Come the Morning (25 page)

She had moved carefully ahead a few feet at a time, feeling more and more sick at heart and desperately worried. She didn't dare dwell on what might have happened. She had to somehow escape this situation. She was grateful for having spent so much time growing up under her father's influence. The only time she was completely unarmed was when she was naked. She had taken her sword, and she carried a knife, as well. The Viking hadn't thought to make any attempt to disarm her.

“Why have we come here—if they will all be dead and accusing one another?” she asked.

“Ah, lady, we are away from the camp, but close enough so that we will know the outcome. Eventually, we'll head to the border. Perhaps, in time, I'll even take you home. And then again, perhaps Waryk will survive. If so, I will still have you. His prize. The lady of the land. To be bestowed on him for all the services he has rendered—all the deaths he has brought about. So why else would I take you into the cliffs alone? Dear Lady, that I may plunder all your riches—and take what would be Laird Lion's.”

She was ahead of him now by several feet, and saw a trail leading downward that crossed onto a second crop of rock. She hurried on up a few steps, allowing him to come nearer, and when she knew he was on a bluff with an edge, she suddenly turned, shoving him fiercely.

He swore, stunned, and staggered back, his sword clanking and falling against him. She knew she hadn't done him any real damage, but she had given herself precious moments with which to run.

She did so.

Scampering over rocks, cliffs, outcroppings of grass, weed, dirt, and tenacious saplings, she kept moving. Downward first, upward as she saw that the rock just a few feet from her was riddled with dark caverns. She climbed higher, then cried out, pulled back as he seized hold of her cloak. She was captured, pulled inexorably downward. She clung to the rock above her at first; then, realizing that she was losing her hold, she allowed herself to fall. Her weight sent him flying backwards, but he quickly recovered, trying to straddle her. She reached for the knife sheathed at her calf, a small, ornamental weapon her father had given her, but—she prayed—sharp enough to throw him off once again. She had never felt so desperate, so sickened, and so afraid. When he leaned into her, she took careful aim at his side, knowing that she hadn't the strength to pierce the man's leather breast armor with her small blade.

She caught him in the ribs. He bellowed with pain, pulling back. She shoved him, and he rolled, and she was up.

He staggered to his feet, drawing his sword. She cast aside her cape, and drew her own. For long fierce moments, she fought for her life. He was powerful. She parried his every thrust, but she didn't know how long her strength or her slim blade would hold out. He raised his weapon for a lethal blow; she saw the movement, and swirled and swung upward, cutting his thigh, ducking his blow. He bellowed, hunching down with the impetus of his own attempted strike.

She shoved him, and he fell.

She ran, knowing that she hadn't the strength left in her arms to keep fighting. She headed swiftly along the rock.

“Lady, now I cannot tell you the torment I will inflict upon you, you will not begin to know mercy, I swear it. There will be nothing left of your pride and spirit when I finish, by all the gods!” he roared after her, and she was very afraid, knowing that he meant the threat.

If he caught her again, she'd have to kill him.

Or die.

She ran, escaping him for some distance. Then, praying he did not see her, she raced into one of the caverns. The darkness was, at first, overwhelming. She stood dead still, getting her bearings.

Then she moved more deeply into the shadows.

They followed the trail of the unknown outlaws to the crags by the loch, and there the trail ended. Waryk dismounted, and saw that someone had tried to erase the tracks by brushing the dirt with a branch. But the work had been hastily, carelessly, done, and he could see that the horses had been ridden toward a cave. He raised a hand for silence from those who followed, and mounted Mercury once again. He nudged the great horse, and they started for the cave. He was nearly there when he heard the high-pitched scream of a berserker battle cry, and suddenly, men on horseback stormed out into the night from the cavern by the water.

His mace swinging, a huge bearded man bore down on Waryk. He judged his opponent's speed and strength, and drew his claymore, ducking the blow of the mace and countering with his blade. The man went down on the wet earth. A second man charged him; as they clashed swords, he was aware that Daro and Angus, behind him, had taken on opponents. The enemy outnumbered them greatly; Waryk thought briefly that if he had been tricked, and if Daro turned and fought with the Vikings, he and Angus would be in serious trouble. He couldn't dwell long on the thought; staying alive was too fierce a preoccupation.

One after another, the enemy bore down on him. He used only his claymore, swinging right and left with all his might. The man he fought was wearing leather chest armor, but he wore a plate himself beneath his shirt and woolen tartan—he'd never trusted any man far enough to be defenseless. His opponent nearly found his mark, but Mercury was swift and sure, the horse's dancing steps sweeping Waryk just out of range before his enemy's great blade could slit his ribs. He nudged Mercury, and the horse's impetus allowed him to slice through his foe's leather armor, straight to the heart. The second man fell dead.

Waryk turned within his saddle to see that Daro was engaged in deadly battle; if he had been a party to this abduction, he was willing to slay his coconspirator. Angus, too, was involved in hand-to-hand combat, but just as Waryk determined to come to the aid of his friend, another man burst forth from the cavern.

Waryk nudged Mercury carefully, urging him hard to the cavern. Was Mellyora within?

He didn't reach the cavern. He clashed with the man just outside. The waters of the loch rose into the cavern and as their horses jostled for position, the cold water of the loch soared and sprayed around them. He thought that Mellyora must be inside. Anxious to reach her and determine if she'd been harmed, he fought with a renewed strength. His opponent fought with battle-ax and sword, but Waryk gave no quarter in return, slashing with a fury. He split the battle-ax, and his opponent threw it to the ground. Their blades next clashed; the ring of steel seemed louder than thunder. His next blow felled the man, catching him in the neck. He caught at his throat from where his life's blood gushed, and fell into the water. Waryk dismounted from Mercury, rushing into the cave, his sword still ready. “Mellyora!”

There was no answer, and he wondered wryly if she would come to his call, but though there were more horses in the cavern, there was no sign of Mellyora or any other men.

He rushed out, seeing that Angus had just slain his opponent and that Daro was bringing his sword down on the man he battled.

“Keep him alive!” Waryk roared, but he had cried out too late, and Daro managed to just slightly deflect his blow. The man fell, and Daro leapt down from his mount as Waryk rushed forward. Together they hunched over the dying man.

“Where is the Lady Mellyora?” Waryk demanded harshly.

“Who are you? Where is my niece?” Daro demanded in Norse. The man, aware he was dying, smiled up at him.

“Join me in Valhalla!” he cried, pulling a knife, and trying to slam it into Daro's chest.

Daro caught the man's wrist, deflecting his blow. The man stared at Waryk. “A prize no more, tarnished gold, taken, alas, me laird … Viking's daughter, Viking's prize … she'll not be yours, Scotsman.”

“Where is she?” Waryk demanded, catching the man by his hair and lifting his head by it. “Where—”

The man didn't reply. He coughed blood, and died.

Waryk rose, swearing in frustration, and fighting the suspicion that Daro just might have killed the man to keep him from talking. “Waryk, there are more horses than there are dead men,” Angus said, and indicated the cliffs.

“Aye!” Warykcried. “The cliffs. The caverns in the cliffs.”

“Shall I start here?” Angus asked.

“I'll move to the east,” Daro said.

“And I to the west,” Waryk agreed.

“Mellyora!” Daro called, but Waryk caught him suddenly by the arm, and shook his head.

“But we must find—”

“We must find her carefully. There are more men out there. We may need to see them, before they see us. They have Mellyora.”

Daro fell silent, his lips pursed grimly. “Aye, then,” he murmured softly. “We'll search carefully and quietly, until we find her. And the rest of the traitors within my own camp!”

“And when we find them—” Waryk said with tight anger.

“They are dead men,” Daro swore. “They lived in my camp, they broke bread with my men, and then they betrayed me—and seized my niece!”

“Aye, they are dead men,” Waryk agreed. “But not until we know who they are, and why they have seized Mellyora.”

Mellyora didn't know now just how far she had moved into the cavern. There was scarcely any light seeping in, but she moved back as deeply as she dared, wondering what kind of varmint might frequent the area. Wolves? Could they climb so high? She didn't know. What other manner of creature? Bears, possibly? If only she could see …

When daylight came, she would be in a better position. In this darkness, she couldn't see her enemy, and neither could her enemy see her. But daylight might serve her well, since she was nimble and agile in these crags. She could move swiftly while watching for the man. He could not move so well as he searched for her.

She sat against the cavern wall, knowing that he walked the cliffs, knowing that he sought her, that he longed to kill her.

Knowing that there were more of them out there.

She barely dared to breathe.

Eventually, she realized that she could dimly see the entrance to the cavern. Moonlight had escaped cloud coverage now, and she could at least see form and shadow at the entrance. She blinked, then stiffened as if she had been pierced through with steel—there was someone there.

She heard nothing. She waited, her heart racing. Had he found her? No, now there was nothing, nothing at all. Had she imagined the bulk of the man at the cave's entrance. Had it been a trick of the night, of the moon, of the fear she was feeling?

She closed her eyes, listening.

There, just the slightest sound …

Someone …

Moving. Near her. Carefully, furtively, in the darkness. Coming closer and closer …

If she didn't breathe, didn't move, would he see her, or know that she was there?

She caught her breath. She strained to see against the darkness. There was a shape …

Yes, there was someone in the dark space with her, she could hear his breathing, his pulse, the pounding of his heart Closer, closer; this time, he'd kill her.

She could make out his shape. A man, hunched just a few feet from her. He was staring at her through the darkness. Could he see her, had his eyes adjusted so quickly? Oh, God, did she still have an advantage?

In seconds he would be upon her. She knew that she had to strike, and strike surely this time. Fear raced through her like lightning. She had but one chance. In the darkness, she might aim too wildly with her sword. She needed her knife. She reached for it, knowing that she had to sail at him with strength and impetus. If she wounded him, and did not strike surely enough to kill …

He started to move. He had seen her, sensed her, smelled her …

She leapt up with a bloodcurdling cry, her arm raised high for the strike. She flew at him, stabbing downward with all her strength.

He swore, rising opportunely. She missed his throat. Chest armor deflected her blow. She heard a ripping of fabric, but knew instantly that she had missed flesh. Swearing, shrieking, insanely panicked and certain she was about to die, she kicked, scratched, pummeled, and fought. But no matter how powerful and vicious her fight, he managed to battle her down and capture her wrists, and the knife was wrested from her. She was thrown to the ground, and he was over her, straddling her. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe …

“Damn you, be done with it!” she spat out. And she waited for a blade to slice her flesh.

C
HAPTER
12

No blade fell.

“Damn you, be done with it?” came a deep, husky query.

The voice stunned her. She wasn't about to die—she didn't think.

She inhaled on a deep breath, shaking. She hadn't known how dearly she wanted to live.

“Laird … Lion?” she whispered. She still couldn't see in the darkness, but she was growing very familiar with the sound of his voice, his touch … even his scent.

“Ah,” he murmured dryly, and the suspicion he bore her was heavy on the air. “You didn't know?”

“Nay, you fool,” she charged him, shaking. He was angry, yes, contemptuous of her, but she was going to live. “I didn't know it was you, and you should have said something, told me, warned me—”

“Ah.” Now there was the slightest touch of amusement in his voice. “And you would have greeted me differently, knowing it was I? Pardon my confusion, but didn't you run here to escape me?”

“I thought that you were—that Viking.”

“Which Viking? There are Vikings everywhere. I've even been told that I do have Viking in my blood as well, m'lady. And then, of course, we all know that you are Viking.”

“And Scottish.”

“A Viking's daughter,” he acknowledged.

“Damn you, I thought you were the man who—”

“Abducted you. You didn't go willingly?”

The sound of his voice was humiliating. “Please,” she murmured, coolly, politely, “if you're not going to kill me, will you let me up?”

“Soon. You've not actually answered my question. If you'd known it was I, would the greeting have been different?”