Logan kept one hand on the mossy, damp wall of the tunnel as they walked, and the other wrapped around the hilt of his sheathed sword. Helena’s breathing seemed to echo in his ears as she walked behind him. Though Helena knew these passageways, he’d insisted on going first in case they were met with danger when they emerged.

In the darkness, time seemed to stretch. He had no sense of how far they’d come or how much more of the narrow tunnel remained ahead. He had to stoop as he walked, for the dripping ceiling hung low.

Helena’s fingers tapped his shoulder, and he halted. Her warm breath fanned his ear. “We are close,” she whispered, so softly that even with her lips brushing his ear, he hardly heard her. “Put your hand out.”

Logan lifted his hand from the wall and extended it before him, then began to move forward, slower now. Only a few moments later, his outstretched fingers brushed solid stone in front of him.

For a fleeting moment, a terrible thought tumbled through his mind. What if this was a dead end? What if they’d gotten turned around somehow, or de Neville had discovered the tunnels and had them sealed? Aye, they could backtrack, but there was something forebodingly tomb-like about these narrow passageways.

Helena moved closer again, her lips finding his ear. “On the other side of that slab of stone is my father’s private chamber,” she breathed. “Geoffrey will likely have taken it over.”

He jerked in surprise. Helena hadn’t warned him that they were walking directly into de Neville’s chamber. And good God, it was the middle of the night—the man was likely in there sleeping at this very moment.

Panic speared his gut. They would have to exit the tunnel, praying that Geoffrey wasn’t in his chamber, or if he was, somehow manage not to wake him, then cross through the room and into the heart of the castle. Then they would have to move to the yard and up to the battlements, all without being seen, before finding a way to raise the portcullis, a job that usually required three stout men.

It was too late for doubts and fears, though. This was their best chance—and mayhap their only chance—to save those inside the castle.

Logan nodded, then shifted aside so that Helena could move to the stone slab. She placed her ear against it, and several long moments passed in silence. Then he felt more than saw her pull away and turn back to him.

“All is quiet within.”

He drew a deep breath, the sword hilt digging into his palm.

Helena ran her fingers along the stone slab, then pushed on some unseen latch. With a soft click, the slab shifted and warm air began seeping into the tunnel.

Carefully, she eased the slab back, letting it swing into the passageway. Something lay draped over the entrance—a tapestry, Logan realized as he moved in front of Helena once more and stretched a hand out to the covering.

Holding his breath, he pulled the tapestry back.

Though the fire within the chamber burned low, Logan had to squint against its light as his eyes adjusted from the thick blackness of the tunnel. He swept the room quickly with his gaze, but all lay still and quiet. The chamber was filled with rich touches—silk-upholstered chairs, a dressing table gilded with silver accents, and thick velvet curtains pulled back around the four-poster bed.

When Logan’s eyes fell on the bed, he froze. A man lay there, motionless in sleep.

Heart hammering in his ears, he stared at the man and counted slowly, watching for any signs of movement.

But he could not simply stand there forever. When he’d counted to fifty and the man hadn’t stirred, Logan forced his feet to move into the chamber. He held aside the tapestry for Helena, keeping his gaze fixed on the man.

She, too, froze when she saw the sleeping figure on the bed. It was undoubtedly Geoffrey de Neville. His thinning blond hair spread on the pillow, the lines of his face relaxed in sleep. His lips were slightly parted and a soft snore slipped out with each exhale.

This was the man who had terrorized Helena, the man who had slithered his way into her home, into her life, and then beaten her and taken the castle for his own. Logan took a step toward the bed, the sword hilt burning in his hand, begging to be drawn.

He could kill Geoffrey de Neville right now, right here. The man deserved to die for what he’d done to Helena—and what he would have done if she hadn’t fled.

A year ago, Logan would have killed Geoffrey—if he’d been paid to do it. But the man he’d been then did not have to be the man he was now. Helena had shown him that. And the man he wanted to be—for himself and for her—was a man of honor, not a man who would kill an unarmed English lord in his sleep, bastard though he was.

As if sensing his thoughts, Helena placed a hand over his sword arm, then tilted her head toward the door. Aye, they were here for more than just vengeance against Geoffrey. They needed to do something far greater than rid the world of de Neville. The people of Craigmoor needed them.

Just as he turned away from Geoffrey’s sleeping form, the door on the other side of the chamber clicked open.

An older woman slipped inside, a pitcher balanced on a tray in her hands. She lifted her graying head, her gaze locking on the two of them. Her eyes went round and she gasped.

“Milady!”

“Ida, nay—” Helena hissed, but it was too late.

The tray tumbled from the woman’s hands and clattered to the floor.

“What in…” Geoffrey bolted upright in the bed, his blue eyes blazing with confusion and outrage.

Logan yanked his sword from its sheath and wrapped one hand around Helena’s wrist. There was no way he could fight his way onto the curtain wall—not if Geoffrey was able to send up an alarm first.

And even if he did manage to kill Geoffrey, Helena was in danger every second they lingered in the castle now that they had been discovered.

All this flashed through his mind like a bolt of lightning. With one last look at the door leading deeper into the castle, he cursed and dragged Helena back toward the tunnels.

As Geoffrey leapt from the bed, scrambling for a weapon, Logan shoved Helena through the tunnel’s opening.

“Helena, run,” he shouted, plunging in after her. “Now!”