Amanda Scott (33 page)

Glancing at her, Waldron said, “He’s no dead yet, lass, but you’d best hope he speaks quickly. I’ve little patience left.”

She sighed, showing her frustration. “I do not know why you persist in believing he can tell you anything. He told me he does not know what you seek, let alone where it is. Surely, you cannot believe that either he or Prince Henry knows the whereabouts of any great treasure.”

“Why not?”

“Well, surely, if they had a treasure, they would be extraordinarily weal—” She broke off, realizing her error too late.

“Exactly so,” he said. “Extraordinarily wealthy. Do you ken naught of your new husband, lass? To be sure, he does not flaunt his wealth, but Henry certainly does. You saw for yourself the grand way he celebrated his new princedom.”

“But you must know as well as I do that Prince Henry’s wealth is inherited from his mother’s family.”

“They do expect everyone to believe that it’s her money, but ’tis odd that my uncle never lived as well as Henry, or even as well as Michael does, come to that.”

“Sir William believed in living simply,” Isobel said. “But Prince Henry has a higher position to maintain. He is expected to do so in a grand style.”

“Faugh, that tale simply covers his taking of a treasure that his supporters expected him to guard and that the Pope expects him to return to the Holy Kirk.”

“I don’t understand how anything he has could belong to the Kirk,” Isobel said, hoping to keep him talking long enough for Michael to recover and defend himself. As the thought crossed her mind, she wondered what she could be thinking, since Waldron had at least ten men inside the castle now and heaven knew how many more outside. That the two of them alone could defend the castle, or themselves, for that matter, even if Michael did regain all his faculties, seemed impossible.

Waldron had not answered her. Instead, he gazed at her as if he were trying to peer into her mind to judge the truth of her words.

She gazed limpidly back at him and said, “Pray, sir, how
could
something in Henry’s keeping belong to the Kirk?”

He shrugged. “I do not try to explain such things to females. ’Tis rare that they can understand any but the simplest political scheming.”

“So it is a political scheme then, this treasure of yours?”

“Enough, lass. I weary of your prating. You merely seek to delay the lesson you have coming, or did you hope I’d forget?” With those ominous words, he turned to the man he had called Dom and said, “Take Sir Michael below. We’ll make use of Roslin’s dungeons, but leave two men at this door and take the others with you. And take devilish good care that you don’t let him get away. I’m going to take the lass above and see how many men guard the ramparts. Send a pair of our lads up to assist me once you have him shackled below and have made sure we hold the castle. But tell them to await my command before they show themselves on the wall.”

“Aye, master,” Dom said. “Is it your wish that we give Sir Michael a taste of what awaits him before you return to deal with him yourself?”

“If he is obedient, just strip off his clothing and hang him, well spread, from the wall shackles,” Waldron said. “Let him anticipate the kiss of the whip whilst he awaits me. If he gives trouble, you may punish him as you will, of course. Just take care that you do not render him unable to talk to me.”

Dom’s smile told Isobel that he looked forward to meting out punishment whether Michael disobeyed or not, and the thought chilled her. But Waldron gave her no more time to think about Michael.

“You may precede me, my lady,” he said as politely as if he were an ordinary visitor.

Gazing up at him with an expression she hoped would pass for helpless innocence, she said, “What are you going to do to me?”

“That must depend on you,” he said. “If you are cooperative and exert yourself to please me, you will doubtless enjoy my questioning. If you do not cooperate, I will teach you some methods the Holy Kirk employs. I warrant you have heard something of how they deal with heretics.”

She did not try to suppress the shudder that shot through her, and saw by his reaction that he enjoyed her fear. With that knowledge threatening to undermine her confidence, she fought for calm as she said, “Do you deem me a heretic, sir?”

“I merely want answers,” he said. “I’ll get them any way I can.”

His matter-of-fact tone, as if they enjoyed a casual conversation, frightened her more than any of his threats had. Her feet began to feel heavy and the steps of the spiral stairway more and more difficult to mount, as if each were higher than the last. She focused her thoughts on Michael instead, and what he faced.

When she hesitated at the next landing, Waldron gripped her elbow, pressing nerves there, and she cried out at the sudden, sharp pain.

“Just the first little lesson,” he murmured.

“Has it occurred to you that if you kill me, or harm me in any way, you will incur the wrath of the Macleans, the Macleods, and the Lord of the Isles?”

“I’ve no intention of killing you, lass. What a waste that would be! But whatever I do, their wrath means naught to me, nor are they at hand to aid you.”

That last bit was certainly true, she mused unhappily, but she and Michael had escaped Waldron’s clutches before, so perhaps they could do so again.

He stopped her when she reached for the latch of the door leading onto the wall-walk. “One moment, madam. I doubt that there can be more than two men on that walk, but should there be more, do not think you can play me any tricks. I’ll defeat as many men as I must to gain what I seek.”

Recalling the role she had chosen to play, she fluttered her lashes in the hope that it would make her look nervous or at least woefully feminine and complacent as she said, “I have no thought of flouting you, sir, not whilst you keep my husband confined below. You are far too strong and powerful.”

“I think you like powerful men,” he said. “Most women do, I’ve found.”

She looked quickly down, hoping he had not seen her anger and would think her overcome, even shy.

“I am glad to see that you can show wisdom, lass,” he said. “Open that door now, but mind you don’t forget who stands behind you.”

Nodding, she obeyed and stepped onto the walk. As she did, one of the lads she had met the previous day came around from the north side, smiling when he saw her. “My lady, be aught amiss? I saw them carrying the master up the hill.”

“He fell and hit his head,” she said. “But have no fear, for he is already much restored to his usual good health.”

“’Tis glad I be t’ hear that,” the lad said. “Being alone up here as I be, I dared no go downstairs t’ see if he were dead.”

“Are those horsemen approaching yonder?” Waldron asked casually, pointing as he stepped around Isobel.

When the lad turned his head, he felled him with a single blow of his fist.

Isobel gasped. “Sakes, sir, do you hurt people just for the pleasure of hurting them? You could simply have sent him downstairs.”

“I don’t need to explain my actions to you, but had I sent him below, he might have met my lads and come to grief.”

“Oh, then ’twas kindness,” Isobel said, remembering the role she was trying to play and seemed so unsuited for. “I am sorry not to have realized as much.”

Giving her a look, he said, “I’ll just bar this door to be sure we’re left alone up here to begin your lesson, but first I’ll see if that lad was telling the truth.”

She watched him maneuver the heavy bar, certain she could lift it by herself and hoping he would leave her alone long enough to escape him. But he grinned at her, and she knew that something in her expression had given her away.

“You’ll come with me, my sweet. I have not enjoyed a woman in weeks, and I shall take great pleasure in enjoying my cousin’s beautiful new wife.”

Although she had suspected that he intended more than just to question her, or even to beat her, both of which he could easily have done by taking her down into the dungeon with Michael, she had not expected him to declare his intention so baldly and wished devoutly that he had not. Until that moment, except for one or two brief instances, she had been able to keep her fear at bay. Now, with the specific threat hanging between them, dread gripped her to her bones.

Her knees felt weak, and her hands trembled. Calling upon advice Hector had given her years before, she bit her lower lip and forced herself to focus on pain.

Focus on your enemy
, he had said.
Make a plan. Do not admit even the possibility of failure, for only if you truly believe you can succeed will you do so.

Waldron clearly expected her to follow him now, since the wall-walk was too narrow for two to walk abreast. It was no more than a low parapet that in several places gave access to wooden hoardings, attached somehow to the stonework to protect archers and other defenders in times of siege or attack. She wondered how he thought he would find space enough there to ravish her.

As she followed him, she felt for her dirk in its usual place, but he kept glancing back, and she had a horrid feeling that even if she could find it in her to stab him in the back, he would look again just as she tried to draw it from its sheath.

Not since she had last faced him had she worn a dress that denied her access to it, and as he rounded the corner ahead of her, she jammed her hand through the slits. Snatching out the dirk, she concealed it in a fold of her skirt.

Her thoughts raced, seeking a plan, but he was so large, so skilled at fighting, that her only hope was that he would expect no resistance from her. In the cave, as far as she knew, he had never suspected that she had done anything but let Michael rescue her, and he still clearly believed as much, since he had just described her as a weak and helpless female.

That knowledge gave her an advantage, she knew. What she did not know was what she could do with it.

“No one else is here,” he said, turning back with leering intent. “I fear our coupling will not be comfortable for you here, lass, but you have done naught to deserve comfort, have you? I’ll test your obedience first, I think.”

“How will you do that?” she asked, amazed by her sudden sense of calm.

“Come here to me, and I’ll show you,” he said.

“I want to know what you mean to do.”

“First, to kiss you,” he said almost amiably. “I want to taste my cousin’s wife a little before I punish her. But if you give me further cause,” he added in the same tone, “I’ll just tip you over my knee and beat you until you scream for mercy, and then I’ll beat you more.”

She had been trying to judge exactly what he was wearing, and she decided that his leather doublet was the sort Borderers called a jack-of-plate. That meant she could not count on piercing it with her dirk and, by trying, might infuriate rather than incapacitate him. So she smiled and said, “I’ve no objection to kissing you, sir.”

“I thought you would not,” he said with a smirk. “I wonder if Michael knows what a flirtatious little bitch you are.”

“He knows,” she said with a sigh. “He does not approve.”

He chuckled, reaching for her.

She allowed him to draw her close, offering no resistance, holding his gaze as he did, even fluttering her lashes, hoping to disarm him more by continuing to appear weak and helpless. She felt momentary fear that he knew her apparent compliance was a sham, but she ruthlessly suppressed it and widened her smile.

“Faith, but you’re a bonny one,” he said, grabbing her shoulders to peer into her face, as if he would memorize her features. “It will give me great pleasure to conquer you, and when you are mine, I’ll teach you many ways of pleasing me.”

He cupped her chin with one hand and tilted her face up, pulling her tight against him as he did. She let her body press against his, noting his readiness to claim her and the welcome fact that his jack did little to protect that part of him.

When his lips touched hers, she had all she could do not to stiffen or resist. Instead, she forced herself to respond, fervently hoping he would assume that she found him irresistible.

When he forced his tongue into her mouth, she nearly gagged but focused on the dirk in her hand, easing it from its concealing fold to one nearer the front of her skirt. Its point was down, and she knew no safe way to reposition it so that she could strike normally, but its handle was good, stout, leather-wrapped steel.

He raised his head, looking into her eyes. “I would have you show me true submission, lass. Unlace your bodice for me, and show me your breasts.”

She licked her lips and said boldly, “I would prefer that you unlace me, sir.”

A glint of pure lust lit his eyes, and he reached at once for her laces, jerking the tie loose and then grabbing the two sides of her bodice, one in each hand. As he wrenched it open, she clutched the dagger with both hands and jerked it up hard, driving its handle right into his bollocks, then ducking low, certain that he would fold forward to try to ease the sharp pain, as indeed he did.

When he did, she snapped her head up, striking the point of his chin hard enough to make her own teeth ring.

He staggered, and while he was off balance, she put her hands up and pushed as hard as she could, hoping to get enough distance between them to elude his grasp.

He lurched, hit the low parapet, and toppled over, twisting in a wild, desperate attempt to catch the rim, but his own weight and momentum carried him over.

He cried out once. Then she heard only the river.

Chapter 20

M
ichael’s whole jaw ached, and the brief exploration he had managed when he regained consciousness revealed at least one loose tooth. He had come to his senses—or some of them, at least—to hear Isobel informing his cousin that he and Henry were honest men and knew nothing about any treasure.

It occurred to him that his fascinating, beautiful wife prevaricated with the dexterity of one well practiced in the art. He would take care to remember that skill in future, and to keep his wits about him.

Waldron’s men had not been gentle with him, and he had had all he could do to keep feigning unconsciousness, especially when they nearly dropped him as they crossed the treacherously narrow bit of path just before the castle entrance. Knowing he needed as much time as possible to recover from the blow, and to be ready to grab whatever opportunity came his way, he had eased his eyes open just enough to look through his lashes, keeping his sore jaw slack and his body relaxed.

The lass surprised him. She had sounded perfectly calm, although he knew she had to be terrified. She and Waldron had followed the men carrying him, and when Waldron grabbed her arm and jerked her forward as if she were not moving quickly enough to suit him, Michael had felt a muscle twitch in his cheek and other muscles in his body tense. Realizing his bearers would likely detect even such slight movements, he had allowed himself a weak moan and relaxed again, hoping they would see nothing much amiss.

At the castle entrance, he prayed that his own lads would make no trouble, because he knew the two at the gate would be no match against so many and Isobel might be hurt in a scuffle. But she dealt with them deftly, too, no doubt threatened into compliance, and moments later they were inside.

He heard the yett snap shut, and knew no one could get in. Then Waldron took Isobel up to the ramparts with threats of employing the Kirk’s methods for heretics. His certainty of his cousin’s most likely intention stirred a wish that he possessed the power to turn him instantly to stone, but since magical powers were mythical, he could do no more than any other mortal. Still, with Waldron on the ramparts, two of his men guarding the main entrance, and others searching the castle, Michael knew he’d have only the four to deal with below. Each was well armed, but that meant only that he would have weapons again, which was good, since Waldron had taken his.

Dom lingered at the entrance landing long enough to be sure Fin Wylie knew his men were to search the castle swiftly and without stirring rebellion among the servants. Then he ordered his own lot to carry their burden downstairs.

Michael’s worry about Isobel’s fate at Waldron’s hands increased with each step, and he wished fervently that his bearers would go faster.

The men’s footsteps echoed through the stairwell as they descended, grunting occasionally and complaining of his weight. He hoped Dom would stop them at the kitchen level, where someone might see them and raise an alarm. But they continued to the lowest level, where the only light came through high, barred vents, although they were still some ten feet above the river.

He retained his patience as they bore him into the largest cell, where it became clear that Waldron had not explained how the cells were arranged. Nor had he warned the men to provide themselves with torches, so the lack of light made it hard for Dom to find the wall shackles that his master had told him to use.

Brusquely, he ordered his three minions to set down their burden and help him locate them.

Michael waited only until they had turned away before rising swiftly and silently to his feet, grabbing the nearest man, and quickly throttling him. With no time for more humane treatment, he managed the deed before the others realized aught was amiss. As his victim slumped lifeless to the floor, Michael pulled the sword from the scabbard strapped across the man’s back. The whisper of sound startled the others, and all three turned. Dom was first to draw his sword.

Michael knocked its blade up and thrust straight through the man’s heart. The other two quickly fell, too, and leaving them, he hurried up the stairs.

The sound of voices from above stopped him midway up the flight between the kitchen level and the main entryway. Holding the sword, blade-down, against his leg, he pressed hard against the wall and listened carefully.

Isobel peered over the parapet but saw Waldron nowhere below. A dirt pathway made a tan ribbon at the base of the cliff, but his body was not sprawled there. To be sure, the river flowed on the other side of that path, and the path looked no more than four or five feet wide, but if he had fallen into the river, as fast and full and boiling as it was, surely he had drowned. And even if he were still alive, he would tumble along in the water for at least a few more minutes, and it would take even longer for him to crawl ashore and find a way back inside the castle.

Having thus reassured herself, she hurried to the stairway door with dirk in hand and found the young guardsman on the walk there, groggily trying to sit up.

“What’s your name?” she demanded, helping him.

“Jeb Elliot, m’lady.” He shook his head. “What happened?”

“Have you a sword, Jeb?”

“Nay, mistress, for what use would one be t’ me up here?” he said, looking at her in bewilderment.

“But you must have weapons!”

“Aye, a bow and arrows by yonder hoarding, two axes hanging near them, a few spears at each tower, and me own dirk. Where be Lord Waldron?”

“Gone,” she said curtly. “Hush now, Jeb, and get on your feet if you can. If not, just move back away from the door, because I want to open it.”

“But why—?”

“Do as I bid you,” she said sharply, slipping her dirk back into its sheath in order to have both hands free to deal with the heavy bar holding the door shut.

Remembering that the men Waldron had ordered to come upstairs might be waiting, she lifted it carefully, trying to imagine what she could say to them. Having decided to tell them he was on the far side of the walkway, dealing alone with two highly skilled swordsmen, she was almost disappointed to find the stairway empty.

“Follow me,” she said to Jeb Elliot. “Keep your dirk near at hand but do not show it unless I tell you to.”

“It’s in me boot, but should I no stay here and keep guard on the wall?”

“We must help Sir Michael. Evil men have taken him to the dungeons. At least ten of them have entered the castle, so we cannot risk showing our weapons. We’ll have a better chance if they think us unarmed.”

He made no further protest but followed her silently.

Holding her skirt up with one hand, and lightly touching the wall with the other, she hurried down the stairs, slowing as she neared the hall landing.

Hearing only an intermittent murmur of masculine voices from the level below, and seeing no one in the hall, she took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. Then, looking back at the lad long enough to command him to follow her but to stay silent no matter what should take place, she moved with careful dignity down the stairs.

Emerging on the entryway landing, she strode purposefully toward the alcove, making no attempt to muffle her steps. As she had hoped, one of the men Waldron had left there stuck his head out curiously.

“Your master requires your assistance above,” she said. “Go to him at once.”

“But he told us to stay here,” the second man protested, emerging behind him. “Why should he now desire us to leave our post?”

“Sakes, do you think he confides in me?” Isobel snapped. “I just obey his commands. Mayhap you, who know him better than I, believe you can disobey him with impunity. I dared not question him and can only tell you what he said.”

“We’ll go, my lady,” the first man said, turning ashen. “’Tis only that it be most unlike the master t’ send for us both after commanding us t’ stay put.”

She shrugged. “’Tis possible, I suppose, that I misunderstood him, for I vow the man makes me quake in my shoes. If you believe I am mistaken, then go and ask him what he wants. He stayed above to truss up the two guards he overpowered there, and threatened to kill them both if that lad on the stair yonder does not guard me well. I do not want to face your master again until I must.”

As the two looked at each other, she held her breath and prayed that Jeb Elliot would not speak or allow his expression to reveal his astonishment at her lies.

After what seemed an age, the elder of the two said to the younger, “I dinna think his lordship will blame us an one of us goes t’ make sure o’ his order whilst the other stays at his post, but if her ladyship be mistaken, he’ll blame us both if he didna mean for us both t’ leave. I’ll just go and ask him.”

The younger guard grimaced and barely waited for his senior to vanish up the stairway before muttering, “Aye,
and
take credit for doubting a woman whilst making me look defiant if the master wanted us both straightaway.”

“Then go with him,” Isobel said as if his decision had naught to do with her. She had managed to turn casually and watch as the other dashed up the stairway, and saw to her relief that Jeb still stood there. Looking back at the remaining man, she saw that he was still trying to decide what to do.

His gaze shifted suspiciously to Jeb.

“Ye there,” he said grimly. “Ha’ ye weapons on ye?”

“Nay,” Jeb replied, earnestly shaking his head. “I’ve only me bow and arrows above. I’m nae swordsman.”

“Aye, well, ye seem too young t’ trust wi’ a sword, but come here t’ me and let me see that ye ha’ no dirk in yon flapping great boots o’ yours.”

Jeb glanced at Isobel, and she nodded, so he obeyed, grimacing.

“Stand wi’ your face t’ the wall,” the guard ordered. “I dinna want t’ look at ye, just to inspect your boots.”

Isobel saw Jeb’s lower lip tremble, but he obeyed again, clearly terrified to expose his back to an enemy. Hearing a sound above, and fearing the elder guard’s return, she drew her dirk again and watched the younger one poke his hand into Jeb’s boots, finding the dirk in the left one.

As he grabbed it, she put the point of her own dirk against the back of his neck, pressing hard enough to let him feel its prick. “Let go of that dirk now, and don’t move unless you want me to slice off your head with this one,” she said.

The man froze, then slowly eased his hand away from Jeb’s dagger.

“Put your arms straight out from your sides,” she said.

He obeyed, moving slowly.

“Move away from him,” she told Jeb. “Don’t bend to get your dirk,” she added swiftly as he moved to do so. “Get well away from him before you do.”

She still had her blade pressed into the man’s neck so hard that a bead of blood oozed around its sharp point, but she was not certain what to do next. She knew Jeb was too nervous to be trustworthy and feared that the moment she stepped back, her captive would turn and confront her, perhaps even snatch the weapon from her hand. The wisest thing, she knew, was to kill him, but while it was one thing to kill a man attempting to attack her or mayhap one who had threatened her, it was quite another to kill one who had done naught but obey his master.

“Keep your arms out straight,” she warned him. “I do not have much control over my temper just now, so you would be wise to do exactly as I say.”

“Aye, my lady, I ken fine that I shouldna frighten a woman holding a dagger,” he said, and his voice trembled enough to convince her that he meant it.

With a sense of relief, she took a step back, and as she did, a wraithlike shape sped past her, she heard a thud, and the man collapsed to the stone floor.

“That should keep him out of the way,” Isabella said with satisfaction. “Never leave a villain standing, my dear, if you can render him senseless.”

Isobel stared at the countess in shock, realizing the thud had been the result of the iron poker in her ladyship’s hand making contact with the poor man’s skull.

“Close your mouth, my dear, lest you swallow a fly.”

Obeying, Isobel swallowed, but then her wits returned. “There is a second guard above, madam. We should remove this one before he returns.”

“He will not return,” Isabella said.

“Faith, did you knock him on the head, too?”

With a wistful smile, Isabella said, “Nay, for I was below him on the stairs, with no way to creep up behind him without his hearing me. However, my husband believed in preparing for any event, so he equipped the upper door with strong iron bolts on this side. I shot them both, so unless that man leaps from the wall and comes in through the main door, he won’t trouble us. What have you done with Waldron?”

“How did you know he was here?”

“Our people are well trained to warn us of visitors, as you will learn. Now, where is he, if you please?”

Ruefully, remembering how fondly Isabella had greeted him at Kirkwall, Isobel said, “I’m afraid I pushed him off the wall into the river.”

“Excellent, so he will not trouble us either. And Michael?”

“Below,” Isobel said with a shudder as she imagined what they were probably doing to him. “Four of Waldron’s men are with him, madam.”

Isabella frowned. “Only four?”

“A number of others are searching the castle.”

“I see, but only four are with Michael, you say?” When Isobel nodded, her ladyship said, “Then either Waldron trained those four even better than I thought, or he is a fool. Come quickly, my dear. Oh, just a moment,” she added, turning to Jeb, who still stood gaping at her.

As well he might, Isobel thought. Doubtless she was gaping, herself.

“You there, Jeb Elliot,” Isabella said. “I saw horsemen in the glen, and as far as I could tell, looking out from the one hall window that lets one see anything, our men still guard the gate and the upper track. Slip out now, and tell our lads to shut the gate and bar it. Then tell them to run up the Raven.”

“Aye, my lady, straightaway,” the lad said.

“The Raven is our battle standard, my dear,” Isabella added as Jeb hurried to unbar the yett. “If those men below are Waldron’s, it may frighten them off. If they are not his, mayhap they have been frightened off already. Now, shall I go first?”