Not Mine to Give (2 page)

“Take a warning from one who knows. His lordship is losing patience with you,
Scot. If you don’t tell him where you hid that crown he’s after soon, you’ll be laid out with your toes cocked to the sky and—”

Crites clutched his hands to his throat. His face turned a deep purple as he gasped for air. The tankard of ale crashed to the floor, the remaining liquid soaking into the dirt. Then, he crumpled into a heap beside it, a wide-eyed look of panicked disbelief on his face.

Duncan stared at the man’s chest, unable to tell if he was still breathing. He hoped so. He wanted to kill the bastard himself.

Duncan held his breath and waited. A deafening quiet blanketed the small cell. Then the key turned in the lock and the door opened. Bright light from a torch filled the room and he squinted his eyes until his vision adjusted to the brightness.

A woman, slight in stature with hair the color of burnt honey, walked toward him. Her pale blue dress hung over her form, so loose Duncan thought she wore the ill fitting gown on purpose to hide the curves beneath. The breath caught in his throat. Her open beauty held his gaze and he couldn’t take his eyes from her face.

With shoulders lifted and chin raised high, she placed the torch in the holder on the wall and closed the distance between them. Duncan focused his gaze on her vivid blue eyes and deepened the frown on his face. He expected her to lower her gaze or at least stop and come no further. He was used to that reaction.

She did neither. She stared at him with unwavering boldness then followed one step with another until she was so close he could smell the rose water she’d bathed in.

“Are you Duncan Ferguson, laird of
Lochmore Castle and clan Ferguson?”

He glared at the English woman as if by looks alone he could strike her down. Her reaction was to steel her shoulders and ask her question another time. This time in Gaelic.

Duncan cocked one eyebrow. “I am.” He answered in English.

“You are familiar with Ian
MacIntyre, laird of Kilgern Castle?”

“I am.”

“Can you tell me where he is?” Her question was almost a demand.

Duncan took as deep a breath as his ribs would allow. He could only guess the identity of this beautiful woman. Ian had talked of nothing else but his smiling English wife with flaxen hair and eyes as blue and fathomless as the North Sea. His description had not begun to do her justice.

“Nay. I came in search of the Ferguson medallion which is rightfully mine. I had hoped Ian would be back from the fighting, but the minute I crossed the border onto MacIntyre land, Bolton’s men took me captive. I have graced your dungeon too long, milady, and when next I see your husband, I will be sure to tell him I was not pleased with the hospitality in his absence.”

She twisted her hands again in the folds of her gown and Duncan was impressed with the wifely concern he sensed in her.

“When did you last see Ian?”

“I have
na seen him since the fighting at Dryburgh.”

“Is he still alive?”

He wished to God he knew. “I canna swear to it.” Duncan noticed a reaction. He detected a catch in her breathing before she twisted her hands in the folds of her gown. “How long has the bastard Englishman been here?” he asked.

“His men stormed the keep five days past. There were too many to defend against. The earl is searching for the crown.”

“Aye.”

Long, dark lashes closed over her blue eyes for a moment before she spoke. “Are you a friend of Ian’s?”

“Aye. As close as brothers and more. I owe him my life.”

She gave a short nod before she spoke. “On behalf of the laird of clan
MacIntyre, I beg to ask a favor on that debt. I have need of your—”

The cell door flung open and William Bolton burst into the room. He hesitated only long enough to glance at Crites’ crumpled body on the floor, then lift his deadly gaze to the woman. Two men, mammoth in size and armed with ready swords followed close on his heels.

“Alas, my lady,” Bolton said, clenching his hands into white-knuckled fists. “Again you cause me concern. I do not look kindly upon anyone murdering my servants.”

Bolton studied the lady with a menacing glare. A glare that made Duncan’s stomach turn in revolt. “Step away from the
Scot.” She stepped back and he made a wide circle around the pole to which Duncan was bound. “I could scarce believe the news that you had left your comfortable chamber to come visit the cold dungeon.”

Duncan took note of Bolton’s hands. The left still clenched into a fist at his side while the right caressed the hilt of his whip. Duncan’s heart beat at the base of his throat in warning. The Englishman was on the verge of madness and Duncan feared what he would do.

The lady must have sensed it too, for she tucked her hands deeper into the folds of her skirt and took a step nearer his side as if it were possible for him to protect her. Duncan twisted his bound hands, praying for a miracle. But there was none.

“Three nights past I thought my steward was mistaken when he said you were seen sneaking back to your room. Then, we captured the Ferguson. I didn’t think there was any significance to his appearance and your disappearance. Until now.” Bolton gripped the handle of his whip and released it from the notch on his belt. “Could it be that you sneaked out of the keep to meet in private with our brave laird?”

Bolton held out the handle of his whip and lifted Lady MacIntyre’s chin. “Could it be that while your husband is fighting to protect his home from the dreaded English, you, my dear lady, are so lonesome that you warm the neighboring laird’s bed?”

Duncan pulled at his hands behind his back, struggling to release the leather straps. A low growl came from the back of his throat as anger raged within him.

In contrast, Lady MacIntyre slowly raised her hand and pushed the hilt of the whip away from her face. “You are disgusting, my lord. I am ashamed to call you English.”

A blue vein popped out on Bolton’s neck and the muscles in his jaw worked frantically. “Why are you here to see the prisoner, my lady?”

“I am merely curious, my lord. I heard talk from the servants and came to see if what they said was true.”

“And what talk did you hear?”

“Nothing you would wish to hear, my lord.”

“What talk!”

With a slight shrug of her shoulders, the lady lifted her chin and faced the earl. “It’s rumored that no matter how harshly the mighty Earl of Rivershorn tortures the Ferguson, the English lord is not man enough to bring the lowly Scot to his knees.”

Bright flashes of warning went off in Duncan’s head. By the saints! What was the woman doing? It was one thing to possess spunk, but such a reckless display of her bravery could get them both killed. Ian had described his wife as meek and demure. Duncan prayed to see a glimmer of either of those qualities.

With a lift of her chin, Lady MacIntyre turned her back to the earl and walked toward the door. Duncan held his breath, wishing her to safety. The two guards took a step together to block her exit.

“I wish to leave, my lord. You have no right to keep me.”

“I have every right, my lady. Forgive me if I am in error, but there is naught you can do about it. Now,” Bolton said, forcing Lady MacIntyre to step back. “Why did you come here?”

She took a step closer to Duncan. “I told you. I was curious.”

“And your curiosity is the reason Crites is lying lifeless on the ground? I think not, my lady.” Bolton fingered his whip, running the hard leather thong over his palm. “I think you and the Scot are lovers and you came to the dungeon to set him free.”

“And I think you are a fool, my lord.”

The whip in Bolton’s hand slashed through the air, making a mark across Duncan’s chest. It missed Lady MacIntyre by a breath.

“Do you know what else I think, my lady?” Bolton paced the small room, letting the strap run through his fingers. “I think perhaps
you
have the Bishop’s Crown.”

She lifted her shoulders in a taunting gesture. “You are right, my lord. As you can see, I am wearing it.”

Bolton grabbed the lady’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed. “I am not the fool you think, my lady. Maybe you don’t have the crown, but perhaps you can be used to persuade your Scot lover to tell me where it is.”

She pushed his hand away, and Bolton raised his fist as if to strike her.

Duncan went wild. “Nay! I tell you. I do na know where it is!” He pulled against his bonds with as much strength as he could find.

As if Lady
MacIntyre realized the danger, she stepped closer, pressing her back against his chest. He felt her stiff form against him, but she at least was wise enough to hold her tongue.

“I do
na have the crown, Bolton.” Duncan’s voice roared in the confines of the small cell. “I do na know where it is.”

“Lies! After the crown was stolen by the Scots, it was given to the Ferguson priest. We found him on his way back from
Kilgern Castle, but he would confess nothing before he died. Since the crown was not at Lochmore Castle, it has to be here. Either you or Lady MacIntyre have hidden it.”

Duncan looked down on the lady. The impassive expression on her face told him nothing. Only her slight trembling as she leaned against him gave evidence of her
fear. “Milady?”

Her face lifted at his soft word. He tried to read the look in her eyes. Confusion? Indecision? Fear? Was she searching for an answer? Duncan had one ready. “Give him the crown, lass.”

“Would you give him the crown, my lord?” She spoke in Gaelic.

“I would rather die first, but I am
Scot. You are English. Give him the crown.”

Dark, thick lashes rested on her flushed cheeks, then she breathed a shaky sigh. She turned to face Bolton. “I would have a kiss first from my
Scot.”

Duncan stiffened.

Bolton roared a vile oath, then cracked his whip in the air. “Bloody hell! The wench is in danger of losing her life and she begs for a kiss from her lover.”

Bolton’s hand twisted on the hilt of his whip as if he couldn’t wait to flay flesh and spill blood with its crack. “By all means, my lady. You may kiss your lusty
Scot. And then I will have my crown.”

She slowly turned until their gazes locked. Duncan’s voice was little more than a whisper, heard by no one but her. “Nay, my lady.”

She whispered back. “Yes.” She stood on her toes to kiss him.

Dear God, he couldn’t return her kiss. She was another man’s wife. A man he loved like a brother; a man he owed his life.

He turned his face away from her.

Her fingers gently touched his cheek, forcing his gaze to
return to her face. The pleading in her eyes more than he could bear. “A kiss, my Scot. I beg you.”

Duncan hesitated, then lowered his head and covered her mouth. She reached for him. It was as if once their lips touched he was helpless to deny her. Later he would get on his knees and beg God’s forgiveness for his sin, but all he wanted at this moment was to touch her and feel her mouth under his.

His mouth opened and she parted her lips beneath his. She wound one arm around his neck and the other trailed a path to his bound wrists. Her touch burned his flesh; set him ablaze.

He ground his lips against her, wanting more of her, but the feel of warm metal being pressed into the palm of his hand cooled his senses. He stilled, his lips still caressing hers; his mouth drinking from her sweetness.

Duncan clasped the metal in his fist and rubbed his thumb over the embellishment. He could feel the raised span of an eagle’s wings and the three small stones blazing the crown atop the eagle’s head.

The Ferguson medallion.

Somehow she had taken it from Bolton. The crest his ancestors had fought and given their lives to protect. If he died today, it would be with the Ferguson medallion touching his flesh.

Duncan lifted his face to gaze into her eyes. “Thank you, milady.” She raised her hand and cupped his cheek in her palm. His face was rough with three days’ growth, but she caressed his flesh as if she’d touched him often. As if to touch him was of importance to her.

“God protect,” she whispered in Gaelic. “I have failed.”

“
’Twas naught you could do.”

She took a deep breath then turned to face Bolton.

“I would have my crown now, Lady MacIntyre.” Bolton stepped forward and held out his hands as if the lady could miraculously make the object appear and place it in his grasp. Her words stopped him short.

“You will not get your crown from me, my lord.”

“No!” Bolton erupted in a rage beyond any Duncan had yet witnessed. His face turned a mottled red while a dozen or more bluish veins popped out over his neck and forehead. With a viselike grip he clamped his hand around her arm and threw her to the ground at Duncan’s feet. The knife she had concealed in her hand fell to the floor, and Bolton kicked it out of her reach.

Duncan realized a fear greater than any he’d experienced on the battlefield. At least in battle he’d had the free use of his hands and could move toward or away from the enemy. Here he was helpless, unable to protect the mistress from Bolton’s insane rage.