Chapter Thirty-Five
Secrets rarely are hidden, instead exist before our very eyes.
The wizard’s trick is to roll the fog aside and let the mind see.
— Adrian Macgillivray
“Where the bloody hell is Skena?” Noel snarled his demand, whipping around.
Guillaume moved around the circular hall, poking the torch into several openings that obviously had been intended for small sleeping niches. “She is gone.”
“Merde! Think me a half-wit? I see that. So are Fadden and that bitch Dorcas.” Noel bit back the howl of madness rising in his throat.
Perplexed, Guillaume glanced around. “Mayhap an escape passage into a cave?” he suggested. “These brochs always felt like a trap to me. Aye, they were devised to keep the enemy from getting in easily, yet ‘twas none too smart to hold up in a tower with no path to escape. Easy to run out of food and water—not a detail one overlooks in finding a place to make a stand. If there is a passage they could slip away before they were doomed.”
Galen nodded. “Cellars under Craigendan lead down into a cavern. There be an openin’ for another on this side of the loch. I do no’ ken more. We were forbidden to go into it when we were small.”
In question, Guillaume looked to Noel, who in turn rounded on Ella. “Where is the entrance to the passage, old woman?”
“I ken naught. Cut out my tongue. I will ne’er tell you, English.” Eyes gleaming, Ella stuck out her square chin, happy at the turn of events, and oddly not comprehending the bad position she was now in. “My Dorcas be with your Skena. Mayhap you get a dead woman back for your bed, Lord de Servian. Like that turn of fate?”
Noel’s hand lashed out before she could blink, wrapped around her thick neck and squeezed. She strangled, her arms striking out frantically trying to hit him. Ignoring her, he held her stiff-armed, keeping his face and body out of her reach. The old woman was strong, but she could do no more than flail against the arm that held her. “You best get down on your knees and use that tongue, pray I find her unharmed, you swort hag. If I do not I will snap your neck like a twig and feed you to your pigs whilst you draw a last breath. Now where is the tunnel entrance?”
Ella looked into his eyes and saw he stone cold meant every word of his threat. She finally gasped, “Bastard did no’ show me, always keepin’ everythin’ to hisself. First spake that he’d take them to the sheiling high in the hills and hide them. Leave the Comyn plaide to make you ride toward his land. Snow came, and he changed plans. He’s been holdin’ up here. Said it was better to fetch them to the broch until the snowin’ stopped. Stupid Muriel saw the children goin’ off with Dorcas and followed.”
Frustrated, Noel turned back to Galen. “Do you know where the damn entrance might be?
He shook his head. “This place was long abandoned before I was a bairn. Such a secret wouldst only be for the laird to ken. Never a servant, such as myself.”
“Noel,” Guillaume called, “the peat in the fireplace is mashed down, a clear footprint in the middle. There must be a way through the back of the fireplace.”
“Help me find it,” Noel said, as he bent over to step inside the stone structure.
♦◊♦
Skena’s toe hit something hard, causing her to stumble. Slamming down onto her hands and knees, she bit back the grimace that was forced from her body. Rough, uneven stones littered the cave floor, some sharp enough to abrade her palms. Stinging, she tried to brush the moist dirt off them. Just as she started to get to her feet, Dorcas perversely kicked her in the backside. Skena struggled to keep from going face down in the dirt again, but failed. Fury bubbling inside her, Skena gritted her teeth against the pains. Recalling her sgian dubh was still tucked in her belt at her back, she resisted the urge to plant it into Dorcas’s thigh.
“Get up, Skena.” Darach came back, tilting the torch to dispel the impenetrable darkness.
“I be trying, lackwit! Your bastard whore, spawn of a pig woman―” Skena flinched as Dorcas delivered another kick. “If you want me on my feet and walking, call off your stupid bitch!”
Dorcas took a step to kick her again, but Darach moved between them. The two stared at each other in the flickering torchlight. At length, he spoke, his tone soft, but menacing. “Dorcas, you came because you feared staying behind and facing Lord de Servian. Cease contrarying me with your petty jealousies. Let Skena be. Kicking her when she falls only slows our escape and gives the English time to follow.”
“You said he wouldst no’ be able to find the tunnel entrance. Even if he does, you jammed the boulder against the passage to block them from pushing it open,” Dorcas pointed out in a tight, frustrated voice. “They will ne’er get it open in time.”
“Stupid cow. You think he will give up when he fails to discover the way into the tunnel?” Darach’s look was one of exasperation. “Someone—likely that old man—will tell him of the caves, and then the bloody Sasunnach will come after us. I need enough time to get away to the boat. If we can cross the loch, mayhap we have a chance of reaching Duncan Comyn.”
Dorcas glared. “Leave her. Kill her now. She slows us down.”
“Us?” His brow lifted in mocking. “You be what slows us. Skena comes―a shield should de Servian catch us. Moreover, Comyn will give us shelter if we hand him the lady of Craigendan as a prize. Listen well—you hold little value now. Muriel lived. She shall tell all at Craigendan who your real màthair be. Naught but Ella’s get. No blood of The MacIain flows through your veins. Do no’ make me stop and upbraid your stupidity again.” Finally satisfied Dorcas would not cross him, Darach used his free hand to catch Skena’s lower arm and help her to her feet.
To hurry her along as they passed through the dark cavern, Darach kept a hold on her upper arm. Steps rushed, her foot came down on something with a loud snap. She jumped, scared. Skena had been in the cave under Craigendan several times. It was kept dry and clean. No animals ever got into that area as they kept a metal fence over the passageway that lead into the bowels of the fortress. She assumed such was not the case under the old broch. As she had moved through the impenetrable shadows, which seemed to swallow the scant light from the spluttering torch, her nose detected a fetid smell, heavy with urine. That caused an alarm within her. What sort of animals called this cave a lair? A catamount? Wolves?
“What be the matter?” Darach tugged on her arm when Skena backed up.
Taking hold of her kirtle’s sides, she raised the hem and glanced down. “I stepped on something.” He lowered the torch to illuminate the dirty cave floor, littered with sticks of white.
“Aw! Bones!” Skena hopped back, yanking to break free from his grasp. Her eyes searched the tops of the rocks, many overhanging, almost forming a natural ledge on either side, just above their heads. “By the Lady! Wolves! This be their den!” Images of both times she had faced the animals flashed through her mind, causing her stomach to twist into knots. But those battles had been out in the open. Facing them in the confines of the small cave would be hellish!
Lifting the torch high, Darach whipped around in all directions to see along the ledge on both sides. “No wolves here.”
“This be their lair, I say! You can smell their rank stench,” Skena insisted. “Look at the bones. They drag their kills back here and eat them. Small animals—”
She kicked at the bones, her foot hitting something bigger and sending it clattering against the cave wall. Darach’s eyes met hers and stilled for an instant, before he slowly lowered the torch. The dancing light revealed an object that was round. A human skull. Neither of them spoke.
Dorcas, who had been trailing behind, tugged her mantle around her, and moved closer to the circle of light. “Let us flee this accursed place before they return. They will come back if this storm continues.”
“We only have a short distance. Come.” He put a hand on Skena’s back and nudged her forward.
After two twists through the rocks, cold wind and blowing snow greeted them. They had reached the cave’s mouth. Uneasy, Skena glanced back, wondering if Noel had found the passage’s entrance. Was he only steps behind them? She craved to feign twisting her ankle, anything to slow them down, but she was desperate break free of the wolves’ domain.
The brush had been cleared from the opening, and a short distance away she spotted the overturned boat, half hidden by scrub and pine limbs. Letting go of Skena’s arm, Darach hurriedly cleared away the branches with his free hand, and then ordered, “Here, help me get the boat to the loch. ’Tis easier to carry if we lift whilst it be right-side-down.”
Forming her face into a harsh scowl, Dorcas stood unmoving. “Help carry the boat? A boat that be made to hold only two?”
Cautiously, Skena shifted her arm under the mantle, reaching behind to wrap her hand around the hilt of the sgian dubh. “Och, you have my hearty approval to leave me behind. I hold no desire to ride in that becursed thing on Loch Shane Mohr in a snowstorm at night.”
“Whilst my plans have changed―and likely may yet change again―you come, Skena. Comyn wants Craigendan. You be my ransom. As long as I hold you, I have something to barter with. If not him, then the Campbells will aid me. They wish a foothold in Glen Shane as well.”
“Where does that leave me? There be no room for three in that boat. Yet, you want me to help you carry it?” Dorcas fussed.
Darach gave her a half smile. “I admire your grasp of the obvious, Dorcas. You, of course, regretfully must stay behind. I do no’ ken your loch well enough to risk overloading the small craft. De Servian shall be out for blood, but I doubt seriously he will take it out on your back. Howbeit, if you fear his wrath—hide in the cave until first light, then make your way to Campbell land. They will take you in. A talented lass such as yourself always finds a bed to warm, eh?”
“Hide in the cave where wolves will return? This be the reward for all the help I have given you?” Her voice rose in ire.
“Things change, lass. As The MacIain’s by-blow you were an asset. As the daughter of Ella? You be worth a handful of wind. My schemes come a cropper because of you and that fat old woman. Count your blessings I must press onward instead of giving you just dues for that turn. I needs must salvage what I can. You best do same. You will land on your feet―you have the way of the cat about you.”
“Then force Skena to carry the boat,” Dorcas refused. “I see no reason to help.”
Skena took a step back. “I canno’ carry anything, thanks to Dorcas kicking me into the dirt. My hands be cut and bleeding.” She held out one palm―her left one―to show she was telling the truth.
“Both of you cease defying me! I wouldst as soon split your throats and leave you here for the wolves,” Darach threatened. “You burn time.”
Skena forced a laugh. “Clearly, you be used to dealing with lackwit Dorcas and crazy Ella. You shall no’ kill me―your bartering tool. Kill me and de Servian will follow you to the ends of the earth to destroy you. I canno’ carry the boat. My hands are raw and bleeding.”
Knowing Skena was right, Darach whipped back to Dorcas. He inclined the torch forward, briefly touching the ends of her long red hair, close enough to singe one strand. The pungent smell of the scorched, curling hair filled the air. “Pick…up…the…boat, Dorcas.”
With that small threatening gesture, he warned he would kill her, or worse in Dorcas’s mind, set her hair aflame. If she lived long enough to put it out, she would likely be disfigured, a hideous mockery of the beautiful woman she now was. Dorcas swallowed hard. Oh, her eyes flashed daggers of hatred toward the brother of the man she had loved, but knew now was not the moment to cross him.
“What about her? I care naught if her hands be bloody. She should still help move the boat,” she complained.
“Two will manage just fine―”
Dorcas protested, “She will run off, you lackwit.”
Sticking the torch into the snow, Darach pulled out a thin thong of leather from the small bag tied at his waist. “Hold out your hands, Skena.”
“Nay,” she backed up another step. “My hands will no’ stop bleeding. I hold them against my kirtle to staunch them. Tying them will only see it worsen, maybe fester. I shall become a millstone for you if I bleed too much and become weak, useless if I rage with a fever half dead, when you drag me before Duncan Comyn.”
His frown was chilling. “Fine.” His hand slapped out and grabbed her by the back of her neck. Threading the leather under her hair, he secured the loop around her throat. “Mind, do not make me tug on it, Skena. The knot will tighten. Might make you strangle.”
Skena’s left fingers clawed at the leather where it curled around her neck. “Again, a half-choked woman be no asset, eh?”
Clearly viewing her stance as pushing him too far, Darach gave a yank on the cord. Instantly, it tautened. She wiggled two fingers under the band, but winced when the thin strip of leather cut into the raw scrapes. In feint, she gave a strangled cough, knowing by the single torchlight he could not discern that she prevented the thong from cutting off her air.
“Enough time wasted. Now we move the boat. Skena come.” He scooped up the torch and gave them a smile, little more than a bearing of teeth. Once more, it conjured images of that wolf, as it had dared move closer to her standing over de Servian.
Recognizing he was not accepting blether from either of them, Dorcas knelt down and lifted the rear end of the boat. “This be heavy,” she grumbled.
“Not trusting either of you with the torch, I hold it and Skena’s tether in one hand, so I lift with only partial strength with my left arm,” he snarled for wasting breath to explain the obvious. “Sorry,” he said, and clearly not meaning the sentiment.
As they moved away from the mouth of the cave, Darach gave a stiff pull on the leather cord, forcing Skena to follow them or fall. Using common sense, she had chosen not to put up resistance in the cave. The prospect of being cornered in there if the wolves returned from the hunt was daunting. Also, there simply was no place to escape. The walls were barely wide enough for three people. She failed to notice any branches leading off, did not relish running down some passage in the dark, and no idea where it led or where her next footfall would land. That left retracing their route to the passage entrance at the back of the fireplace. A bad choice. Darach could run faster than she could, so he would overtake her. Even if she accidently reached the opening with space to breathe, she doubted she could shove the rock back from where Darach had wedged it. Logic said get out into the open where she might stand a chance of eluding him, and possibly hide long enough for Noel to come.
That Noel would come for her, she never doubted for an instant. He would. She merely needed to buy time until he arrived.
“Set the boat down and help me turn it over,” Darach ordered, dropping his side of the wooden craft. When the boat was flipped, he shoved it into the edge of the black water, and ordered, “Get in, Lady Craigendan.”
When she stood unmoving, he gave another sharp tug on the leather, a reminder to obey. “Go ahead and choke me to death, Darach Fadden. Better that than getting in that leaky boat. Loch Shane Mohr be treacherous for people unfamiliar with it. In places, black rocks are hidden just under the surface and will rip that boat to pieces.” Skena backed up, straining against the leather at the back of her neck.
“Aye, I discovered the Picts’ secret. How I crossed the loch the night you nearly fell off the bastion. So do no’ fret. I will steer clear of the steps of ashlar.” He smirked.
As Darach moved toward Skena, to force her into the boat, Dorcas seized the chance to dart off into the green darkness. His head whipped around to his right, seeing her disappear into the snowy gloom. He shrugged. “She must figure to outrun de Servian before he can catch up.”
“She will never elude him. Neither will you,” Skena stated flatly.
He jerked on the tether to reel her closer, the leather biting into her neck. “Do as I say, my lady. Now!”
Skena’s head turned at noises high upon the cliff. Riders! The flickers from torches grew brighter, nearly a dozen and moving fast. “De Servian,” she said softly, as a smile crossed her lips. Her fingers flexed around the handle of the sgian dubh, planning to catch him in the stomach or the chest, then make a break, and escape toward the cliff path.
Darach whipped around as someone came running from the shadows along the water. Distracted by the mounted men starting down the cliff trail, Darach failed to react fast enough. Dorcas rushed up to the opposite side of the small boat. Carrying a large rock, she raised it over her head and dashed the heavy stone into the middle of the craft, wood cracking and splintering.
“You bitch!” Darach leapt for Dorcas, forgetting he still held the leash in his left hand.
Nearly jerked off her feet, Skena fought against strangling. The only thing preventing it was the two fingers still lodged between the cord and her throat. She grasped desperately at the knife, intending to use the blade to sever the cord, only a second hard yank sent her lumbering forward, off balance. The knife fell from her hand and into the snow. She grabbed the taut tether, grappling desperately against the pressure.
“I will kill you.” Darach nearly tumbled into the boat as he grabbed at Dorcas. “I will wrap that red hair around your throat and watch your eyes bulge.”
“Black-hearted bastard! Foam at the mouth like a mad dog. Here he be! De Servian here! Darach Fadden, he who brays like a jackass and will scurry away, a cowering dog!” Laughing, Dorcas dashed into the night, this time away from the cliffs, and heading far down the shoreline.
Galen leading, Noel and his men descended the winding path down to the cove. So thrilled to see him, Skena half forgot Darach still held the thong in his fist. She started to rush toward Noel, only to be jerked around by another stiff snap on the cord.
“Let her go!” Noel’s voice rang out clear in the night.
Darach glanced to his left, in the direction Dorcas had fled, then to the boat, now already filling with water. He jerked the cord, pulling Skena backward until she fell against his chest. “You better hope he values your life, Lady Craigendan. If not, then we both die here, now,” he said against her ear, as he placed the tip of the knife to her throat.
De Servian dismounted, landing on both feet. He handed his torch to Galen, never taking his eyes off Skena and the man holding her. He walked slowly forward, flanked by Guillaume and Stephen. As the men with torches stepped down from their mounts, they formed a phalanx, just paces behind them. Noel appeared cool-headed, his movements controlled. Deadly. Skena wished she could see Darach’s expression as he stared into the face of this warrior true, his silver eyes aglow with an unearthly power.
An avenging angel come to unleash hell.
Skena stared, transfixed by his striking countenance. Noel de Servian was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. His wavy brown hair was a shade darker, wet from the falling snow, the long curls making him seem more Scot than Norman-English. His clean-shaven face showed his sensual chin, not stubborn so much as resolute—a face that reflected strength, character. Surely, a man this perfect had been touched by the blood of the Sidhe for only one blessed by true magic could be so lovely formed, and possessed of a craft to lure a woman into darkest sin, nary a thought at the risk to her soul. A warrior who already owned her heart, her soul. A man Skena knew she would gladly die for.
What marked Noel de Servian as special, above all others, his physical beauty was matched by what was in his heart and in his soul. Staring into those pale eyes, she knew he would set everything right. She loved him. She trusted him.
“I said―let…her…go. Only a coward hides behind a woman’s skirt. Fight me like a man,” Noel stated softly.
“Alas, I canno’ fight you, Lord de Servian. I have no knight’s sword. Only a sgian dubh.” He shifted his elbow to show he held a knife at her throat. Darach jerked her neck back even more, nearly dragging her off her feet. “Of course, a dagger be all I need to end the life of your beautiful wife, eh?”
Skena felt the cold blade against her throat, and tried not to swallow her panic as it would push the blade deeper into her flesh. Instead, she watched Noel’s beautiful eyes, allowed her trust in him to flood her being.
“But then, you wouldst be out of alternatives, eh?” Noel countered.
“Coin of the realm be your wife’s life.” Darach gave a tight laugh. “Shall we bargain?”
“How interesting. A man with no honor expecting honor from the man he wrongs.” Noel walked toward Darach, and offered him a flat smile. “You cannot leave in the boat. It seems to have developed a small leak. So speak, what do you want for your coin?”
“My freedom, of course.” Darach chuckled again, his false bravado rumbling through his chest against her back. When Noel gave no answer, he pressed the blade tip closer to her throat.
“You want honor? I grant you honor. Release Skena and fight me man-to-man.” Noel turned to the men behind him. “Form a circle so the area is lit. Trial by Combat―let God be the judge of who walks away from this field this night.”
Darach demanded, suspicious. “What mean you? The instant I let her go you will kill me. E’en if you keep faith with this offerin’ and if I fell you—mighty knight of the Leopard, your men will kill me anyway.”
“Nay. Set her free. My men will honor my command.” He rotated to look at the warriors holding torches, formed into a semi-circle behind him. “Swear before God if Darach Fadden meets me on this field, and in combat to the death, if he wins, he walks away a free man by God’s will.”
Every man, including Guillaume repeated, “I do so swear, God as my witness.”
Skena tried to still the frantic beating of her heart, to pull within herself to that quiet spot where her mind could brush Noel’s. She needed his touch even if it was only with the Kenning.
Please do not do this. Do not put your life at risk for me, she thought in a desperate plea.
♦◊♦
Noel watched Darach smile, and then the arrogant bastard shrugged. “I still say I be unarmed. One canno’ expect me to fight against one of the English’s greatest knights with only a small knife.”
Turning to Guillaume, Noel spoke loud enough for the words to carry, “Give me your sword, Brother.” He removed his mantle and handed it to Mallory, and then accepted the sword that Guillaume passed to him. Under his breath, Noel said, “If I die, kill him where he stands.”
Guillaume’s eyes spoke volumes. “Aye, he will be gutted and left for the wolves, although I wouldst rather you not die.”
“I share the wish.” Noel turned and walked halfway to Darach. Raising Guillaume’s sword, he plunged it into the ground. Backing up, he accepted his own sword from Guillaume’s hand.
“There, Fadden. Your one chance at freedom. Let Skena go.” When the man remained unmoving, Noel pressed. “You are cornered. You have naught to barter with but Skena.”
“But a good thing to ransom, eh? Will you enjoy watching me split her throat, see her blood bleed black onto the white snow?” Darach threatened, clearly hoping to rattle him.
“Do it and seal your own death,” he said in sangfroid. “Only, I will not be so swift in meting out my punishment. I once saw an Infidel torture a man in the Holy Lands. You would be surprised what I learned. Face it—you cannot escape in the boat. Your whore saw to that before she ran off. You cannot force us to back off and allow you to leave with Skena. I wouldst rather see her dead, here and now, than abused at your hands, which would surely happen if I permitted you to leave and take her as your shield.” Noel lied, spoke words that were daggers to his heart. The untruth almost stuck in his teeth, but he figured the stance was one a coward like Darach would believe. “Only chance this side of Hell you have to walk away from here a free man is to let Skena go and pick up the sword. Shall I turn my back and give you the first blow? It seems the only way a Fadden can come at an opponent.”
“Arrogant English bastard,” Darach snarled.
Noel held out his arms, the sword in his right hand half-raised in the air. “Aye, I am English born. And I am arrogant. Howbeit, my ancestry is exalted, a son of a powerful baron and my mother was a lady true―not some child of a crazed pig woman.”
Darach slowly inched toward the sword, pushing Skena ahead of him. As the weapon was within grasp, he flung Skena forward with all his might so that she crashed into Noel’s arms. Yanking the sword from the ground, Darach slashed through the air, clearly trying to kill them both. Barely in time to block the blade’s arc, Noel tossed Skena to the ground. A one-handed grip, his hold was not positioned to check such a hard two-hand strike, thus his sword vibrated in his hand, sending the numbing shock through his arm and into his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, it was all he could do to keep his grip around the hilt. The odd pain radiated down his spine to slam into the newly healing muscles in his back. Only by sheer force was he able to step before Skena and protect her. Reaching behind him with his free hand, he helped Skena to her feet, warding off yet another slashing blow from Fadden, this one even more jarring than the last.
“Beware, he has a dirk in his boot,” Skena called the warning. She moved out of the circle, going to stand behind Guillaume, leaving Noel free to fight without the distraction of worrying about her.
Wrapping his left hand behind his right on the long, leather grip, he wielded the broadsword with his solid muscle, meeting the third hacking swing from Darach. With the proper control on the weapon, he was able to take the blunt force, and yet not transfer the power from Fadden’s blade into his own. Noel quickly shifted into a warrior’s rhythm of parries, thrusts, swings and counter swings, the weapons singing and clanging in the flickering torchlight.
The Scotsman came at him with the sword high over his head, intending to chop down on Noel’s head or shoulder. Noel stepped to repel it, but the snow was becoming mushy from them moving about; his foot slipped, causing his balance to be off. He opposed the blow, but at the wrong point. The swords rang out, then grated, as the blades slid down the other until the guards locked. At that point, it became a contest of strength, each of them pushing to thrust the other away.
Darach rocked sideways, swinging out to drive his leg into Noel’s side, the bastard clearly aiming for the old wound. Pain was excruciating. Darach slowly forced him back, intending to knock him off his feet.
Skena cried out, but he could not look her way.
Darach laughed, tasting victory. “Where be your arrogance now, Englishman?”
“Right here, you Lowland knave.” Noel sprang. Drawing up his knee to his chest, he lashed out with his booted foot, slamming hard into the center of Darach’s ribcage.
Air leaving his lungs, Fadden staggered back. Fighting to regain his balance, he came forward, his sword raised high with both hands.
Noel spun in a circle, his sword catching Darach in the center of his torso. The man stopped, almost seemed to hang suspended. A stunned expression crossed his face, as if he did not quite believe a sword was protruding through his body.
“I will be damned.” Darach laughed.
Noel used his knee to shove the Scotsman back off his sword. With a soft thud, Darach fell backward into the snow. Moving to stand over the man, Noel said, “Aye, you shall.”
Darach stared up at Noel, blood gurgling in his throat and out the side of his mouth. The brown eyes watched him, knowing he was dying, and that he had lost. “You...ne’er were...going to...let me go...”
Noel inclined his head slowly. “I lied. You were a dead man the instant you put your hands on Skena. This just puts paid to your dark deeds.”
Darach raised his hand and tried to say something, but then the arm dropped and he coughed. With a jerk to his body, he breathed no more.
Skena ran to him hugging him around the waist. Giving a weak laugh, Noel stiffly wrapped an arm about her, embracing her so tightly he feared he might never let her go again. “Ah, easy, lass. Squeezing you hurts.” He kissed her temple, closing his eyes in thanks, in an agony of knowing how close he came to losing her. “You ken I lied to Darach about rather seeing you dead than letting you go with him?”
Skena nodded, sniffing against his chest. “Just words I little recall.”
Noel tried to breathe normally, to tell himself everything was all right now. And for an instant he was almost convinced of the certainty. Then, emotions rolled through him, violent, excruciating. He had nearly lost Skena―his whole world, his life. “Oh, bloody hell.” He took her by the elbows and pulled her against him, his mouth taking hers roughly. His lips moved over hers, tasting the sweetness that was Skena, hungrily drawing from her the radiance that warmed his soul.
“Oh, lass, I love you. I almost lost you―” He kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her temples.
She put her fingers to his lips silencing him. “’Tis over now. Take me home, my love.”
A scream tore them apart, ripping through the night. It was followed by another. And yet another. Then, deep snarls. Wolves. Dorcas. High up on the far side of the cliffs, Noel could just barely make out her figure racing along the edge, trying to escape the wolves. A white one jumped at Dorcas as she pulled up, reaching the cliff’s edge.
“Save her,” Skena moaned, but it was too late.
Two more wolves leaped at Dorcas and all went over the cliff. Her scream marked her descent, echoing all the way down. Skena turned from the horrible scene. She burrowed her face against his shoulder, muffling her protest against his chest, as if he had the power to blot the horrible scene from her mind.
“Bad end,” Guillaume spoke from just behind him. “Even for one such as her.”
Noel gave a brief nod, but without remorse. The bitch had endangered Skena’s life more than once, and risked the children and Muriel. To his way of thinking, God had given Dorcas her Trial by Ordeal and her guilt had damned her.
“Send men to check. Though I doubt she lived through that fall, we need to be certain. If not, fetch her body. Though she deserves it not, I shall not leave her for the wolves.”
Another scream rang out, one of rage. Ella ran across the snowy beach, a squire chasing after her.
“Noel!” Guillaume, who was already partway across the beach to check on Dorcas, turned and came back at a run.
Ella charged straight for Skena. Noel turned to shield Skena from the crazed woman.
A knife held in her hand, Ella screamed, “My bairn! You killed by bairn!”
The knife caught Noel in the lower back. Though the blade did not penetrate the mail shirt, the force of the blow to his wound, reinjured by Darach, pushed him to slump to one knee, still striving to pull Skena out of Ella’s range. Ella slashed out again, but Skena blocked the arc of the mad woman’s swing. Noel surged to his feet, slamming his sword upward, catching Ella under her chin with the pommel and knocking her out.
“Tie the bloody bitch up and toss her into the pit. When the snow ends she can be fetched to Challon. He can deal with the crone’s fate.”
Stephan came running back, frowning at the squire who had allowed Ella loose. “What means this? She was bound,” he snapped crossly.
The young man shrugged, then looked down at his boot tips. “She had to piss.”
Noel growled, half-vexed with the green lad’s folly, half in pain. “Piss my arse. Never again fall for such a ploy. It will see you dead, or lashes to your back.”
“The woman is dead,” Stephan told them. “Two wolves with her. You go ahead, back to Craigendan with your lady. We will see to fetching her body back.”
Noel nodded. He cut the cord away from Skena’s neck, and then led Skena to Brishen. “We needs must get you back and into a hot bath to warm you. You are shivering.”
“Some cold. Some fear,” she replied, watching him mount.
Guillaume scooped her up and deposited her crosswise on Noel’s lap. Situating her to where she was secure, Noel wrapped his mantle around her too, adding the extra warmth and protection. He took a moment to sigh relief. His warrior’s mien had not failed him. He swallowed hard to keep back the tears that threatened to come—leaving him humbled and holding his precious wife in his arms. She was safe, fate had not been so cruel a second time, to take away his life, his future.
“Where be the children and Muriel?” Skena asked, trying not to cry anymore.
“Safe. Back to Craigendan with a guard of two. They should be in the care of Lady Rowanne by now.” Pulling up the hood about her face, he brushed his lips softly against hers.
“I am going to beat you when I get you home, wife,” he whispered.
“You will no’,” she said, knowing it to be truth.
Noel forever threatening her with such treatment, but he would never raise a hand to her. This she knew as well as that the sun would rise in the morn. “This time I mean it. I do not think anything in life has ever scared me more than seeing you struggling with Darach.”
“Then, I will have to beat you, as well,” she countered, “for nothing has ever scared me as much as watching you fight that evil man.”
Noel gently nudged Brishen with his knees, giving the command to move forward. Since the horse obeyed knee and foot instructions, Noel was able to hold her close. So close she could feel his heart beating.
“I love you Noel de Servian. More than life,” Skena whispered against his chest.
Noel was shaking. From the aftermath of nearly losing her. From what she made him feel. “I love you, Skena de Servian. Yes, more than life.”