Elaine saw the exact moment when Jerome made up his mind. His strong features twisted with pain even as something inside the depths of his dark eyes went dead.

She screamed at him, but then he was saying the words that would seal his fate.

He would kill Robert the Bruce.

Elaine struggled against her bonds, but her arms were numb with pain and the rope bit into her wrists.

Jerome stared at her, his eyes, once so full of love, now desolate and empty.

De Brechin crossed to the mouth of the cave and called to his henchmen. While he was out of earshot, Jerome spoke softly.

“Forgive me, Elaine.”

“Jerome, nay, you cannot—”

“I’ll do everything in my power to find another way,” he cut in, his voice flat. “I still need to be taken to Scone and get close to the Bruce. I might be able to…” He shook his head, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment. “But if I cannae…”

“My life isn’t worth his,” she sobbed. God, she didn’t want to die. But she couldn’t let Jerome kill the Bruce, for it would not only rip all of Scotland apart, but it would certainly mean his own life as well.

“I love ye,” he said simply.

She opened her mouth, but there was no time to say more, for de Brechin strode back inside with Orrin and the two others who’d tackled Jerome.

“Be careful with this one. Keep him bound until ye reach the abbey,” de Brechin said, waving at Jerome’s prone form. “And train yer weapons on him when ye free his hands and give him the dagger. He may be weakened, but he’s still a trained warrior.”

De Brechin removed a jewel-encrusted dagger from his belt and handed it carefully to Orrin. Elaine caught a glimpse of a lion’s head inlaid in sparkling gemstones into the hilt. The flickering light of the fire made the lion’s ruby eyes seem to dance.

“Ye,” he said, looking down on Jerome. “Dinnae try aught. My men will be watching yer every move until ye reach the abbey, and once ye’re inside, my allies will ken if ye dinnae play yer part. I have eyes and ears everywhere, Munro, and if word reaches me that ye faltered in any way, yer bonny whore will pay for it in flesh.”

Abruptly, de Brechin drove his foot into Jerome’s stomach, making him sputter in pain.

“Understand?”

“Aye,” Jerome croaked.

The two outlaws lifted Jerome under the arms and dragged him to the mouth of the cave.

This was it. The last time Elaine might ever see him. She screamed and tried to stagger to her feet, but de Brechin stepped in front of her and shoved her to the ground. She landed on her backside, breaking the fall somewhat with her bound hands, but a sharp rock jabbed into her palm, making her cry out again.

Orrin hesitated at the mouth of the cave. “Are ye sure we should leave ye alone with her, milord? One of the men could stay back if—”

De Brechin snorted. “Are ye jesting? Look at her.” He flung his hand toward her. “She’s just a foolish wee lass.”

Something stilled inside Elaine then. Her mind went very quiet as clarity swept over her.

De Brechin was wrong.

She was not a mere weak and silly girl—she’d proven that to herself. Yet he’d underestimated her, sending all of his men with Jerome and leaving himself vulnerable without even realizing it.

What was more, Jerome still lived, which meant she wasn’t through fighting for him—or herself—just yet. All was not lost. He would do all he could to find another way to free them from this bind, but she had to do her part as well.

Behind her, she groped for the sharp rock that had pierced her palm a moment before. When she felt its jagged edge, she curled it into her grasp and began working it against the ropes on her wrists.

With a curt dismissal, de Brechin sent Orrin after the others and Jerome. He rounded on Elaine and she froze, but there was no way he could see the rock in her hand.

“And now, my sweet Elaine, we wait,” he said, prowling around the fire.

Cautiously, she dragged the shard of rock against the rope. The motion made no noise and de Brechin didn’t seem to notice the ever so slight movement of her arms. So she kept working the jagged shard against the rope, feeling the first of its threads pop.

“What a shame it’s come to this,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back and watching her through the flickering flames. “Ye should never have gotten involved with a man like Munro, Elaine.”

She glared at him. “And I should have chosen you instead? A traitor and a coward?”

He smiled, but it was more a cruel twist of his lips than a true show of mirth. “Watch yer tongue, or I’ll cut it out.”

Another thread snapped, but the rope didn’t loosen. She was still a long way from freeing her hands, and even once she did, she’d have to somehow overpower de Brechin. That was, assuming he didn’t lose his temper and simply kill her first.

She walked a knife’s edge between needing to buy more time to cut the rope and avoiding de Brechin’s wrath. She would have to keep him talking—but carefully.

“Ye should have been mine,” he continued, stalking around the fire toward her. “But ye let that bastard Munro touch ye instead. Aye, I saw ye holding hands as ye left the docks. I should have never let him come between us that first night in Scone.”

His blue eyes gleamed with vicious intent as he approached. Foreboding lanced her. She pushed herself backward until she bumped into the damp cave wall, her hands pinned against the stone. She wriggled to create enough space to continue her work on her bindings, but still de Brechin drew closer.

“But I neednae be constrained by courtly etiquette now. Ye see, that is the beauty of this revolution,” he continued, crouching before her. “All these years, de Soules and I—and countless others—have been hanging on the Bruce’s hem, begging for scraps, when we should have been doing what he did from the beginning. He took what he wanted, stole the Scottish crown without asking permission. And once we are rid of him and have our chosen King in place, we will do the same.”

He drew the dull dagger he’d used on her arms from his boot once more. It still bore her blood on its edge. Sickening terror rose in her throat as he slowly waved it before her face.

“That is what this coup is truly about,” he murmured, smiling faintly. “Taking.”

“Y-you promised not to hurt me if Jerome did as you bid,” she breathed, her eyes fixed on the dagger.

“It will only hurt if ye struggle.”

He notched the dagger’s point against her throat, then slowly moved in. When his lips crushed hers, she forced herself to remain perfectly still—except for the hand behind her back that sawed the rope.

She felt another thread pop, and her hands separated a fraction of an inch. Her arms screamed in protest where he’d stabbed her, but she kept the shard moving, each impossibly small scrape bringing her closer to freedom.

De Brechin drew back with a satisfied grin at her passivity. “There’s a good girl,” he said, lowering the dagger from her throat. He slid it back into his boot, then reached for her.

She nearly howled in outrage and disgust when his hands closed on her breasts, but instead she squeezed her eyes shut. A few more seconds. She could do this. She had to be strong for Jerome. For herself.

His mouth covered hers once more, his tongue probing forcefully. Suddenly the rope snapped and her hands sprang free. There was no time to think—only to act.

She tightened her grip on the jagged rock in her palm even as she jerked her arms free. With all her strength, she drove the shard into the side of de Brechin’s neck.

He jerked, his mouth and hands coming away from her. His eyes widened in shock and he coughed wetly.

“Ye bitch!” he hissed, tumbling onto his backside. But instead of going limp, he reached for the piece of rock protruding from his neck.

Without thinking, Elaine dove forward and yanked the dagger from his boot. He kicked her viciously, but she managed to hold onto the hilt even as she went careening across the cave’s floor.

“Ye’ll pay for that!” he howled, but when he tried to pull the rock shard free, his fingers slipped in his own blood.

Elaine scrambled to her feet, brandishing the dagger before her. De Brechin staggered up, too, lurching toward her. Yet his movements were clumsy and she knew he was already weakening.

She darted out of his path and around the fire. To her horror, instead of chasing her from one side, he simply leapt over the flames. He plowed into her, driving them both to the ground. His bloody hands closed around her neck, his eyes wild. But so focused was he on squeezing the life from her, he left her hands free.

She drove the dagger up, feeling it sink into his flesh. He shrieked in rage, gripping her throat tighter, but she stabbed again and again until at last his hands loosened.

He coughed, this time splattering blood on his lips. He suddenly sagged on top of her, his weight pinning her to the ground. With a cry, she shoved him away and scrambled out from under him.

He flopped on his back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. His breath came short and shallow for three terrible, long heartbeats, until at last his chest stilled and his eyes clouded with death.

A high, shaking sob echoed through the cave. It took Elaine a moment to realize the noise had come from her. De Brechin’s dagger slid from her trembling, bloodied hands and clattered to the ground. Her vision spun and her stomach lurched. Abruptly, she turned her back on his body.

There would be a time to cry, to shake, to curl into a ball and try to understand what it meant to take a life, even in self-defense, but now was not that time.

Jerome was still alive—she prayed—and he needed her.

She stumbled from the cave to find an unfamiliar, night-dark forest surrounding her. A solitary horse stood tied to a nearby tree. It must have been de Brechin’s.

Elaine hastily gathered the animal’s reins and dragged herself into the saddle. She guided the horse toward the wooded rise off to the left. At the top of the rise, she studied the sky. Though darkness had fallen, a band of pale blue still clung to one horizon—west. In the distance to the south, she saw the glimmer of faint moonlight on water. The river.

Her gaze traveled east until far off she made out several pinpricks of orange light. They must have been the torches at the docks. Which meant she was closer to Scone that she could have hoped. She pointed the horse southwest, knowing that once she ran into the river, she could follow it westward all the way to Scone.

Digging her heels into the animal’s flanks, she prayed she would get there in time.