Elaine gripped the ship’s railing as they glided the last hundred yards to the docks along the River Tay. At last, they would put their feet on Scottish soil once more.

Time seemed to stretch cruelly as she watched the men slowly ratchet down the anchor and lower the crates of valuable cloth into the waiting dinghies by rope.

But when Jerome’s warm arm looped around her waist, holding her close, she felt herself relax a hair’s breadth.

“Remember yer words to me, lass—all will be well.”

His touch was like a balm to her ragged nerves. Her mind flooded with memories of the night before—Jerome’s kiss, his touch, their joining so fierce and passionate, yet so filled with love at the same time.

They’d woken early in each other’s arms and made love again that morn, slow and tender. By the time they’d emerged from their cabin, Scotland had already been sighted, her green shores cloaked in mist.

But without any way to speed their progress, the morning had dragged with naught to do but wait and worry about what lay ahead.

Even once they disembarked, they would still be an hour’s ride from Scone Abbey and the Bruce’s court. And the uncertainty of what they would find there left Elaine pulled taut with fear.

At last, the cargo had been unloaded and the captain motioned for them to climb down the ladder to the waiting dinghy. They sat in silence while one of the crewmen rowed them the short distance to the wooden docks along the riverbank, which bustled with trade and activity.

Despite the milling seamen, the smells of fish and unwashed bodies, and the commotion from the other anchored ships, when they stepped on solid Scottish ground once more, Elaine let out a breath of relief.

“The town of Errol is nearby,” she said as she and Jerome began to trudge away from the noisy docks. She flashed him a smile. “It’s where Captain MacDougal took my horse to be traded for coin—which is how I gained passage to France for myself. I imagine we can secure mounts there.”

Jerome gave her a warm look. “Ever resourceful, arenae ye, lass?”

She slid her hand in his as they began climbing a low, grassy rise on the north bank of the river. She wasn’t sure exactly how far Errol lay, but there was no other option than to walk, as they had no coin and didn’t wish to draw attention to themselves or why they were there, even this far from Scone. They’d have to come up with some way to procure horses—steal them, if necessary—and trust that once they reached the Bruce, all would be forgiven.

Just as they entered a dense forest, a cool spring rain began to fall, pattering softly on the leaves overhead.

If it hadn’t been for the murmur of the drizzle in the trees, Elaine might have heard it sooner.

Footsteps closing in on them. Jerome dropped her hand and spun, reaching for the sword on his belt, but it was already too late. Two men tackled him to the ground while a third raised the hilt of his sword toward his head.

Elaine screamed, but a hand closed over her mouth, muffling the sound. She watched in horror as the man looming over Jerome brought his hilt down with a sickening thud against Jerome’s skull. Jerome’s eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp even as dark red blood began to ooze from his scalp.

Elaine screamed again, uncaring that no one would hear her. She fought wildly against the man holding her from behind, kicking and thrashing. But the brigand who’d struck Jerome rose up and slowly approached, his weapon raised to deliver a similar blow.

“Gentler this time, Orrin,” the man holding her said.

Through the shroud of panic and fear enveloping her mind, cold clarity hit Elaine like a splash of ice water.

She knew that Lowland-intoned voice.

“We need them both alive, remember?” the man continued.

Orrin closed in and lifted the hilt above her head. One thought rang through her before all fell to blackness.

David de Brechin was alive—and now they were his captives.

 

*    *    *    *

 

Jerome clawed against the pull of unconsciousness, but the darkness kept hauling him down. It wasn’t until he smelled smoke and felt cold, hard stone beneath him that he managed to drag his eyelids open.

His head ached, a dull, sickening pulse everywhere and a sharp, hot pain where he’d been struck. He squinted against the light of a fire and winced at the sound of steady dripping somewhere in the distance.

Slowly, he realized he was in a cave of some sort, for the firelight flickered off damp stone all around. He rolled his head slowly, trying to see more.

When his gaze landed on Elaine, he fought against the rope binding his hands and feet behind his back and tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea kept him on his side.

She was unconscious, propped up against one of the cave walls with her hands bound behind her as well.

“Elaine,” he hissed, his voice echoing painfully loud. “Elaine, wake up.”

She stirred, her head lolling to one side and a groan slipping past her lips, but before Jerome could do aught else, a pair of boots filled his vision as a man stepped between them.

“Ah, ye’re awake. Good.”

Jerome looked up to find David de Brechin standing over him, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes quirking his lips.

“Jerome?” Elaine’s pained, thin voice drifted from behind de Brechin.

“Both of ye,” de Brechin commented, glancing back at Elaine. “Even better.”

“Let her go, de Brechin, and I might consider giving ye a swift death rather than the slow and painful one ye deserve,” Jerome snarled.

De Brechin chuckled, cocking his sandy blond head at Jerome. “Blockheaded Highland brute. Arenae ye the one bound and bloody on the floor and I the one in control?”

Jerome bit back a curse and instead focused on catching Elaine’s eye around de Brechin’s boots. “Are ye all right, lass?”

Before Elaine could answer, de Brechin interjected. “She’ll be fine—if ye cooperate, Munro.”

“Cooperate with ye? A traitor?” Jerome replied, then spat on de Brechin’s boots.

It earned him a swift kick to the ribs. He grunted in pain, but he refused to back down. “We ken all about ye and de Soules’s little plot with Balliol.”

“I ken that,” de Brechin said testily. “Otherwise I wouldnae have taken ye.”

“How?” Elaine asked. “How could you possibly—”

De Brechin cut her off with a wave. He strode around the fire and held his hands out to it.

“Finn Sutherland.”

Elaine gasped. “What did you do to Finn?”

“Oh, he gave me a merry chase, I assure ye,” de Brechin replied, his voice filled with venomous mirth. “He hunted me nearly to the Borderlands before I managed to assemble enough men to take him down.”

“Nay!” Elaine cried.

Jerome’s heart broke for her, but there was no time to mourn the great warrior now.

For the first time, Jerome noticed that de Brechin looked haggard. Unlike the last time he’d seen the man, when he’d been all fine silks and courtly manners, de Brechin’s blond hair was disheveled and his clothes torn and dirty.

His appearance spoke of desperation. At least Finn had given the man a hell of a chase and put the fear of God in him.

“And after ye set yer men on Finn, ye made yer way back to Scone,” Jerome surmised. His head still throbbed, but he willed himself to concentrate. If he could wheedle enough information out of de Brechin, who’d always seemed a man with too loose a tongue, mayhap there would be an opening to save Elaine.

“I’ve been waiting at the docks for nigh on three days for word from de Soules,” de Brechin commented. “But even before then, I kenned something was amiss the moment I realized Sutherland was after me. When the missive of confirmation never arrived from de Soules, I thought all was lost, but then I spotted the two of ye disembarking.”

De Brechin strolled back around the fire and crouched between Jerome and Elaine.

“With the lass’s connection to Sutherland and ye supposedly in France, Munro, I guessed that ye had some part in all of this. And now ye’ve just confirmed it. I dinnae ken how ye came to learn of our plan, but now that ye have, ye’ll play yer part—or yer bonny English whore will suffer.”

Jerome’s blood ran cold as de Brechin cast a glare at Elaine. “What do ye mean, play my part?”

“I cannae get close to the Bruce’s court—thanks to whoever found me out and sent Sutherland on my heels,” de Brechin replied testily. “But ye can.”

“And why would I?” Jerome demanded.

“Because tonight is the night.” De Brechin’s thin lips curled in a smile. “The Bruce is throwing another feast to honor more of his nobles. It will be the perfect opportunity to strike him down.”

Through the pain and worry clouding his brain, realization struck. “And ye want me to be the one to do it.”

“Who better than ye, Munro? Ye’re the son of a traitor, the perfect symbol of our revolution. They tried to crush us, to eradicate us from Scotland. They killed good men like yer father, men who understood that the Bruce never should have gained the throne, yet we will rise again.”

“My father was a coward and deserved his death,” Jerome spat. “I’ll never follow him—or ye. Ye’re mad, de Brechin. Balliol willnae save ye. He’s a greater fool than ye.”

De Brechin snorted. “I never said Balliol was a great man. But he’ll play his part too, just as his father tried to before the whole country went mad and cast him aside.”

“Ye mean before we realized that freedom was worth more than the supposed protection of an English King who would’ve rather wiped every last Scot from our own lands than leave us be?”

“Enough!” de Brechin shouted, slamming his hand against the cave floor. He took a breath, smoothing his hair back. “I dinnae need to debate politics with ye when ye are completely at my mercy. Aye, ye’ll play yer part. Ye’ll be the one to take the Bruce down, for he trusts ye. He’ll let ye close enough, never suspecting that ye will betray him.”

Jerome ground his teeth until the throbbing in his skull forced him to stop. “Never.”

“Nay,” de Brechin replied. “Tonight. For if ye dinnae, she’ll bear the cost.”

De Brechin rose and strode slowly to Elaine. He casually pulled a dagger from his boot and inspected it. Then without warning, he plunged it into her upper arm.

Her scream of pain clashed with Jerome’s rage-filled roar. God, nay! He thrashed against his bonds, but the rope held his wrists and ankles fast. When de Brechin turned back to him, holding up the bloodied dagger, Jerome growled like a feral animal.

“It’s simple,” de Brechin said. “Her life or the Bruce’s. Choose, Munro.”

Jerome lay panting on the floor, his gaze locking with Elaine’s. His heart rent in two when he saw the fear in her eyes. She shook her head ever so slightly, then mouthed I love you.

Damn it all, this was not how it would end! He could not let de Brechin hurt her. But nor could he kill his King.

“Ye’re taking too long, Munro,” de Brechin said. In a flash of movement, he was before Elaine once more. He drove the dagger into her other arm in a swift, cruel stroke.

“Nay!” Jerome bellowed, his gaze riveted on the twin spots of blood darkening the sleeves of her dress. His beloved Elaine’s blood. There had to be a way to save her and protect the Bruce. But he couldn’t think straight, not while staring at her tear-streaked, pain-drawn features.

He needed more time. More time, and he might be able to come up with a way… But he was out of time, for de Brechin was raising the dagger again, pointing its dull, blood-stained tip at Elaine’s beautiful face.

“Stop!” Jerome cried.

“Jerome, nay!” Elaine moaned on a sob.

“I’ll do it,” he shouted, ignoring Elaine’s plea. “I’ll do it, damn ye. Just dinnae hurt her.”

A slow smile broke across de Brechin’s face.

“Excellent.”