The Rose Red Bride JK2 (29 page)

Her eyes flashed with fury and she turned upon the men who labored diligently behind her. Erik saw now that a number of wooden crates were stacked around the perimeter of the chamber: they were old, their wood stained and their corners battered as if they were of no value. All the same, it was clear that they were being removed.

Erik wondered what their contents might be and thought better than to ask.

One third of the chamber was completely cleared: a number of men carried crates through a lit portal on the other side of the chamber but returned empty-handed. They were dressed as men of little repute, with patches on their knees and the cloth well-worn. Their garments were wet on the shoulders and their hair was wet, as well. Erik assumed this meant not only that the rain had begun in earnest, but that these men somehow were reaching the outside.

His heart leapt at the prospect of escape from Ravensmuir’s labyrinth being so close at hand.

A burly man with a golden loop hanging from one ear seemed to be directing the effort, for he watched the men keenly and berated those who slowed their pace.

It was to this man that Rosamunde shouted. “You could have been of aid, Padraig, instead of watching with bemusement.”

That man smiled. “You are too cursedly fortunate to drown, Rosamunde.” His smile broadened to a wicked grin. “And perhaps it would suit me well to be without your direction.”

“To claim my ship, no doubt,” Rosamunde muttered, wringing out her tabard with clear agitation. “All men are wrought the same, it is clear, for each thinks solely of his own advantage.”

Rosamunde eyed Vivienne, who stood her ground but clearly braced herself for questions. “And what are you doing in these caverns? Should you not be safely in your bed in Kinfairlie?” Rosamunde spared a stern glance for Elizabeth. “I would have welcomed your absence, as well, if it had meant that fiend was not here.”

Elizabeth fell to her knees, her gaze fixed on the surface of the water. “This is not right. Darg has not appeared.”

Rosamunde snorted. “And good riddance, to be sure.” She propped her hands upon her hips and gave Vivienne a steely gaze. “Well?”

“We are aiding a prisoner’s escape,” Vivienne began.

Rosamunde looked pointedly about herself, then arched a brow. “And you do well enough, for there is no sign of him or her.”

Before Vivienne could summon him, Erik stepped out of the shadows. Rosamunde assessed him with a boldness uncommon in women. He had no chance to introduce himself, however, for Elizabeth decided in that moment to wait no longer.

“Darg must be in peril,” she said, casting off her cloak and shoes. “I do not think she can swim.”

“Darg is immortal!” Vivienne protested.

“The world would be all the more merry with one less vengeful spriggan in it,” Rosamunde said sourly.

“She almost drowned in a pitcher of ale once before!” Elizabeth cried with dismay, then jumped into the chasm of water.

Rosamunde swore again then shouted. Padraig ran across the cavern, though Erik reached the spot where Elizabeth had jumped in first. The girl had not yet come to the surface. Erik dropped his blade and his cloak, then leapt into the water after her.

The water was cold beyond belief and darker than dark. Erik shivered then forced his eyes open. He spied Elizabeth far below him. He rose to the surface, took a deep breath, then plunged in pursuit of her.

Erik saw then that a long tendril of seaweed had found its way into this chasm. The motion of that dark plume and of the water itself indicated that the sea’s tides could still be felt here.

Which meant that it was close indeed.

Erik thought at first that Elizabeth was tangled within the seaweed, but she gestured agitatedly to him when he reached her side. She guided his hands to a knot in the weed and to his astonishment, he could feel a small limb trapped within its coils.

He could see naught but the coil of seaweed, but his fingers told no lie.

It must be Darg.

The spriggan must be snared.

That the fairy existed in truth was so startling that it took Erik a moment to realize that he could feel the creature’s struggles becoming more weak. Elizabeth tugged, but the plant was doughty and resisted her efforts to tear it. Erik fitted his fingers into the coil and tried to tear it himself, but to no avail.

Elizabeth, though, had been under the water for too long. Concerned for her fate first, Erik pushed her emphatically toward the surface. She fought against him, tapping his hands upon the coiled weed. Erik nodded with vigor, then pushed her upward once again.

With obvious reluctance, she went, though he did not doubt that she would be back. He was running out of breath himself, though the coil around Darg was fearsomely tight. The spriggan went limp even as Erik tried to free the vine, and he knew that he would have to loose the fairy immediately. He would never find this coil again, not without Elizabeth’s aid, and he wanted her to stay at the surface.

He tugged at the weed, but it seemed to clutch at the spriggan with greater defiance, as if weed and fairy fought their own battle. He struggled with the plant, wishing he had a blade and felt his chest tighten painfully.

In a last burst of effort before he was compelled to rise to the surface, Erik wrapped the length of seaweed around his fist and pulled with all his strength.

It broke somewhere further below. Erik did not care for the details. With the spriggan in the palm of his hand, he surged upward. He broke the surface, gasping for air.

To his relief, Elizabeth stood shivering and wet on the lip of the chasm. Rosamunde held her firmly, and Erik guessed she had forbidden the maiden to dive down again.

He found himself liking this aunt who was not truly an aunt, this woman who lived her life as a man but protected those chicks beneath her care as fiercely as a hen.

Rosamunde had wrapped a cloak over Elizabeth’s shoulders, her expression stern as the girl shivered. “It is madness to risk death for such an ungrateful creature,” she said, but Elizabeth was deaf to her aunt’s censure.

“Did you retrieve her?” Elizabeth fell to her knees, her face alight as Erik handed up the spriggan.

The strength of her concern reminded him of his eldest daughter’s affection for a lamb born too small once at Blackleith. Mairi had been determined to save it, though her will had been no match for the will of nature. He did not doubt that Mairi would have surrendered her own life to save the lamb, and that she would have taken such a risk without a second thought, just as Elizabeth had done for the spriggan. Though four springs had come and gone since that lamb’s demise, a lump rose in Erik’s throat at the recollection all the same.

“It may be too late,” he said.

Elizabeth cupped her hands, cradling the invisible troublemaker, then eased away the vine with care. She pumped something with a fingertip, and a gush of black water appeared on the stone. There was a minute cough, a sound that Erik barely discerned, then more water appeared. Elizabeth smiled with relief.

“Well?” Rosamunde demanded.

“She lives!” Elizabeth said, then turned glowing eyes upon Erik. “With your aid. I thank you truly!”

“What good fortune that the wretch survives to better assault me another day,” Rosamunde said dryly. She bowed in Erik’s direction, her sarcasm more than clear. “I too thank you for your courtesy in this matter.”

Padraig meanwhile reached down a meaty hand to help Erik out of the chasm. Erik’s expression must have spoken volumes, for the other man muttered to him. “It is not the strangest sight I have seen in the vicinity of this family. You had best be prepared for more of the same if you mean to linger in their company.”

Erik braced his hands on the lip of the chasm and pulled himself out of the water without assistance, for he knew not whether this company could be trusted. Padraig sniffed and turned away, either unsurprised or insulted, Erik did not care.

For Vivienne appeared by his elbow then. Her eyes shone with mingled admiration and concern. “Are you injured?”

“I am but wet,” he said gruffly, well aware of Rosamunde’s condemning gaze upon him. “And that will scarce injure me.”

“We all have need of a bath at least once a year,” Padraig said.

“Thank you for aiding Darg,” Elizabeth said, aglow with a pleasure that made Erik think once again of his daughter.

Indeed, he was sickened by the realization of what he had missed. How many times since his departure from Blackleith had Mairi been delighted with some detail he took for granted? How many such moments had he missed? And what of Astrid? She had barely been speaking when he had left to aid his neighbor. She would be talking and running by now, probably trying to best her older sister at every small feat.

“Though I do not share Elizabeth’s pleasure in that deed,” Rosamunde said. “I would thank you for aiding Elizabeth herself. I would have had much to answer for had she come to grief in my company.”

“It is as naught,” Erik said and turned away, distraught anew at what he had lost to his brother’s greed. “I must fetch my companion, now that the sisters are in good care.”

Rosamunde stayed him with a fingertip upon his arm. “You have not been welcomed at Ravensmuir, I would wager,” she said. “Not if you consider my care to be of any merit at all.”

“This is Erik Sinclair,” Vivienne interjected. “Alexander pledged my hand to him, but since has changed his thinking. He imprisoned Erik, but Erik and I have handfasted and I have agreed to help him to recover his lost holding.”

“Ah,” Rosamunde said, embuing the single sound with a weight of meaning. Her expression hardened. “And thus I am to believe that he, unlike all other men of my acquaintance, is somehow deserving of my assistance, as well?”

“I have no need of your assistance,” Erik said quickly. “I will simply retrieve my companion and be on my way.”

Rosamunde seemed skeptical of that claim. “What is your destination?”

“Blackleith, my family abode.”

“Seized by his duplicitous brother,” Vivienne interjected. “We have to reclaim it and ensure the welfare of Erik’s daughters.”

“Just like the tale!” Elizabeth said, her eyes round with wonder, then sneezed. Vivienne wrapped the cloak more closely around her sister’s shoulders.

Rosamunde pursed her lips, unimpressed by such credentials. “And where is the closest port?”

“I have no need of a port,” Erik said. “As we intend to ride.”

Rosamunde smiled. “You will have need of a horse to ride so far as that and I note that you have none.”

“We will climb to the stables.”

“Which you will be fortunate indeed to find, and more fortunate to escape unobserved,” Rosamunde said, one hand upon her hip. “The last time I was here, the Laird guarded his prized destriers with rare vigor. There were no less than twenty ostlers in his employ, and only half were permitted to sleep at one time.”

Erik frowned at this unwelcome detail.

Rosamunde continued. “I, however, have a ship, and might be inclined to grant you passage to your destination.”

“Why?”

Rosamunde’s smile was wry. “To be sure, there would be a certain satisfaction to me in thwarting the plans of Alexander, who kneels too close to Tynan’s feet for my taste.”

“And the Laird of Ravensmuir is your sworn enemy?” Erik asked, looking pointedly at the crates still being moved from the caverns.

Rosamunde laughed. “One might say that there is a certain debt owing from him to me. At least I would say as much. Tell me your destination, for the storm grows no less.”

Erik was uncertain whether to trust this offer or not. Rosamunde’s gaze was steady, though, and she would scarcely be in alliance with the Laird of Ravensmuir since she was clearly stealing from him.

“Sutherland,” Erik began but got no further before Elizabeth sneezed once more.

“Sutherland!” Rosamunde swore softly. “With autumn coming on and this storm upon us, you would have me sail to Sutherland? All ships guided with good sense are making their ways south, to Rotterdam, at least, if not to La Rochelle or the Mediterranean itself.”

“Sicily,” Padraig interjected. “My vote is for Sicily.”

“You have no vote,” Rosamunde informed him, his mischievous smile telling Erik that Padraig knew as much.

“I yearn only for influence,” that sailor said, one hand over his heart.

Rosamunde laughed in her surprise. “You will not have it soon,” she said, then tapped a finger upon Vivienne’s shoulder. “It is fortunate that you are my favored niece,” she said with affection.

“What of me?” Elizabeth demanded, then sneezed again.

“You were my favored niece, until you took company with that malicious sprite.”

“Darg is a spriggan,” Elizabeth insisted, her dignity compromised somewhat by her persistent sneezing. “By her accounting, you are a thief, and she wants vengeance upon you.”

“What nonsense,” Rosamunde retorted, then yelped and jumped backward, her hand over her face. “Something bit my nose!” Indeed, a red welt rose on the tip of Rosamunde’s nose with alarming speed.

“Darg,” Elizabeth said, punctuating the information with a resounding sneeze.

“Tell this Darg to leave me be,” Rosamunde demanded. “I have as much right to Ravensmuir’s hoard as she.”

“She does not see the matter that way.”

Rosamunde began to dance wildly, as if evading a swarm of angry bees. “It is down my shirt!” she shrieked. “Make it stop! Control your spriggan, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth tilted her head to listen to something, asked a few questions, then nodded.

Rosamunde stilled as the assault evidently halted, though she looked about herself warily. “Where is it?”

“Upon your shoulder,” Elizabeth said. “Darg wishes to make a wager with you.”

“Oh no.” Rosamunde protested. “The hoard cannot be returned. Everything that ever I have claimed has been sold, and even much of the resulting coin is gone.”

“She will make a wager for a single piece, her favored piece.”

Rosamunde’s eyes narrowed. “Which one?”

“The silver ring you wear upon your left hand.”

Rosamunde lifted her hand and Erik saw that a large silver ring did grace her index finger. It was a massive piece of silver, but its value was clearly more than that. Both sisters looked solemn at the mere mention of it and Padraig froze. The consternation of all of them was clear.