Читать книгу Heart Of The Dragon - Sharon Schulze - Страница 13

Once again Lily waited outside the Dragon’s chamber while he found his key, then turned it in the lock. But this time he kept her behind him when he slipped through the door into the dark room, his dagger in one hand, the other wrapped about the hilt of his sword.

She wondered at his caution, until he shoved her backward as the room filled with light. She fell sideways into the corridor, landing on the floor and bumping her head against the stone wall. Though her head reeled, she sat up and groped for the lantern to use as a weapon. Before she got a good grip on the handle, someone wrenched it from her hand. She glared up at the soldier, then slumped back against the doorway.

The Dragon slashed wildly at two armed men and laid open the face of one with his knife. As the fighter spun away, a voice cried, “Hold, Ian! Would you murder our own people?”

Lily blinked to clear her foggy vision. Lord Ian slowly lowered his sword and stepped closer to her. “Nay, milord,” he said. Without turning to face her, he reached down to help her to her feet. She took his hand and pulled herself up beside him. He gestured to the four guards in the room, meeting the wounded man’s glare with a mirthless smile. “Do you threaten us?”

The speaker came toward them from the shadowy end of the room. Though dressed no differently than the others, he wore authority as if it were a mantle. He could only be Llywelyn, prince of Wales.

She couldn’t interpret the look he sent the Dragon, but she knew it didn’t bode well for him. “I see she didn’t leave after all,” Llywelyn said with a wry smile. “Clearly someone made a mistake—a costly one for him, I’m sure.”

The Dragon sheathed his sword, but kept his dirk in his hand. “No doubt,” he agreed. “Mistakes happen.”

Llywelyn moved closer. His gaze swept over her, taking her measure, then staring into her eyes. She couldn’t tell if she passed muster, or if he found her lacking. But she refused to back down or look away first. It was a relief when he ceased his scrutiny and returned his attention to the Dragon.

“Trust you to find her before any knew she was missing, Ian. I’ve always known I could count on you for anything,” Llywelyn said. He motioned to one of his men. “Take this woman to her quarters. ‘Tis too late to discuss anything of importance now.” When the Dragon stepped forward, he added, “She’ll be perfectly safe, Ian. You’ve done your duty. ‘Tis no longer your concern. I’ve other work for you.”

Lily placed her hand on the Dragon’s arm and looked earnestly at Llywelyn. She couldn’t understand why he refused to meet her gaze. “Milord, I don’t wish—”

At Llywelyn’s nod, the guard took her by the elbow, tugging her away from her protector and out of the room. Ian turned to watch as they led her away, his expression unreadable.

Outwardly calm, Ian watched the two men lead Lily away. But inside he seethed with fury, a fury he did not intend to show Llywelyn.

He needed to tread warily. By looking for Lily after Llywelyn told him she’d left, he’d already committed a grave error. He didn’t wish to compound his mistake now.

The results were too important.

Llywelyn had made a mistake, as well, and Ian had caught him out.

Llywelyn knew something about her, something he wanted to keep hidden.

The trick would be to discover that secret—and soon.

With a nod toward the door, the prince ordered the other men from the room. Ian closed the door and leaned against it, waiting for the ax to fall.

He didn’t have long to wait.

Llywelyn stood tall, an imposing figure, though he didn’t intimidate Ian. He’d committed too many sins in Llywelyn’s name—the other man owed him too much. But Ian wasn’t a fool. He knew how easily a powerful man’s favor could turn to vengeance.

“What were you about, Ian? Do you doubt my word now, that you must go behind my back and foul my plans? If I thought you needed to know where the girl was, I would have told you.”

Thus he gave himself away. Ian hid his satisfaction, and sought the words to free himself from this coil. “I understand that, milord. And I didn’t doubt you. But I hear things from many sources. Word reached me that led me to believe you’d been given false information. I merely wished to verify what I’d heard. There’s no harm done. She’s back in your possession, to do with as you will.”

For the moment, Ian added to himself.

Llywelyn eyed him assessingly. He evidently passed muster. Ian saw nothing but approval in the other man’s expression. “Very well. ’Tis forgotten. Besides, I have need of your expertise in the trouble with my nephew Rhys. He’s begun making noise about reclaiming his lands. I want you to find him, make him understand my position before he goes too far. I’d rather not be forced to harm my own kin,” he added, his gaze steady. “Leave as soon as you can, and take as long as you need to make him see reason. We’ll manage fine until you return.” He nodded and headed for the door.

“As you wish, milord,” Ian said, opening the door and bowing as Llywelyn walked past.

His movements slow, he pushed the door closed, then turned the key in the lock. He stared at the worthless piece of metal, then heaved it across the room.

Damnation! It didn’t do much good to lock the door when someone else had a key.

He couldn’t have done worse tonight if he tried. Now Llywelyn had taken Lily away. If Llywelyn tried to hide her again, Ian could be certain he wouldn’t find her this time, unless Llywelyn allowed him to. And that wasn’t likely to happen.

By the time he returned from placating Rhys, she’d be so well hidden, he’d never find her. Assuming, of course, that they let her live. Considering where he’d found her, that was not a certainty.

Weary beyond belief, he removed his sword and dagger and placed them within easy reach before he stripped off his clothes and fell into bed. He didn’t even bother to douse the light, hoping the brightness burning through his eyelids would show him whatever clue he kept missing.

Letting his mind drift, it filled immediately with images of Lily. He would never forget the expression of joy on her face when he’d opened the door to her cell. Again that jolt of familiarity assailed him, the sense that the knowledge he sought hovered just beyond his reach.

Her smile lingered, and he focused on it, the way her green eyes glowed, the slight tilt of her lips at one corner…

He sat bolt upright. He knew that smile, had seen it a thousand times before. When he added the green eyes and coppery hair—similar, but not quite the same—he truly thought he’d gone mad.

What he had in mind was impossible. There was no way that Lily could be related to Gillian de l’Eau Clair FitzClifford, marcher baroness.

His cousin.

The soldiers hustled Lily across the bailey and into the keep itself. She followed where they led; ‘twas the least she could do, since this time they hadn’t bound or gagged her. She scarcely had the energy to walk, let alone try to escape. Besides, running would avail her nothing, for she had nowhere left to go.

She returned the stares of the revelers they met on the stairway. Never had she seen such fine clothes, nor so many people the worse for drink. Several women, their bliauts laced so tight she could have seen a flea bound beneath them, smiled invitingly at the guards and frowned at her.

It was a relief when they stopped outside a chamber at the top of the stairs. She almost didn’t care where they put her, so long as it was bright and warm. And if they brought her food, as well, she’d think she’d gone to heaven.

They unlocked the door and motioned for her to enter. A maid followed her in and placed a tray on a stool next to the straw pallet. A chamber pot in the corner completed the furnishings.

The maid and one of the guards left. The other guard kindled a lamp hanging next to the door. “Stay quiet and give us no trouble,” he said gruffly before pulling the door closed.

She heard the key turn in the lock with a curious sense of pleasure. This, her third prison of the day, was certainly the best appointed. It met her simple requirements amply.

She’d already noticed that there was no window in this door, so she availed herself of the facilities with a sigh of relief. There was even a ewer of water, she scrubbed off as much of the past few days’ filth as she could before investigating the contents of the tray.

‘Twas simple fare, coarse bread and hard cheese, with a mug of warm ale. To Lily it seemed manna from heaven. She savored every bite, setting aside half, lest they bring her nothing on the morrow. Besides, after the scanty meals she’d had the past few weeks, her stomach could bear no more.

More comfortable than she’d been since her mother’s death, she settled on the pallet to mull over everything that had happened. She’d believed that coming to Dolwyddelan would give her answers; instead, she had more questions than before. But she couldn’t regret that she’d come here, despite her sojourn in the bowels of the castle.

She couldn’t regret meeting the Dragon.

Absently working her fingers through her tangled hair, she tried to think, but her brain reeled with exhaustion and confusion, not to mention the lump still swelling on the side of her head.

She needed sleep to clear her mind. Only then could she make sense of everything.

But she’d no sooner closed her eyes than she heard the rattle of a key in the door.

Sweet Mary, what did they want now? Had they permitted her the luxury of refreshing herself, of food and drink, only to drag her back to the pit? If that was their plan, she would not go.

She’d been too compliant, not wishing to anger Llywelyn. By God, what more could he ask? She refused to go against her nature any longer.

When the door swung open, she stood ready with the tray, prepared to knock her jailer over the head, if need be. She hit the man in the head three times before he managed to wrest it from her, although she inflicted little damage.

“Leave me be!” she shrieked. “All I want is a decent night’s rest! I’ll go wherever you wish tomorrow!”

He held her wrists in one meaty hand, making a mockery of her struggles. “You’ll do as I wish, girl, else you’ll pay for it.” He chuckled, the sound resonating from deep within his massive chest. “They told me you were a quiet thing, and meek. Ha! What do those Welsh bastards know? Puny little runts, most of them, with brains to match.”

Lily stared up into his face, intrigued by his strange looks and accent—and intimidated by his sheer size. He towered over her. Hair so fair it looked almost white hung past his shoulders, and his eyes gleamed an icy blue in his deeply tanned face. Even his clothing was odd, the fur-and-skin tunic leaving his arms and part of his chest bare. Despite his forbidding mien, laugh lines crinkled the corners of his eyes; indeed, he was smiling down at her now, clearly amused by her meager show of rebellion.

“Who are you?” she asked. And, more important to her—why was he here? He couldn’t be Welsh. What business could he have with her?

“I am called Swen Siwardson. Your prince sent me to take you to your new home. Here,” he said, releasing her and tossing a bundle on the bed, “I have brought you proper clothes.” His gaze swept her from head to toe. “Though I like what you wear now well enough.”

He made her feel awkward—naked—in her tunic and leggings. Turning away, she wrapped her arms about herself for a moment, then unfolded the packet.

It contained an underdress of linen, softened by many washings, and a faded wool bliaut. Though well-worn, they smelled clean. Lily held them up—they should fit, with room to spare.

But she still didn’t intend to go anywhere.

“You put them on, then we will leave,” Swen told her. He stood in front of the door and, drawing his dagger, flipped it through the air. It landed, quivering, in the opposite wall.

“Would you go out into the hallway to wait?” she asked when she found her voice. If he’d done that trick to intimidate her, it had worked.

“Nay. You get dressed now.” He crossed the room in three strides and retrieved his knife. “We must be far from here before dawn.” Another flick of the wrist, and he sent the blade into the wall just past her head.

He’d made his point. Hands shaking, Lily picked up the undertunic and pulled it over her head, then, using the roomy garment as if it were a tent, slipped out of her old clothes.

She had trouble lacing up the bliaut, but what did it matter, so long as she didn’t trip over the excess fabric? At least Swen didn’t watch her dress—not so she could tell, anyway. The thought of traveling to some unknown destination with him frightened her, but she didn’t seem to have a choice. She might as well go with him willingly; he looked capable of killing her with his bare hands. He’d probably enjoy it, too.

After she gathered the Dragon’s cloak about her, she ripped a square of material from her shirt and wrapped the extra food to take with her, then joined Swen by the door.

Reaching into a pouch at his waist, Swen pulled out a slender piece of rope. Sweet Mary save her, but she was growing tired of this! She remained silent while he took her bundle of food, then bound her wrists. He picked up her torn shirt from the floor and eyed her consideringly. “You going to be quiet, or do I need to tie your mouth, too?”

“I won’t say a word, I swear,” she assured him.

He nodded, a grin on his face. “Good. But it won’t matter if you do. No one will hear you where we’re going.” Swen moved to the wall and shoved at one of the wooden panels. It slid open to reveal a dark, gaping passage. “Come on, then, girl.”

Grabbing her by the rope wound about her wrists, he drew her into the wall with him, and they plunged into darkness.

She would never forget her journey with Swen so long as she lived. The man didn’t understand how it felt to be tired, he just plodded along and carried her with him, alternately bullying her and encouraging her to keep her moving. They traveled through the passageway seemingly for hours before they emerged from a rocky outcropping well outside the castle walls. No one would even know she’d left, unless they came looking for her.

Since no one had seen them leave, how long might it be before that happened?

A horse stood tethered in a copse of trees, loaded with several small packs, awaiting their arrival. After checking the area to be sure they were alone, Swen tossed her into the saddle, then climbed up behind her.

He held her steady before him, but she didn’t like his arm wrapped around her waist, nor his body pressed against her back. He was larger and more muscular than the Dragon, but she’d far rather have had that enigmatic Welsh lord holding her close than this blond giant.

However, she didn’t have a choice.

Looking back over his shoulder, Lily caught her last glimpse of Dolwyddelan Castle as the moon set behind the towers. Would she ever see it—or the Dragon— again?

That question haunted her as they jogged along, both man and horse apparently tireless. Lily fought sleep as long as she could; once the sun rose, she concentrated on taking note of anything unusual along the way. If she managed to escape Swen, she needed to know the route back to Dolwyddelan.

Not if, she reminded herself firmly as she stifled another yawn. When. When an opportunity to escape presented itself, she must take it. Her chances of getting away—and staying out of his reach—were much better here in the hills and forest than they’d be once he locked her up again.

If Swen hadn’t been her captor, she’d likely have found him an amusing companion. He loved to talk, and it didn’t seem to matter whether she answered him or not. He just kept up a steady stream of comment, his deep voice droning on in her ear until she could ignore him no longer.

“I don’t know where you’re from, but do all people in your homeland talk as much as you?” she asked in exasperation.

He chuckled. “Not all, but most. My home is far north of the Frankish lands. ’Tis cold there much of the year, not like this place. In winter the nights are very long. We like to gather round the fire, drink ale and tell stories. Much like your Welsh bards, only merrier.”

Here was a chance to quench her insatiable thirst for news of foreign places. “You miss it.” She heard it in his voice.

“Aye.”

“Then why have you come here?” She looked back at his face. “Why are you doing this?”

His expression told her nothing. What made men so inscrutable? She found it far easier to read women’s faces, though perhaps ‘twas only that she’d had more practice.

She poked him in the gut with her elbow. He grunted, but appeared unharmed. “You cannot go silent on me now,” she chided. “Do you owe Llywelyn a debt? Or has he offered you riches? I don’t understand why he wants me locked away. It makes no sense, since I cannot possibly be of any value to him, but nothing that’s happened since I scaled the castle wall has—”

“You climbed the wall?” He gave a muffled grunt of laughter. “I would like to have seen that. Did you make it all the way up?”

“Almost. The Dragon pulled me over the top of the wall.”

Grabbing her chin in his callused palm, he turned her head and stared down at her face. Finally he shook his head. “Quiet and meek! Llywelyn’s men are fools. And I worried that this would be an easy task, boring, a waste of my talents. I will need to watch you carefully,” he said. A wide smile split his face. “Good.”

Lily jerked free of his hand and turned her back to him. That slip of the tongue would cost her dearly. The last thing she wanted was Swen watching her more closely; those pale eyes already saw too much. Beneath his affable mien a sharp mind—and a dangerous man. She’d been a fool to underestimate him.

Exhaustion made her mind too dull to focus on anything important now. Instead, she badgered Swen for more information about his home. Finally, his deep voice rumbling in her ear, she drifted off to sleep.

Swen looked down at the girl, her face resting back against his shoulder, her body slumped against him with the bonelessness of utter exhaustion. She surprised him. As he’d told her, she was nothing like those idiots had led him to believe. Perhaps everything else they’d told him was a lie, too.

They expected him to accept her as a convent-bred lady, escaped from the abbey to run off with a Norman churl? It hadn’t rung true even before he met her. And now that he had…

He didn’t believe a word of it.

Llywelyn wanted her out of Dolwyddelan, Swen knew that much. She hadn’t wanted to leave. And the look in her eyes—and something in her voice when she said his name—pointed toward the Dragon as the man Llywelyn wanted to separate her from.

For her protection, or the Dragon’s?

This grew more interesting by the moment.

Swen shifted the girl in his arms, savoring the way she nestled against him. If she belonged to the Dragon, he had no intention of enjoying more than this. A pity, but he didn’t poach on another man’s territory.

Especially the Dragon’s.

Lord Ian could be on their trail even now. Swen’s blood heated in anticipation. This situation might prove to be far more enjoyable than he’d imagined.

He gazed at Lily’s face once more. Soft skin, vivid eyes, hair of flame.

And courage.

The Dragon would find them.

Swen smiled. He loved a good fight.