Chapter Five
Cain squatted at the open hole his men had dug for Alan MacRae, and lowered him down.
He hadn’t wanted one of his men sitting around in the dungeon waiting for an arrow to the guts while he laid in wait for the assailant. Since Alan already had an arrow in him…
Cain would bury him before the sun came up. It would give him time to think about what to do with Miss d’Argentan.
A lass. The Norman hero, d’Argentan’s sister, for hell’s sake. What was she doing running through trees, creeping through tunnels, stopping his breath with her courage and beauty?
He reached for the shovel and jammed it into the pile of soil prepared earlier. He tossed the dirt onto Alan’s body and cursed Aleysia d’Argentan to the farthest reaches of hell. She deserved to be tossed over to his men, yet he protected her locked away in a cell—and no one knew she was there. Again, thanks to Alan.
Cain shoveled more dirt down upon his soldier. Alan’s eight countrymen were buried nearby.
She had done it. He believed her. She was small and spry enough to leap through trees. But what convinced him was the hatred giving fire to her gloriously large, green eyes, the resolute dip of her mouth, her braw promise to kill him.
He’d never killed a woman. He did not want to do so now. What was he going to do with her in the morning?
He should give her to the men. He’d promised he would. But the thought of them touching her made him question his decisions.
She was protecting her home as he would have done. Alone.
The memory of her long raven locks tangled around his fingers sent a warm thread down his back. Her body, soft and unyielding beneath him, had tempted him to keep her there longer.
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 and 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.