moments before increased to a downpour.

“Post extra men upon the wall walk,” a commanding voice ordered from nearby.

Seathan stilled. Tearlach. A damnable voice he would recognize to his grave. The woman’s hand tightened in his. “You know him?” he demanded in a rough whisper.

“Of course. He is lord of Breac Castle.”

Aye, but the nerves in her voice indicated a much closer tie. “Is he your lover?”

Delicate nostrils flared. “I despise him.”

Truth spilled through her words, but instinct assured him that she concealed more from him. Still, a part of him found comfort that she knew not Fulke’s touch.

“Keep low—and quiet.” Careful not to startle the horses, he eased forward, using the distant torchlight as a guide as they wove through the stables.

“I want every corner of Breac Castle searched again,” Fulke’s voice boomed, this time closer. “They must be here!”

Christ’s blade. Tearlach had discovered his escape. He’d wanted to have traveled several leagues before his absence was discovered.

Seathan stilled. The full impact of the viscount’s words slammed home. He turned toward the noblewoman. “They?” he asked, the softness of his burr laden with threat.

“You could not have escaped alone,” Linet whispered.

Which made sense, but far from soothed his instinct that something was seriously amiss.

“We have searched all of the buildings, my lord,” a man’s voice called out.

“I care not,” Lord Tearlach yelled. “Search them again. By God, they will be found this night!” The slap of footsteps faded as his knights scattered, rushing to do their lord’s bidding.

The splat of water sloshed in a puddle nearby.

“Someone is coming. Hurry!” Seathan dropped, then rolled into a stall.

Linet followed.

Once inside, Seathan lifted a pile of hay. “Get in.” She crawled beneath the heap and he joined her.

The bay within the stall stamped its feet and snorted.

Footsteps grew louder.

Seathan clamped his hand upon his dagger.

“Ho, Blanchard,” a deep male voice rumbled. “Not liking the storm?”

Torchlight flickered over the pile of straw above Seathan as he sheltered Linet with his body. He put a finger over her lips.

She nodded.

Through the wisps of hay, he caught sight of the knight as he rubbed the bay’s neck. After a pat on the withers, he began making his way down the line of stalls in a slow, methodical sweep.

Long moments passed, each one stealing precious darkness they needed to make their escape. More disturbing, with each passing second, heat from Linet’s body melded with his. The soft warmth, infused with her woman’s scent, was designed to seduce.

Seathan gritted his teeth in disbelief. With his body screaming from its torture, one would think he could ignore her scent, how well she fit against him, or the lingering memory of their kiss. But sheltered by the backdrop of falling rain and caught within the blanket of the hay’s warmth, he was all too aware of her presence.

A bloody curse.

Soft footsteps crunched on hay as the knight slowly made his return. He stopped one last time outside of the bay’s stall, lifted his torch in a slow sweep. As if satisfied everything was in order, he exited the stable into the downpour.

“All clear,” the knight called once outside.

From far away, Lord Tearlach ordered him to help search the dungeon again.

Other guards’ voices echoed in the pounding rain as they reported in from around the castle.

Seathan exhaled. They were safe—for now.

“That was too close,” Linet whispered.

Her soft breath upon his face assured him her lips were but a whisper from his own. Awareness burned through him, and he hardened. The situation would be funny if it were not so serious. Beaten and barely clinging to consciousness, his body seemed not to care.

He swallowed hard, trying to ignore that if he but leaned forward, he could again taste her, the alluring essence of woman, and for a moment forget the pain washing through him.

“We must make it into the tunnel before the guard returns,” he gritted out.

“We will.” The conviction within her words inspired his own. She pressed her hand to his chest.

He stilled, too aware of her, dangerously so. “What is it?” he asked, not needing his thoughts clouded by desire.

“Nothing.”

But he heard the tremble of her words, her desire to say more, and damn her, her concern. He wanted no woman worrying about him. Let her care for a man who wanted a woman in his life for something more than a night’s pleasure. He’d learned well of a woman’s deceptive ways, a lesson Iuliana, his former lover, had impressed upon his mind with devastating clarity.

Seathan caught the noblewoman’s hand and shoved to his feet. The stall blurred around him. He braced his feet and sucked in a deep breath.

“Lord Grey?”

“Seathan,” he hissed out.

Seathan? Linet stilled, surprised at his offer of familiarity. As if she would ever understand him.

He glanced past her. The rain was beginning to slow. “Move.” He took a step forward, then another.

“No. It is too far. We must return to the tunnel before you pass out.”

“We cannot go back. Too dangerous.”

The stubborn man. “As if your falling on your face in the middle of the stables is safe?”

Obsidian eyes bore into hers. “I am well enough to travel.”

Far from it, but she remained silent. They would need all of the Scot’s arrogance to keep him moving.

Torches illuminated the upper bailey, an open expanse where Fulke and his men trained during the day.

She pointed toward the stone tower farthest away. “The next tunnel is through a door inside the arsenal tower.” He nodded as they continued along the path.

They stole through the shadows, keeping the curtain wall to their backs, the fresh scent of spring rain filling her every breath. Both were soaked, but at least the rain would erase their tracks.

She shot a worried glance at the Scot, who was visibly struggling. Let him make it!

“Lord Tearlach,” a guard called from the wall walk above.

With a muttered curse, Lord Grey flattened himself near her against the curtain wall, his chest heaving.

Hidden within the deep shadows, Linet peered out.

In the distance, her brother came into view, then halted.

She held her breath. Had Fulke seen them?

Long seconds trod past, then he turned and headed toward a nearby guard, his stride lengthened by his too familiar fury. The heavy rain fractured his words. “…seeher, tell me!” Fulke demanded.

“Yes, my lord,” the guard replied.

Fear tore through her. Had Lord Grey heard her brother’s reference to her? Terrified, she glanced over. His eyes were shut as if he was focused on fighting back the pain. Linet glanced toward Fulke.

Her brother whirled and stalked toward the keep.

“Go,” Seathan ordered in a soft command.

She shot him a quick glance, shaken to find him watching her with unsettling interest. No time remained to wonder the reason. She nodded, thankful when moments later they entered the arsenal tower, then slipped into the tunnel and closed the door.

“We have no candle,” he stated.

“The tunnel is short and straight,” she assured him. “I know it as if the back of my hand.” At his light touch indicating she should lead, she headed into the blackened passage.

Shrouded in darkness and embraced by his male scent, she found the setting strangely intimate, despite the danger. Unsettled by her thoughts, by his muscled body straining at her side, she focused on her goal.

Silence punctuated the darkness as they traveled. In the distance, Seathan caught the growing sound of rain.

“We are almost there,” she said.

He heard her worry, doubts that he could reach the safety of the forest, concerns that tormented him as well. But he’d be damned if he’d give up.

Clenching his teeth, he lengthened his stride.

Through the opening ahead, hints of purple touched the sky. “Sunrise,” he hissed as if it were a curse.

She looked at him, her eyes laden with worry as well as hope. “They will not expect us to depart the castle through this tunnel.”

True, but it did not remove the danger of their being seen. At the tunnel’s rim, in the pale light, Seathan surveyed the steep slope broken by boulders and shrubs. He released her.

She glanced at her freed hand, then toward him. “You trust me now?”

“Nay, we are out of Breac Castle.” He ignored her flash of irritation and started down the steep slope. Loose rock had him catching a nearby bush; his body screamed as he jerked to a stop. He held tight.

Behind him, Linet made her way down with caution.

Each step led them closer to safety, but with the purple hues growing lighter in the sky, before long the sun would break the horizon. Even with the shield of rain, if a guard looked down, they would be seen.

He gritted his teeth, swore, but step by step, descended the damnable rocks. At the bottom, sweat covered his body, and his mind swirled with dizziness. Dragging in a deep breath, he steadied himself.

A gentle hand caught his arm. “Seathan?”

He ignored her and glanced up. Dawn sifted across the sky, its exposing light spilling upon the forest around them. “Move.” He stumbled forward.

She caught him, fighting to steady him. “Lean against me.”

He hesitated.

“Your pride will not save your life!”

Damning his weakness, Seathan leaned against Linet as they continued. His life and possibly his brothers’ lay in the hands of this slip of a woman. A woman who held secrets. A woman who called Tearlach her lord.

A woman he could never trust.