Читать книгу Ashblane's Lady - Sophia James - Страница 9

Madeleine came to in a filthy cell littered with marsh reeds. Jemmie lay beside her, unconscious, the fastenings on her thin wrists mirroring her own; already the rats were grouping. The cote-hardie she had worn was gone and her kirtle had been overlaid with the Ullyot plaid, the squares of blue, red and black dull in this light and barely respectable given the linen on her shift was ripped in a number of places and the ties at her bodice cut. Shock made her tremble; even in the coldness of this day she was sweating. Why were they here? And where was here? Not Ashblane, she mused, for a banner draped across the wall showed the crest of the Armstrongs.

Her movement brought a face to the cell door. A gap-toothed man with long dirty hair peered in through the bars, though he covered his eyes with his hand as soon as he perceived her watching him.

‘She’s awake.’ The slippery vowels of Gaelic. She’d never learnt the language past the rudiments and could not catch the gist of the reply from further out.

The sackcloth surprised her as two men strode inside. As they wrapped it firmly around her head, she wondered why they should want to carry her this way and began fighting as soon as her wrists were released. She was rewarded with a harsh smack across her cheek and tears stung her eyes. These men would kill her. Fear throbbed deep as she listened to the passage they took. Up some stairs, she guessed, and into a room warmer than the others. The slight smell of charcoal assailed her nostrils, and also the more astringent aroma of sweat, as the men placed her on her feet.

‘Remove the covering.’ The voice was chilling and she straightened, her eyes blinking in the harsh and sudden lightness.

Laird Alexander Ullyot stood before her, flanked by two men almost as tall as he. He had not bathed since she had seen him last, though now he wore a coarse woollen over-jacket. The hard planes of his face in the glow of a banked fire were ominous, as were the leather bindings that anchored his left arm. She knew without being told that they hurt him, for he kept himself strangely still even as he held the attention of all those around him.

‘The Armstrong laird names you as Madeleine Randwick? Sister to Baron Noel Falstone of Heathwater? Is this the truth?’

Nodding, her glance fell to his heavy bladed falchion before regaining his face. The surprise she had noticed fleetingly a moment ago had escalated into anger as he strode forward, tipping her chin up and rubbing at the bruise on her cheekbone.

‘Who hit her?’

‘She struggled, Laird, and I had to—’

The man who had taken her from the cell got no further. A backhanded jab from Alexander Ullyot knocked him flat.

‘Replace him, Marcus.’

One of the men beside him nodded and Maddy felt heartened by the exchange, though Ullyot’s next words were not at all comforting.

‘You are a prisoner here, Lady Randwick. A hostage to make your brother see sense.’

‘He will not—’

‘Silence.’ The quiet order was more disconcerting than an outright shout. She noticed simultaneously the corded veins in his neck and the chips of dark silver in his eyes. She also saw the intricate crest that topped the gold ring on his little finger. The lion of Scotland! Danger spiralled into dizzying fear and she stumbled and would have fallen had he not come forward to steady her. His hand was cold and the hard shape of a dagger strapped in the fold of his sleeve unnerved her further. He felt the need to carry hidden weaponry even in the company of his own men and allies? What laws did he live by?

The answer came easily.

None.

Paling as the implications of her deduction hit her, she dug her nails into her arms to distract panic with pain, ceasing only when she caught him looking at the red crescents left on her skin.

Distaste crept into slate-cold eyes. ‘Why were ye there? In the dying fields?’

She blanched. Could he think her part of the battle? ‘I am a healer,’ she said, defiantly.

‘A healer, is it? Rumour says differently,’ Ullyot said with distaste. ‘Quinlan, take her back to the dungeon.’

‘No.’

‘No?’ A light of warmth had finally entered his eyes, though the effect in a face etched with none was unsettling. ‘You would question me?’ He stood so close now she could see the blond tips on his lashes. Long eyelashes and sooty at the base.

‘There are rats.’ The laughter of those around her made her jump and she fought to hide fear. The ill-tied plaid she was dressed in dropped below the line of the torn kirtle and she noticed keen eyes upon her breasts. Just another humiliation—she sighed and edged the warmer wool up with shaking arms.

‘Take her back.’

‘Please. If it’s money you are after I can pay you. Handsomely.’ Every man she had ever known had his price, although this one’s frown was not promising.

‘It’s flesh and blood I’m wanting from your brother, Lady Randwick. Gold canna’bring back those men that I have lost.’

‘So you mean to kill us?’

Before she could say more he placed one hand around the column of her throat and squeezed gently. ‘Unlike your brother, I do not kill women and children.’

She felt the breath leave her body in a sharp punch of relief, though a new worry threatened. She had seen what Noel did to the captives at Heathwater and rape could be as brutal as murder.

A living death.

And such harm could come from any number of these men present. Indeed, when she looked around the room she saw many eyes brush across her body as the Ullyot soldiers contemplated their share of the easy spoils of battle.

Summoning courage, she stood her ground as Alexander Ullyot’s eyes darkened, fathomless for ever, eyes drenched in the colder undertones of sorrow. Grief juxtaposed with fury. Grief for the man he had cradled and wept over. Madeleine was lost in what she saw.

‘I can help you.’ Her words came from nowhere and she felt him start as she laid her fingers across the heated skin of his hand. Grief was as much of an ailment as the ague or an aching stomach, and the healer in her sought a remedy.

‘I do not need your help.’ He snatched away his arm, angrier now than when she had first been brought into the room. ‘Take her away.’

The irritable bark of instruction was quickly obeyed as two men stepped forward, though as she looked back she saw that he still watched her. Framed against the light, the Ullyot laird looked like a man from legend: huge, ruthless and unyielding. But something else played in the very depths of his pale eyes. Something she had seen before many times on the faces of many men.

Interest. Lust. Desire.

She smiled as he was lost from sight and bent her thoughts to wondering as to how she could best use this to her own advantage.

‘What do ye think of her, Alex?’

Quinlan’s voice penetrated Alexander’s thoughts as he upended his glass. ‘Madeleine Randwick looks rather more like a dirty angel than the conniving heartless witch it is said that she is.’

‘She’s taller than I thought she would be.’

‘And a thousand times more beautiful, aye?’

Anger levelled him. ‘A pretty face can be as deceiving as a plain one, Quinlan.’

‘She was scared of the rats.’

‘Then get rid of them.’

‘The rats?’

‘Tomorrow we leave for Ashblane and we’ve not the time to waste transporting a sick woman. Put her in another room and post a guard at the door.’

He made himself stop. His left shoulder throbbed, the paste the physician had applied to the wound searing into the flesh. As he tried to lift his arm the breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding with the effort it had taken.

Ian. Dead.

Everything was changed. Diminished.

‘Damn Noel Falstone to hell,’ he whispered fiercely and walked to the window, trying to search out the dark shape of the Cheviots to the east and tensing as Adam Armstrong came to stand beside him.

‘I am sorry. I ken how close you and Ian were and—’

Alex held up his hand. Anger was far easier to deal with than sympathy and much more satisfying. ‘I should have ridden into Heathwater with the men I had left and flushed the bastard out. Ian would have done that for me were I to have been lying on the cold slab of your chapel with the salt upon my belly.’

‘And you’d have died doing it.’ Adam, as always, sought the calm logic of reason. ‘Nay, far better to wait and continue the fight on another day when the element of surprise is on your side and you are not so battle-wearied. Besides, you are wounded. At least let me see to your arm.’

‘No. Hale has already done so.’ Moving back, Alex brought his left arm into his body. He wanted no one close. No one to see what he could feel. The wound was not small and he was far from home. Tomorrow when they reached Ashblane there would be time enough. For the moment, here in the keep of the Armstrongs, he wanted control. Or at least the illusion of it, he amended, as a wave of dizziness sent him down to the chair beside the table.

‘Ian should’na have come with so few men.’

‘Why did he, then?’ Interest was plain in Adam’s voice and, pouring himself another draught of ale, Alex was pleased for the distraction. It gave him a moment to swallow and settle the nausea. When he felt steadier he began to speak, though the beat of his heart was constant in his ears, the normal tones of his speech masked by rushing blood.

‘Noel Falstone had burnt down cottages and taken womenfolk from a village west of Ashblane, and Ian left in fury before I had a chance to join him. If he had waited, we could have hit the bastard together.’

‘Waited?’

‘I have been away in Edinburgh with the King.’

‘And when the King knows of the Falstone treachery? Will he act?’

‘Our liege lord has lost heart after his long captivity under the English and prefers diplomacy these days to battle.’ Alex was careful with his words.

‘You may well be right; besides, David will’na slay a man as wily as the Baron Falstone no matter what the provocation. He is too useful to him with his lands on the border and the Marches completely in disarray.’

‘Which is exactly why I will have to do it myself.’ Alex pulled himself up. This time the room did not sway. ‘Falstone is a braggart and a risk taker. Bur he is also a man of habit. He spends each January in Egremont and travels by way of Carlisle with only a small guard of men. He thinks himself safe.’

‘You could not breach the sanctity of England so far south. Not like that.’

‘Could I not?’ His eyes hardened.

‘As it is now, you stand in favour with the King. Imperil the treaty and you will lose Ashblane under the banner of treason. No one could save you.’

‘No one will see me.’

‘You would not wear the plaid? Lord, let me warn you of the pitfalls in this pathway. David may be your kin, but he is first and foremost King and he allows you Ashblane as a royal fortress. Should there be any instability here, any hint of falseness…?’ He spread out his hands across the table in a quietly eloquent gesture. ‘I am your friend, Alex, and from my experience men with a single purpose often bury their logic to define what they were not sure of in the first place. Take your clan safe back to Ashblane where Falstone cannot harm you, neither in siege nor battle. And while you are at that, toss the Randwick woman back to her brother with a note of clemency. Falstone may even thank you for it and David certainly will with the ink on the parchment of the Berwick Treaty hardly dry.’

Anger exploded as Alexander drew himself up from the chair and threw the last dregs of his ale into the fire.

‘It is not thanks I am seeking,’ he growled and watched as the pure alcohol caught with alacrity and the flames licked upward. ‘Nay, Adam. Vengeance is what I want. I want Falstone’s sister, I want his land and I want his life.’

‘And the de Cargne sorcery? How will you still that in Madeleine Randwick when it is said she can make a man believe anything?’

This time Alex did laugh. ‘You’ve a strange way to interpret the Holy Scripture. Thou shall not worship false idols, and are not sorcery and witchery the falsest of them all? If it is the magic you fear, then do so no longer, for the Bible would’na countenance the existence of such inexplicable unreason.’

Adam Armstrong brought his hand down hard. ‘You have stayed in the world of warfare for too long, Alexander, and strayed from the gentler teachings of God, so do not lecture me on the interpretation of scripture. The border lore is full of the tales of the de Cargne women whether you deem to listen or not. Josephine Anthony. Eleanor de Cargne. And now Madeleine Randwick. She uses her beauty to tie men to promises they canna remember making when they wake in her bed come the dawn. Strong men. Brave men. Brought down by the wiles of a witch.’

Alex took a deep breath and groped for normality. One more day and he would be at Ashblane. Twenty-four hours and the malady of what burned in his bones could be healed. Aye, the wound was making him light-headed, for the image of Madeleine Randwick’s naked pale limbs entwined about his own kept surfacing. And resurfacing.

Angrily he slammed his clay goblet down. He remembered the living flame of her hair as she had been bustled from the room and the cool feel of her skin when she had touched his hand.

I can help you.

He shook his head in disquiet. She was a hostage, that was all. A valuable means of vengeance and retribution when expediency demanded he find a way to exact conditions from the rampant greed of her brother.

A convenient pawn. A woman whose very name was synonymous with treason and immorality.

The Black Widow of Heathwater.

With an angry swipe at the ale beside him he upended the bottle and felt the pain in his arm numb. She would be gone before the week’s end. He swore it. And Ashblane would stay safe.

She had hardly got back to her cell when the man named Quinlan came down the stairs.

‘Unshackle her,’ he called to the guard and waited as this was done.

Maddy tensed—she had seen the anger in the Laird of Ullyot’s eyes. Had he rethought his plan and sent his minion to kill her? Panic made her struggle and pull back.

‘Where are you taking me?’ Deciding indignation was the best way to push her advantage further, she stood.

‘To a room without rats.’ His reply was measured, and the humour in his words struck her as odd. She struggled to make sense of it all.

‘Why?’

‘Our Laird wants you fit to travel north in the morning.’

The significance of this reply hit her with a blinding euphoria. They were not to die tonight? Perhaps, after all, there was a chance.

‘Please. Could you free my page, Jemmie, too? He is only young and the cold is bitter here.’

A wary puzzlement filtered into the eyes of the soldier opposite as his glance skimmed the floor.

‘The offer is for you alone, Lady Randwick.’

‘Then I am sorry, but I cannot accept it.’ Already the faintness of blue marked the pale face of her sister as the chill crept in through granite flagstones. She held out her arms for the manacles and turned her head away. She felt the chains re-locked as tangibly as she felt the indecision of the man opposite, though she did not look at him as he left, the heavy iron door clanging shut with a dreadful finality.

Sitting down, she put her head between her legs and willed calm as the small fingers of panic wrenched aside composure. She was trapped in the dungeon of an Armstrong keep by a Laird known well for his lack of mercy, and, if that was not bad enough, Jemmie was in a disguise that would tip the balance further were she to be unmasked. Everything was worsened yet again by the fearful nature of the Laird of Ullyot himself.

She made herself stop.

Unlike your brother, I do not kill women and children. Were those not the exact words he had used?

The thought cooled panic and kindled hope. If the rumours about the Ullyot’s appearance had been so misleading, then perhaps his character was also unjustly slandered?

‘Please, God, let it be so,’ she prayed; as the tightness around her chest loosened, she crept across to Jemmie, frightened by her stillness. If her sister died, how could she keep living? A sob of terror escaped her before she could stop it, before she could again assemble the core of strength that she very seldom lost a hold of. She had been in worse predicaments before and had survived. With the grace of God and a little luck, perhaps they would both survive this one, too.

Quinlan returned to the Great Hall less than ten minutes after he had left it.

‘She says she will’na leave her young servant.’

‘She what?’ Alexander turned to his second-in-command, wincing as the movement tore into the wound on his shoulder.

‘She says she will’na go without the boy. Jemmie, she calls him. He has’na regained consciousness yet and she’s worrit by the cold.’

‘Then leave her there. Place a blanket across them both and leave them there.’ But Quinlan wasn’t quite yet finished.

‘She smells nice, Alex, and her manners are more than fine….’

Sharp laughter filled the room. ‘She’s Noel Falstone’s sister, Quin. She takes place in his raids.’

Quinlan shook his head. ‘And yet when the plaid fell from her shoulders in the cell I saw a scar on one breast fashioned into the sign of the cross. Remember Jock Ullyot’s words, Alex. He told us that the woman from Heathwater Castle who had helped him bore the sign of a cross. And her hair. He spoke of a fiery angel who healed people…’

‘He was dying. Delirious and dying. And if it be a fiery angel we are searching for, I doubt Madeleine Randwick would qualify.’

‘The rumours could be wrong—’

Alex cut him off. ‘They’re not. Leave it at that, aye?’

‘I would, save Geordie is on guard duty tonight.’

Swearing, Alexander reached for his dagger on the chair, tucking it into the belt at his waist with difficulty. ‘And his son is laid out on a slab in the chapel. Ye dinna think it wise to change the watch, then?’

Quinlan shrugged in resignation. ‘He’s as close to the edge as I’ve seen him. To insult him further…’

He didn’t finish as Alex Ullyot led the way out of the Great Hall, his shadow lying uneasily against stone as they made their passage to the dungeons below.

The cell was quiet save for the night-time wind that howled around the corners of the draughty passageways. Madeleine Randwick had hooked herself around the scrawny body of the boy she had been brought in with. An uncomfortable position, Alexander reflected, given the space between them. He noticed how her hands were taut white with the effort of stretching so far left.

‘Get up.’ He strode in as soon as the locks were freed and pulled her to her feet, ripping the plaid off her in one quick movement and turning her around to the light to find the scar of which Quinlan had spoken. A dainty cross of gold surprised him and he fingered it briefly before turning his mind back to the scar. ‘Who marked you so?’

Maddy was stiff with shock. ‘Liam Williamson, the Earl of Harrington.’

‘You are his?’

‘Yes.’ Her heart beat fast in her chest and her mouth was dry. She saw the knife in his hand before she felt it and looking down, saw that her breast ran with the blood of a shallow cut. The red of her blood stained his hands as he drew away.

‘Under the spoils of battle I relinquish his claim. Untie her, Quinlan, and bring her to the chamber off the solar.’

‘You mean to—?’

‘Now.’ He said the word through his teeth and the soldiers in the cell all hurried to obey him. She felt their rough hands take liberties and knew that the Laird had seen it, too. This time he offered no retribution.

A large bed dominated the room they repaired to and it was on this the soldiers placed her. She noticed them fan out across the room as if they meant to stay through the deed, though the one named Quinlan was clearly agitated.

‘She is a Lady, Alex.’

‘She is Harrington’s whore.’

‘No, I’m not—’ A hand clamped across her mouth.

‘Speak again and I will kill you.’ He released her only as she nodded. The blood at her breast made her faint, made her shake, made her sick to her stomach and she retched across the floor the contents of a frugal meal from the morning.

Now she would die. Looking up, she blotted the spittle with the borrowed arisaid and waited for retribution. Kill her or ravish her. It was all the same—if this Laird did not do the deed, then Liam Williamson surely would before too much time had passed.

She was sick of caring, sick of worrying, sick of the effort it took to live into another day and the absolute absence of any viable alternative. ‘End it here,’ she thought and stood, challenging him, before the rush of unbalance took her and she crumpled on to the floor of the raised dais.

Alex swore as the redness of her hair spilled across his boots, the white sheen of her body dappled now with blood and bruises. She was young and thin and strangely vulnerable, this Madeleine Randwick. Bending, he touched the fiery tumble of her silken curls. In unconsciousness her fear had been wiped away and moulded into something else entirely, the gentle line of her throat running up to a face that was unexpected.

He turned, his stomach no longer in this public ravishment. ‘Settle her into a bedchamber upstairs and bring the young page to her,’ he ordered, his eyes flicking to the wound he had inflicted on her breast. He suddenly wanted to cover it, but knew that to do so would invite comment. Stripping a flare from the wall, he made for the door, dismissing the sentries with a sharp order and glad that he could trust Quinlan’s honour to make certain that the Lady of Heathwater stayed safe.

Madeleine woke in a bed, the feather-tick covers pulled up over her, and Jemmie beside her in a makeshift cot on the floor. Reaching her hand across the space, she was relieved when the blankets stirred. Jemmie was alive and unhurt. That was all that mattered. Outside it was dark; she could see a quarter moon through the clouds between the ill-fitting shutters.

‘Are you hurt badly, Maddy?’

‘Only a little.’ Sitting up, she pulled at her plaid to reveal the cut Ullyot had marked her with. It still oozed slightly, though a skin had formed across the edges of the wound. Spitting into the palm of her hand, she rubbed the mark briskly and swallowed back tears.

‘It feels better already, and, if Ullyot has not killed us by now, I doubt that he means to.’

‘But the mark. He will take you—’

She cut off the worry. ‘He will take me as a mistress, mark or no mark, Jemmie. It’s the least of our problems.’ Rising from the bed, she went to the window, pulling back the shutter and opening it carefully. Three storeys from the ground and no foothole to allow leverage. The Laird was taking no chances. She knew the door would have a guard standing watch.

‘We have a knife and a gold crown.’ She pulled both objects from a hidden pocket sewn deep inside her petticoats, putting her herbal powders that were also hidden there aside. ‘It may be enough.’

‘To escape?’

‘Nay, to send a message.’

‘To whom?’

‘To Goult. If we could get away from here and ride west towards Annan—’

Jemmie interrupted her. ‘No, nothing is safe.’ As the words stopped, Madeleine noticed the thin band of sweat across her sister’s brow. Could she be sickening from the cold night on the floor already, or was this a sign of being as frightened by the Laird of Ullyot as she herself was?

Her heart raced in fear. The Laird of Ullyot was not at all as other men—she had seen the auras that surrounded him the moment he had turned towards her. Silver and black. Eleanor had always warned her of such a mix; years ago she had come across her mother in the stables with her gowns around her thighs and entwined in the arms of a stranger who had breathed silver.

Silver and black. And something else, too. Something unspoken and forbidden. Something primal and reckless.

Shaking her head, she pocketed the dagger and the coin and began to think how she could turn this adversity to her own advantage.

‘We will watch for our chance to escape; when it does come, we will make for France.’ Covering her hands with the folds of her skirt, she was glad Jemmie could not see the whitened knuckles of her clenched fist. Glad she could not know the other thoughts that rushed around inside her head and had her rigid with panic.

‘And we will be together, Maddy?’

The voice was shaky and years of her own fears allowed Madeleine to easily see fright in others.

‘We will always be together, Jemmie, I promise. But now you must sleep, for it will be a long march on the morrow.’

She watched as the blankets shifted and then stilled before turning her eyes to the light beneath the door and sitting up. If they came, she would be ready, and the knife in her hand was honed sharp.

The Laird of Ullyot came to her room just as the pinkness of dawn blushed the eastern sky, his surprise at finding her awake masked quickly.

‘I would speak with you, Lady Randwick, and without your page. My men will take him.’

Jemmie stood uncertainly, movements clumsy with sleep, and Maddy felt her stomach lurch in fright. ‘Where will you take him?’ She tried to temper her desperation.

‘To the room next door. We will return him to you later.’

Her eyes went to the two guards. How dependable did they look? She was thankful to notice one was an old man with kindness stamped in his eyes.

‘I will be safe, Jemmie. Go with the men.’

‘But I think—’

Maddy shook her head as Jemmie began to speak, but the gesture did not seem to sway any intent as a bony chin went up and thinly covered shoulders straightened. ‘Will you give me your word, Laird Ullyot, that you will not hurt her?’

A young, uncertain demand given without weapon or strength. Holding her breath, Madeleine waited for reaction.

‘Get out.’

Not a knife through the ribs then, or a fist against the thin bones of Jemmie’s face. Reciting a prayer of thankfulness in her mind, she watched as her sister was taken from the chamber. As the door shut behind the group, Ullyot began to speak.

‘You have one who would vouch for your character, it seems, Lady Randwick, though many would say you are a whore and a liar known throughout two kingdoms for your loose ways and dark magic.’

She made herself smile. ‘I have been incarcerated at Heathwater for the past ten years, my Lord.’

‘Hardly incarcerated, my Lady, for your exploits at the Castle are chronicled well by those who have enjoyed your favours.’

Unexpectedly, she felt herself blush bright red. Angry at doing so, she stood and walked to the window.

Why was he here? And alone?

‘How many retainers does your brother keep at Heathwater?’

Her relief was visible. He was here to find out about Noel’s fighting capabilities?

‘A thousand,’ she lied, knowing the number to be almost twice that.

‘A thousand without the retainers of Harrington?’

She knew the question was not lightly asked and looked away. ‘My brother has not the numbers your domain yields, sir, though there is a certain safety implicit in depending on others.’

‘How so?’ His eyes were instantly alert, the mark on his cheek below puckered badly in the harsh dawn light.

‘The Ashblane soldiers are weighty in number. Too weighty, I have heard it whispered. Royalty likes to have strong men on the edges of their land as a first defence against invasion, but, when they become too powerful, any king is apt to worry.’

He laughed, the sound threaded with such ill-hidden arrogance it could only denote a man truly at ease with his own capabilities. ‘If you want to help your brother, I would advise you not to lie.’

‘Because my betrayal would yield him a quick death as opposed to a slow one?’ She thought of Goult trapped in the middle of a battle, but he ignored her question and posed one of his own.

‘Your page, Jemmie. How important is he to you?’

For a second Madeleine thought she might faint. Indeed, she grasped at the sill beneath the window and closed her eyes, every single thing she had ever heard about the Laird of Ullyot suddenly true. He had neither soul nor heart nor honour. And he was clever. She could barely believe the turn this conversation had taken. Had he guessed?

Desperately she faced him. ‘If lives are to be traded, Laird Ullyot, I would prefer to barter my own.’

‘Would you indeed, Lady Randwick? And I wonder why that might be the case?’

She dared not speak again. What was it he wanted of her? Everybody wanted something.

‘Now, how many? What are the numbers?’

‘Three thousand.’ She did not look up as she recited the re-tainers and their strengths, careful not to leave out the Western allies. She was truthful with the demands of number. With her sister’s life at stake and a Laird renowned for his lack of leniency, Goult would just have to take his chances.

‘Thank you.’ The words were as bleak as his eyes as she watched him. Slate grey. The colour of a lake before rain. Pale. Unreadable. Distant. For a moment she felt disorientated and exposed.

‘The safety of my clan is paramount to me, Lady Randwick, and I will do anything to protect it. Anything. Remember that and ye may yet live to be reunited with your beloved Heathwater.’

She nodded because he expected it and watched him leave.

Heathwater…beloved?

If she could burn the castle down herself she would, and if Noel was caught in the flames with Liam Williamson then all the better for it. The ghosts of ten years of hatred floated dangerously near and she closed her eyes against the screams of her murdered husband as the tightness in her chest caught her. Groping for the chair, she sat down. Not here. Not now. Not again. First she must get Jemmie to safety. And after that…

She would pray that the black Baron of Ullyot would scourge Heathwater from the earth on which it stood, leaving nothing for her ever to remember it by. And no one.

Alexander strode to the chapel. The candles burning in the vestry lit his passage as he crossed to where Ian lay. Lifting the plaid blanket away, he ran a finger in the sign of the cross over a cold forehead and pinched the salt in a dish on Ian’s stomach to the four corners of the room. ‘A charaid. May the Devil be far from your soul and your journey into Heaven sweet.’ With care he rearranged the rondel dagger tucked into the sleeve of his dead friend’s jacket, pleased to see that someone had thought to clean the blade and sharpen it. ‘I swear ye will be avenged,’ he whispered into the dawn. ‘I swear it on the soul of the Virgin Mary and the blood of our Lord.’

Our Lord?

How long was it since he had prayed? Crécy? Alexandria? Cairo? He looked up at the vaulted ceilings and across to the portraits in gold of the Holy Family that hung against the far wall. Adam Armstrong was a devout man and his chapel reflected this. A small likeness of the Virgin Mary caught his fancy, for she had hair the same colour as Madeleine Randwick’s. Shaking his head, he cursed abducting her, cursed the porcelain sheen of her skin and her fire-red hair. He should leave her with Armstrong to send back to her brother. Hostages could only harm Ashblane and he was always careful as far as his castle was concerned. And yet he knew he would not do it.

‘Why can I not just leave her here?’ His whispered question seemed like a shout. Lord, to be even considering taking her? Protecting her?

‘I think she has cursed me, Ian. I think she has used her magic and cursed me.’ The blood in his arm beat loudly and he felt hot. Sick. Cursed.

Breathing out, he pulled up the sleeve of his jacket to get a better look at the wound at the elbow. Angry lines of dark red scoured the skin and tracked upwards, the pain surprising him. Even in Cairo, with his face slit open from cheekbone to temple, he had felt better.

He knelt and genuflected, holding his right arm against his side so that no movement jolted it. And when he had finished his prayers of deliverance he made his way out to the waiting soldiers, hoping like hell that his dizziness was a temporary condition and that he would not slide from his horse before he again saw the battlements of the Ashblane keep.