Chapter Four
Aleysia crawled on her hands and knees through the narrow tunnel, praying as she went that her dear Richard was still alive. If he wasn’t, she would find a way to kill them all.
She’d been too far away earlier to shoot her arrow at the bastard commander while he dragged Sir Richard around the battlement wall. He’d wanted her to see, perhaps draw her out into the open.
But she went underground.
The tunnel wasn’t overly long, about thirty feet, beginning behind the castle at the edge of the forest and leading to the dungeon. She’d had it built in case all else failed and she was thrown into the small iron prison. This was her escape route.
The entire length of the tunnel was reinforced with wood planks around the sides and overhead to help prevent collapse. There was no light, for it was nearly impossible to crawl on one hand while holding a torch in the other. Equally difficult was a cloak, no matter how short, so she’d left hers behind.
She didn’t mind the pitch black or the cramped space. She’d made herself get accustomed to it by entering it every day the moment it was finished.
She wasn’t afraid. She’d stopped being afraid a few months after she learned about her brother and the terror of the wild Scots coming for Lismoor and killing everyone had settled over her. And then she had done something about it.
The last four years changed who she was. She’d come to Lismoor as a lady. Now she was a warrior.
When she came to her destination, she pressed her ear to the thin, wooden door painted to look like the stone wall of the dungeon.
Silence returned.
Was Richard inside? She couldn’t wait a moment longer and pushed on the door.
Cautiously, she entered the dungeon, looking for a guard on duty as she moved. She found one beneath the only source of light, in a chair by the doorway. He looked to be in a deep sleep, which didn’t surprise her. It was long after midnight. She glanced quickly at the cell but could not see inside. Her knight had to be there or a guard would not have been posted.
The enormity of what she had to do hit her and though her breath turned to mist in the cool air, she broke out in a sweat. Could she kill a man while he slept? Shove her dagger into his throat? Dear God…she couldn’t hesitate now. She had to save Richard.
She licked her dry lips and lifted her dagger. Something near the guard’s belly caught her eye as she moved forward—the torchlight flashing against metal. An arrow tip. The rest of the shaft was inside him.
What? This was one of the men she’d shot with her arrows. He…he was already dead! Her heart drummed so hard she feared she might die right here with him. She took a step back and hit a wall. Of hard muscle. She spun around but before she completed the turn, strong fingers closed around hers and squeezed her dagger free.
Once he’d eliminated the threat of her weapon, he spun her around the rest of the way to face him and yanked her arms behind her back. He held both her wrists in one of his large hands and pressed her against him.
“A lass.”
His voice was like ancient thunder reverberating through her blood. His breath, caught slightly on a thread of hesitation and urgency, was warm along her cheek.
She made the mistake of looking up. Torchlight flickered across the cool, sapphire surface of his eyes as they roved over her features. His hair was dark and long, worn pulled back at the temples in the style of the savages she’d heard about. Despite the rugged beauty of his visage bathed in the golden light, he was a Scot—bold, arrogant, and untamed.
“Your keen perception is startling,” she bit out, fighting to keep her teeth from chattering. It was one thing to practice. Nothing had truly prepared her for being captured by her enemy, for finding terror and warmth in the circle of his indomitable embrace.
She had to think! Remember what she’d been taught. She looked away from him, as if that would somehow make him less real, and pulled back her knee.
She caught him in the groin. He went down on one knee, pulling her with him. She’d hoped he’d let her go but the beast was determined to hold on.
She drew back her knee again and, this time, caught him in the jaw. He reeled backward, finally letting her go. She didn’t waste a moment to escape, save to run to the cell. It was empty. Richard wasn’t there.
She had no choice but to leave without him. For now.
Without looking back, she ran and leaped for the doorway to the tunnel.
She looked into the darkness with a hopeful heart. Could she truly make it out? She should have killed the man while he was down. But this was a trap. He’d used Richard to draw her out of hiding. If she killed him, his men would kill Richard—if her friend wasn’t dead already—and then come after her.
She plunged into the darkness but the Scot caught her by the legs and heaved her back. She clung frantically to the wood planks, almost pulling one free in an effort to escape him. She kicked as his hands rode up her thighs to her waist, until he finally pulled her free and latched on to her wrists.
He flung her over on her back and climbed atop her. She closed her eyes, though she couldn’t see him in the dim light. Would he rape her before he killed her?
“What do ye know aboot the traps in the trees?”
She expected a knife in her neck, not a question. She opened her eyes and swallowed what felt like her heart.
“They were built to kill the Scots,” she told him the truth without regret.
“Who built them?” he demanded in a guttural whisper.
What had Richard already told him?
“Where is he?” She tried to fight his weight on her, but it was no use. He didn’t budge. Was that armor beneath his léine or solid muscle? “What have you done with Sir Richard?”
“Sir Richard?”
Before she had another moment to think, he yanked her up by her arm and pulled her toward the cell. “I will have the truth.”
“Oh, will you?” she challenged and with her free hand, pulled a small dagger from her bosom. She swiped at his face but he bent backward as if he could see in the dark. Bastard.
He snatched her wrist and bent it backward until she dropped her dagger and cursed him.
“I’m going to kill you,” she vowed tightly.
“Doubtful.”
He pulled open the unlocked door to the cell and tossed her inside, and then slammed the grate shut and locked it.
“Where is Sir Richard?” she demanded, clinging to the metal bars.
“If ye want to see him again,” the bastard commander snarled, returning to the torch and the dead soldier beneath it, “ye’ll tell me who is the one responsible fer killin’ my men today.”
“I am,” she said boldly. She didn’t care if it was foolish. It felt satisfying telling him.
His jaw tightened, drawing her eyes to its strong, square cut and shadowy contours.
“And who are ye?”
Both Aleysia and her captor turned at the sound of another male voice. The priest. Aleysia scowled as he stepped into the light.
She sized them both up. She had to. She would most likely have to kill them at close proximity. It was best to know exactly what she’d be up against.
Of course, she didn’t want to kill a priest. If he even was a priest. How could he pray to God and be on the side of savage Scots? If she had to kill him, she would.
He was thin in his dark robes, and short in stature, barely reaching the bastard commander’s shoulders. He looked to be about twenty or so years younger than Richard. If it came down to her or Richard’s life, taking the priest wouldn’t be too physically difficult.
She made the sign of the cross and mouthed a quick, silent prayer. When she opened her eyes, the priest was coming toward her with another fiery torch. Had he been holding it when he entered the dungeon?
He handed it to her through the bars and waited while she lit her cell.
“Ye were sayin’?” the priest went on. “Ye are…? And by the way, Commander MacPherson, ye will make certain Alan is buried tonight.” He looked at the dead man in the chair and shook his head. The commander didn’t reply or even acknowledge the order.
Prideful, she thought sourly and squared her shoulders. “I am Lady Aleysia d’Argentan, servant of King Edward, sister of Sir Giles d’Argentan.”
They were silent for a moment. They shared a brief, unreadable glance before looking at her again.
Torchlight bounced off the top of the priest’s bald head when he returned to his friend. “Ye will fergive us fer not believin’ that ’twas ye in the trees this morn. We know ’twas Lord de Bar.”
“Who?” Aleysia asked.
“I believe her,” her captor said, his features chilled with ruthlessness and an utter lack of mercy.
Aleysia met his frosty gaze head-on, ignoring his powerful stature, his chilling beauty…and the arrogant tilt of his dark brow. She, too, could be ruthless and merciless. Why she—
One corner of his mouth tilted up just a bit and sent a fissure of alarm down her back. She looked away from him for a moment to clear her thoughts. He frightened her but she would not cower. Not now. Not ever.
What about this did he find humorous? Was he mocking her confidence? He claimed to believe she was responsible for the traps and for the deaths of his men. Why would he smirk at her challenging stare?
“You do not believe I can kill you, as well,” she said, doing her best to sound as confident as he.
“From a tree, mayhap. Not if I stepped into that cell.”
Would he?
He was long and muscular, but not overly so. Authority and danger oozed from every part of him. He was going to be harder to kill—though she’d had the chance twice now and let it slip through her fingers. She was awaiting the best moment.
“Ye canna tell the men,” the priest said, jarring her from her thoughts.
“They deserve to know. ’Twas their comrades who fell by her hand.”
“First of all, Cainnech,” the priest said with more command than she expected to hear in his hushed voice, “she is a lady. Ye canna give her over to the men.” They both looked at her and she swallowed, knowing what the men would do to her. “Second, her brother was held in high esteem by the English king. She must be offered to him before she can be dealt with by ye.”
“Why?” the commander muttered. “Since when do we give a damn aboot what the English king thinks?”
“Since Robert does not want these wars to go on much longer. And third, we dinna kill ladies.”
“Who says?” The commander set his flinty gaze on her.
She smiled. Let him try. Hopefully, he and his men would be dead by morning if they found and drank the wine. She didn’t let herself hope that one of them cooked with the grain.
“I’ve told you what you want,” she reminded him. “Now tell me, where is Sir Richard? Does he live?”
“Fer now,” the commander said blithely and bent to haul the dead soldier over his shoulder.
“I will have my home back,” she promised, tilting her chin.
When he straightened, he openly mocked her with a smile that was anything but merciful or humorous. “I will decide what to do with ye both in the morn.”
He said nothing else to her, mumbled something to the priest and left the dungeon.
Fool.
She set her gaze on the priest. The commander might be finished, but she wasn’t. “How do you serve God and Robert the Bruce?”
He came closer to the cell. When he spoke, his voice was soft and soothing. “The Lord is no respecter of persons. Besides, is it wrong to want to be free?”
Of course not! She thought. It was what she was fighting for! Her freedom from being sent to Normandy or to King Edward and given in marriage to a man she did not love, to live under his rule. She would rather die.
“Your cause has little to do with freedom and more to do with killing everyone in your wake. To pillage and rape and to kill innocent people. The Scots are savages.”
“Cainnech hasna killed innocent people, nor has he raped anyone,” the priest defended. “He is lost, but he is a good man.”
Lost in what way? Did he not mean to come to Rothbury? Why was he telling her what kind of man the commander was? What did she care?
“I am Father Timothy, by the way.” He smiled, showing off a full set of teeth.
“Well, Father Timothy, I am going to kill your Commander Cainnech MacPherson. First chance I get.”