DANGER IN THE DARKNESS
Dougal, hearing his own footsteps in the darkness, breathed out sharply. Footsteps always sounded louder in the upper hallway. If there was a ghost now, following the wake was the most unlikely time for it to be present.
Even so, he wished he had gone upstairs earlier instead of lingering in the hall to check everything was set back in order. It was truly dark up here.
He heard a scuffling noise and jumped, heart pounding in his chest.
An echo. For heaven's sake, man, stop being so jumpy.
He shook his head at himself, glad none of his new men-at-arms was there to see him. The unrest was starting to get to him, clearly. He had never been scared of the sound of footsteps before.
If this wake worked, and this ghost has finally gone, everything might be wonderful.
The thought made him sigh. He had a home of his own, vast lands, and he had just met a woman he was fast learning to love. His life was as close to perfect as the earth could allow.
Now surely everything can get back to normal?
The wake had been held. Lord Brien's ghost had been sent on its way. Who knew, though, if it would reassure them?
People see things in shadows when they are already scared.
He thought of himself, too, in that. He was unusually nervous. Someone had forgotten to light the torch at the head of the stairs, and the whole place was pitch black.
Something scuffled somewhere in the dark corridor up ahead.
Probably rats.
He was as bad as the rest of them! If he found the place eerie, he could hardly be surprised that people were leaving by the handful. Although, it was eerie. His own shadow loomed ahead, thrown onto the wall by the light of the candle. It would have been easy, at this hour, in this darkness, to believe in ghosts.
He sighed. The lower hallway had its arched windows that let in starlight even in the darkest hour of night. Here there was no light besides what a person carried with them.
“Trust me to get the bedroom right at the end,” Dougal grumbled. His own voice was reassuring in the darkness. After the wake, the ale, and the eating, he was sleepy, too. Just getting up to the uppermost floor was tiring. The long, cold march to the last bedroom, in the dark, was an added annoyance. He stopped to catch his breath, hand cupped to shield the flame he carried from any breezes. He was almost at his chamber. Not too long now, before he could sink into a warm and comfortable bedchamber.
Footsteps.
This time, they really were someone else's. Dougal was sure of it. He himself wasn't moving.
He cleared his throat.
“Who goes there?”
Feet ran towards him. Flame flashed on silver. Then a searing pain sawed through him from a blow high on his arm. Dougal shouted. He was unarmed.
He lashed out with his fist, and at the same time grabbed with his other hand, trying to halt the man who had already twisted away, a shadow moving in darker shadows.
They grappled. Dougal gripped the man's sleeve, finally gaining a hold. The man raised the knife again.
“Guards!” Dougal shouted, and brought his knee up at the same time.
The man gasped in pain and the blade slid sideways, grazing down across Dougal's torso where it would have stabbed him. The pain was a dull ache, forgotten in the moment's urgency.
“Guards!” Dougal roared. He had the man's shoulder in his grasp, and he let him struggle, then abruptly let go, letting the man's weight carry him forward against the wall.
The man fell, but scrambled to his feet. He set off at a run.
Dougal ran after him, shouting.
“Shame on you! Scoundrel! Stop!”
The pain in his shoulder was starting to grow, a throbbing ache that made him hiss. However, he could not stop. He had to catch that man!
The man reached the head of the stairs as the guards did. They grabbed him.
Dougal, blood sheeting down his front and his left arm, stopped at the arched door, panting. He held his hand to his shoulder, feeling the warm stickiness of blood.
“Sir?” the first guard shouted.
“Stop that!” The second yelled, striking at the man whose shirt he had in his grasp.
Dougal winced, frowning to clear his head. He was tired. So tired. He just wanted to stop...
His legs collapsed from under him. He fell to kneeling, feeling his head clouding with tiredness as he did so.
“Sir!” The first guard exclaimed, sounding horrified.
“Take the man downstairs,” Dougal commanded. He grunted, and then drew himself to his height, clawing his way along the wall for support.
“Yes, sir,” the first guard said.
“Sir, you need a physician,” the second man said, frowning.
“I need a bandage and a lie down,” Dougal countered acidly. “Take him downstairs and wait for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Both men headed off smartly. Dougal stayed where he was a moment, holding the balustrade for support.
He heard footsteps behind him. These were soft, slight, and hesitant.
“Dougal?”
He turned round, feeling a sudden flush of pleasure. “Joanna!” he said gently. “It is...good to see you.” He winced.
Joanna was there, anxious frown suddenly replaced by a wide grin. “Good?”
He nodded, and then leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.
“Dougal! What...” Joanna frowned. She had a lamp and raised it. “You're bleeding!”
“Yes. A lot, actually. Could you...” he coughed, “help me to my room?”
“Of course,” Joanna said briskly. “Lean on me.”
Dougal leaned on her, an arm around her shoulders. At any other time, he would have been transported with wonder, being this close to her. He could smell a spicy scent in her hair, and the floral sweetness of something she used to scent her clothes. He could feel her warm body.
Right now, though, he could barely manage to squeeze her fingers with his hand.
“I regret...meeting...in such...a way,” he said weakly. He gave a chuckle.
“Let's get you sitting down,” Joanna said. Her voice was brisk and businesslike. Dougal was relieved to have her to command him. He sat down on the bed.
“Thanks,” he said gruffly.
“Don't be,” Joanna said briskly. “Or at least, wait until I've got this off. It'll hurt.”
She lit a lamp at the grate. The bright light flared, showing him his face in the mirror. It looked haggard. It also showed him a slick dark mess on the sleeve of his tunic, high up near the shoulder. The other wound was lower down on his chest. He looked down on it, suddenly worried.
“Joanna. This...”
“Yes, it's a mess,” Joanna said firmly. “Not fatal, though. Or you wouldn't be sitting talking to me, would you?”
He smiled. He felt lightheaded, and knew he had already lost a lot of blood. “No,” he agreed.
“Right. So. If you'll let me, I'm afraid I must disrobe you.”
“Oh.” He felt a soft smile drift across his face. She saw it and grinned.
“And you can get that look off your face, Dougal Blackheath.” She laughed. “It's my obligation as a physician. Nothing more.”
“Yes, physician.”
She scowled at him, though her eyes shone. Then she tugged his tunic over his head.
It did hurt. A lot.
“Ow!”
She frowned, a look of focused concentration. “Well, then. What we have here on your arm is a bit worse than the one on your front...”
She had taken the liberty of cutting a piece out of the linen coverlet, and now, with a small frown, she began to wind it round the gash in his arm. He twisted to see, wincing as he saw the depth of it, the black blood welling up in the tattered gap.
“Nasty, but if we keep it clean, I think you'll mend,” Joanna said. She wound the strip tight, and then frowned. “I should tie the ends to a broomstick and twist it properly.”
“What?” Dougal laughed in disbelief.
“It's a well-known method of fastening a bandage, you skeptically-minded man,” she said archly. As it was, she seemed to decide it was tight enough, and moved her attentions to the cut on his chest.
“There,” she said, holding another piece of linen over it firmly. “You press that on. Tightly, mind you.”
“Ow,” Dougal said, laughing with the almost funny aspect of some pains. Joanna had taken a seat on the bed opposite him. She smiled, but she was very pale. When he looked more closely, he noticed that she was shaking.
“Joanna?”
“I'm sorry,” she said in an almost whisper. “I'm just very tired. I...”
As he watched, she covered her face in her hands and sobbed.
Feeling like a brute, he shuffled forward and, very gently, his other hand still on his chest wound, embraced her with his right arm.
She sat very still.
“Oh, Dougal,” she said. She turned and laid her head on his shoulder, suddenly exhausted. The tears on her face were silvery in firelight. Dougal leaned across and planted a kiss on her cheek.
She went very still. Her breath shook.
“We can't,” she said softly. She looked up at him, her gray eyes very sad. “We won't be able to wed, will we?”
Dougal said nothing. He had no idea. He closed his eyes, too, for a moment, the pain in his heart making the ache in his wounds suddenly trivial.
“I don't know.”
She sighed. “I wish we...” she stopped.
“Yes?”
“No.”
“Tell me?”
She made a small sound, somewhere between laughing and sobbing. “Oh, you infuriating...”
He smiled. “Tell me.” His fingers touched her jaw, raising her face toward his again.
She looked at the beams where they ran across the roof. “I wish we could leave,” she said in a small voice. “Go far away. Just choose for ourselves, for once.”
She laughed. It wasn't a merry laugh.
Dougal sighed. “I know,” he said. He shifted on the bed, turned to face her. Took her hands in his hands. “My dear,” he said, more sincere than he had ever felt. “If I could, I would forget all of this. Walk away. Just be with you. All I want from life is in your arms.”
Joanna sobbed. She covered her face with her hands, slight shoulders shaking. Dougal put his hand on the back of her neck. She tensed.
“Don't.”
“Sorry.”
She smiled. “It's not that it's not...pleasant. It's that, when you touch me, I don't ever want you to stop.”
He stared at her, surprise warring with the rising longing that steadily filled him. If she wanted him, if she meant that she welcomed his hands on her body – then...he sighed explosively. His loins throbbed, his heart filled, and he knew that if he just leaned forward, put his mouth to those damp, glistening lips, he would not stop. Not until she was beneath him on his bed, lying in his arms.
“I should,” he coughed. “I should get some sleep.”
“Yes,” she said. Her voice was sad.
He stood, uncomfortable suddenly with his lack of clothes. She stayed where she was.
“Thank you,” he said hesitantly.
“No,” she said. She stood. Her face was sad, and perhaps a little anger lurked there in those gray eyes. “I should go.”
“Wait?”
She paused, hand on the wooden frame. Turned to face him.
He was there before her then. His mouth on hers was hot, hard, and desperate, a kiss of a drowning man, seeking life within her.
She gasped, and kissed him back. She too was hungry, and their lips fed on each other, devouring each other with a desperation that he had thought he alone felt.
When they drew apart, he was panting.
“Joanna, I...” His voice was thick with longing, deepened with his need for her.
“Go to sleep, you daft man,” she said softly. Her eyes had softened again, damp with tears. She smiled. “I am in charge of your care, and I won't speak to you if you don't take your rest.”
He laughed.
They smiled at one another, and she walked slowly from the room.
When she had gone, the door clicking shut softly behind her, he sat down heavily on the bed. He looked up at the ceiling and sighed.
She was all that occupied his thoughts. Nevertheless, as he washed his face, readying for bed, his mind turned to other things. Who was the attempted assassin? Where had he come from? What did he think to do, by killing him?
“There's something very strange going on here,” Dougal told himself. He went to the door and drew the table across it to keep it blocked. Then he climbed into bed.
His last thought as he rolled over, wincing at the pain from his chest, was that he had to find the underlying cause of this, and soon. Before someone was killed.
Whoever this was, their intent was darker than he had ever guessed before. They would not stop at murder. He had no idea when they would strike, or how.
All he knew was he had to find them.