Excerpt from
Legacy of the Blade Series
Wren placed her owl on her shoulder, and made her way to the door. As it squeaked open, it once again revealed sunlight and freedom, before closing and leaving Storm in darkness and despair.
Hurriedly, he worked on his escape hoping to be out of the shackles before she returned. He had been in many threatening situations before, but always managed to escape. In fact, he prided himself on being the best escape artist in all of Scotland, mayhap England as well.
Stretching, his fingers managed to reach and untie the leather laces that bound his boots around his legs. Squirming his feet around inside his boots, he quickly managed to slide one foot upward and then the other, until his bare feet were free and rested upon the pine needles. He chuckled as he eyed his limp boots which were still shackled together.
“Willna Morganna be surprised to see this?” he spoke to himself as he twisted around in the chair, bringing his toes up to help loosen the ropes that bound his body. With a few more tricky twists, and with the help of his shackled hands and strong teeth, he managed to free himself. The ropes dropped to the ground and he breathed a sigh of relief. Quickly, he rose to try to get the feeling back in his legs before attempting to walk or free himself of the shackles still encircling his wrists.
The light of day caught his attention once more, as Wren pushed open the door and entered the room. Storm hurriedly sat back down pretending he was still tied up, trying to decide what to do next.
“I brought you a candle,” Wren said as she placed it on the table in the center of the room, and placed her owl on a wooden perch nearby that Storm hadn’t even noticed. She still hadn’t looked directly at him, but he knew if she did, she would now see his escapades, as the flickering candlelight lit the underground room.
She pulled a pouch from under her arm, and poured what smelled like whisky into a wooden goblet she retrieved off the shelf.
She turned abruptly toward Storm and marched directly for him. Holding out the goblet, she offered him the drink.
He sat motionless for a minute, not sure why she hadn’t even acknowledged the fact he was sitting on the chair untied, barefoot, and working on removing his shackles.
“Me many thanks,” he carefully chose his words, letting both his hands grab the goblet while he surveyed her face. There was something strange about the whole situation. She never really looked straight at him, and hardly ever blinked. Of course, it was still a bit dark in there, and he could be mistaken, but only a blind person could not notice what he had done.
“You asked for it, now drink it,” she commanded. Without waiting, she quickly turned away and walked over to pet the owl that had fluttered silently to the table and was now eyeing him suspiciously.
“Ye dinna haveta tell a Scotsman to drink.” He held the goblet to his lips and gulped it down greedily.
Wren half-turned her head waiting for a cough or a gag from the potent hell-fire she had just served her prisoner. She had used this trick many times on guards before she attacked the English camps. The potency of the liquor alone had made many a drinking man fall into an unconscious state for several days at a time.
“Blazin’ fires o’ hell!” cried Storm through a raspy voice.
Wren smiled knowingly, expecting to hear at any moment the goblet falling to the ground as he passed out.
“I havena tasted whisky like that in a long time.”
Wren’s eyebrows dipped as she turned away from the owl and curiously headed in Storm’s direction.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Losh me! What a grand uisque baugh. Aye, this whisky is truly the water of life.”
“Have another sip,” Wren coaxed, guessing he hadn’t yet had enough to affect him.
“I canna.”
“Why?”
“Because me cup is empty.”
“Empty?” gasped Wren. “And you’re still conscious?”
“Me granda used to make a mountain magic that tasted jest like this,” he exclaimed excitedly. “I used to drink it since I were but a bairn, barely able to walk. When me granda disappeared, I was sure his secret brew died with him. Tell me, where did ye get it?”
“Never mind that.” Wren quickly made her way toward the bladder of whisky lying on the table. “Mayhap you should have some more.” She walked back to his chair and held it out for him to take. When he neither answered or grabbed for the bladder, her arm lowered to her side and she cocked her head like a bird of prey listening for its victim.
Suddenly, from behind her, Storm brought his shackled wrists over her head, clasping her arms tightly to her sides so she couldn’t move. The bladder of whisky slipped from her hand into the pine boughs at her feet.
“No wonder ye didna need a candle,” he whispered into her ear which sent a flaming shudder up her spine, “for ye are blind arena ye?”
Wren turned her head slightly and felt his hot breath on her cheek. The smell of whisky permeated his words, intoxicating her to the warmth of the man’s body that now pressed against hers.
“What does it matter?” she asked softly, knowing that once men found out she was blind, they usually avoided her with the same caution of meeting someone with the plague.
“It doesna seem to slow ye down,” he observed, pulling his arms tighter around her.
“Release me,” she commanded, “or I’ll scream for my army to come to my aid.”
“I dinna think ye’ll do thet.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Storm shimmied his body around her so they were now facing each other. She felt an inner warmth, being pressed against this savage’s strong chest. A wave of raw excitement swept her body, being held so close by a man who had such an unspoken power about him he made her forget she was holding him captive.