A Knight's Persuasion (29 page)

Two careful breaths. One . . .

The guard grunted. “Do not give me trouble now. Up—”

Juliana discreetly tossed the pebble. It clattered away into the shadows.

The man’s strides slowed.

“What was that?” She turned partway to face him, pretending surprise.

Light glinted off his drawn sword. His grizzled face clamped into a scowl.

Ignoring a pang of uncertainty, she peered at the stone floor. “Did you drop something?”

“Nay.” He thrust his sword at the stairwell. “Move.”

She
had
to distract him. Otherwise, her plan had already failed. “Are you certain the bag of bones is securely tied? If you lost one of them . . .”

He tipped his chin toward the mantle and bag, cradled in his left arm. The bag lay partly concealed in the folded garment. “They are safe.”

“For your sake, I hope you are right. We both know how important those bones are to Veronique. If you
did
drop one . . .” Juliana raised her hands, a gesture of dismissal. “But you know best. I will not worry.”

The guard leaned closer to her, as though to gauge her expression.

Managing a little smile, she shrugged, turned her back to him, and started toward the stairwell, fighting an awful sense of discouragement. Her ruse hadn’t worked. She must think of another—

“Hold.”

She hesitated, her trembling hands forming fists.

“Turn around.”

Her gown whispered as she obeyed.

Leveling his sword at her chest, he said, “Stand against that wall.” He nudged his elbow at the one nearest, opposite the stairwell’s entrance. “Stand there, where I can see ye.”

A nervous flush warmed her face. She mustn’t appear anxious, or he’d suspect her of trickery. Narrowing her gaze with what she hoped would appear to be mutinous hatred, she stepped back until her bottom bumped the wall.

He nodded once, suggesting he thought her well enough secured. His gaze dropped to the floor.

“I think it fell by the torch.” Juliana gestured farther down the wall.

The lout glanced where she indicated, before his face cinched into a scowl. Then, keeping his sword trained on her, he took two steps sideways for a better look.

How tempting to lunge at him now. His sword, though, looked deadly sharp. She must be patient.

His full attention shifted to the wall’s lowest stones.

“I see it!” she cried. “Right there. ’Tis a bone.”

“What?” His face whitened. Looking away, he dropped into a partial crouch to examine the shadows.

Juliana dashed around the extended sword. As his head swiveled, she rammed her hands into his back and shoved with all her might. Cursing, he pitched toward the wall. He lashed out with his sword. The lethal steel swung near her with a faint whistle.

The man caught his fall by bracing his palm against the wall. Soon he’d straighten and turn on her. She might be quick, but she was no match for an enraged, sword-wielding warrior.

Rallying her strength, she slammed her whole body against him. He loosed a furious roar. Dropping the garment and bone bag, he swung his burly arm back, grabbing for her, almost catching hold of her sleeve.

“Ye will not get away—”

She dodged his swipe, then kicked the inside of his knee, above the rim of his boot. He grimaced, his leg buckled, and his shoulder banged against the wall.

Before he could raise his sword to her, she shoved him again. With a loud
thwack
, his head hit the stone. He groaned. His knees gave way, and he slumped to the floor, eyes rolling closed. The sword, still in his grasp, settled beside him with a gritty
clank
.

Triumph raced through Juliana. She’d defeated him! She’d done it.

Stepping back out of his reach, Juliana waited through several agonizing breaths; she must be sure he wasn’t trying to fool her. When not a flicker of cognizance crossed his slack face, she crept to him and pried his fingers from the sword. Then, keeping watch on him in case he roused, she picked up the bag of bones. The contents rattled softly, and she choked down a disgusted moan. She loathed holding such grimness in her hand, but they might be a useful bargaining tool at some point.

Holding the sword—heavier than she expected—she started toward the tower stairwell. She clung tightly to her excitement, refused to listen to the doubts swirling up inside her. She’d subdued one guard; there was at least one more up by the chamber door. Somehow, she’d find a way to defeat him, too.

As Juliana started up the stairs that were raised and uneven in places, cool air swept over her; it made her all the more aware of the sweaty dampness of her hand gripping the sword. Her arm, unused to the weapon’s weight, began to shake. After sliding her hand through the drawstring of the bone bag so it hung from her left wrist, she then pushed the bag down inside her sleeve for safekeeping. Gripping the sword with both hands, she continued on, trying to move as quickly but quietly as possible. If she could surprise the guard—

“Who goes there?” a man called down from above.

Hellfire
, as Edouard would say.

Hesitating in the stairwell’s shadows, Juliana mulled what to do next. Should she reply? Was it better to stay silent, so mayhap he’d come down and investigate? He’d be suspicious then, which meant she’d have less chance of catching him unaware.

“Kerr, is that you?” the man shouted. When she didn’t respond, the guard growled, “Answer me! Who goes there?”

With grudging dismay, she realized her current tactic was likely to fail. That meant she must resort to other, more cunning measures.

“Please,” she called back, forcing a wobble into her voice. “Is someone there? Can you help?”

“Help?” From the faint footsteps filtering down to her, she guessed that the guard had walked to the opening to the stairs.

Hoping she sounded terrified and helpless, she said, “The man-at-arms who was escorting me . . . Kerr . . . he . . .” She managed a tremulous sob. “Something is wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“He fell to the floor. He has not moved.”

A tense silence. “Who are you?”

Of all the questions to ask!
She certainly wasn’t going to reveal she was the woman he’d guarded in the chamber. Fighting her unease, she said, “A . . . visitor. A friend”—she shuddered at the necessary lie—“of Lady Veronique’s. I arrived a short while ago. Will you help this poor man, or must I go find aid elsewhere?”

“There is no one else about?” The guard sounded doubtful.

“Veronique and the others are busy with a prisoner uprising in the bailey.” She forced out a frightened moan. “If you will not help me, just say so and I will bother you no more. This man, I mean, Kerr’s life is—”

Footsteps carried from above. “Wait there.”

The guard was heading down to her. His boot falls grew louder as he neared.

Tightening her grasp on the sword, she quietly continued up the stairs to meet him. Sweat moistened her brow and the curve between her breasts. What she’d do when she faced him, fighter to fighter, she didn’t quite know, but . . . she’d make that judgment then.

A huff and loud footfalls reached her. The man was very close. She drew back against the wall, a moment before the guard came into view, his sword raised. As soon as he spied her, his eyes widened. “You!”

Before she said a word, his gaze dropped to the blade clutched in her hands. He chuckled, then stepped down to the next stair, no doubt moving in to attack. “Do you mean to fight me?”

His taunting sent a raw tremor running through her. “If I must.” She tried not to let show how much her arm was shaking. “But I was not lying about Kerr. He is hurt.”

“Of course he is.” Only two steps above her now, the guard grinned and shook his head. “’Tis a heavy weapon for a young woman. You will end up getting hurt. Put the sword down on that stair there, and I will be kind.”

What exactly did he mean by “kind?” He wouldn’t beat her senseless—or worse—before he threw her into the chamber and locked the door?

His brutishly large fingers shifted on his sword’s hilt. “Do as I say. You really do not want to battle with me.”

A weak groan came from the bottom of the stairs.

“Kerr,” Juliana said.

Not breaking her gaze, the guard’s expression darkened. “That could be anyone.”

“’Tis Kerr.”

Uncertainty flickered in the guard’s eyes.

“Is he your friend?” she said. “Go and help him.”

“And let you get away?” the guard sneered. “Veronique would gut me alive.”

Juliana tsked, as though he was a fool. “Where can I go? There is only one way in and out of this stairwell. I doubt you will let me leave these stairs.”

“True.” The guard’s mouth tightened. “Move from this spot, and I will kill you myself.”

He edged past her. Turning away, he started descending the stairwell.

He’d taken only three steps, when she rushed down behind him and kicked him in the back. He lurched forward, his foot twisting on an uneven stair. “You wretched—” He swung his sword back in a cutting slash that barely missed her leg.

Before he could catch his balance and attack, she lunged forward and kicked him again. He stumbled. Missed a step. Fell on his arse. His free hand scrambled to break his fall as he tumbled down several more stairs, his sword scraping on the stone. He finally came to a stop, facing the wall.

He groaned. Clutching his head, he tried to sit up.

She couldn’t let him get away or thwart her efforts to free Edouard. “I am sorry,” Juliana said, before she kicked him again. His forehead knocked the wall, and he went limp.

She stooped, grabbed his sword, and hefted the weapon. Edouard would need it once she’d freed him.

Up she climbed toward the tower, hoping she wouldn’t have to face another guard. She softened her steps, listening. When she approached the entry to the small area before the chamber door, she paused.

Over the sputtering of the torches, she caught a muffled scraping sound. It seemed to emanate from near the door.

Groaning inwardly, she tipped her head back against the rough wall. Was there another guard, after all? Summoning her courage—she must rescue Edouard before the two fallen men roused and warned their colleagues—she dared to peek into the space in front of the chamber.

Empty.

As she hurried forward, she wondered what had made the noise. One of the torches, shifting in its metal bracket? A mouse gnawing on the door? Brushing the thoughts aside, she propped one sword against the wall to free her right hand, snatched the key ring from its hook, pushed the key into the lock, and turned. With a prompt
click
, the lock released.

Juliana eased the door open. Her gaze fell upon the sunlit planks and the pallet just coming into view. “Ed—”

Before the sound fully formed in her mouth, the door was yanked from her grasp. She gasped, while she was spun and thrust against the wall. The sword was knocked from her hold.

With a splintering
crash
, the door hit the stone beside her.

A strong hand clamped around her throat.

Chapter Twenty

“Edouard,” Juliana croaked.

The hand pinning her fell away. She sucked in a breath, her pain and dizziness slowly subsiding.

“Juliana, I am sorry. I thought you were a guard.” Edouard touched her arm, then stepped away to look around the open doorway. His head tilted, as though to catch any sounds from beyond. “Are you alone?”

Rubbing at her neck to ease the discomfort, she nodded.

He frowned. “Where are the guards?”

Juliana couldn’t help but smile. “One is lying injured at the bottom of the stairs. The other is unconscious partway up the stairwell. They will not, however, be subdued for long.”

With each word, Edouard’s eyebrows raised higher. “You defeated two armed men?”

“I did.” When he whistled softly, pride warmed her breast. Bending down, she picked up her sword. “I brought a weapon for you, too. ’Tis leaning against the outside wall.”

Edouard disappeared through the doorway and appeared a moment later holding the sword. Standing in the embrasure, he thrust the weapon and swooped it from side to side, then flexed his fingers to adjust his grip. “Not as fine a weapon as I am used to,” he said, “but ’twill do.”

She shook her head. “The next time I rescue you, I will attack guards with better quality swords.”

Edouard laughed and executed a gallant bow. “Thank you, Juliana, for coming to my rescue.”

His roguish grin, the elegant way he bent at the waist, the forward slide of his hair, reminded her of how he’d kissed her hand at Sherstowe last spring. Stifling her regret, she glanced at the pallet where he’d been restrained. The iron links wove across the mattress; the hinged manacles lay open, like the jaws of metallic snakes.

“How . . ?” she began.

Edouard held up a hairpin. “Azarel visited while you were with Tye.” Holding out his hand, clearly wanting Juliana to cross to him, he added, “The guards sounded reluctant to let her in, I guess because you were not here. She managed to persuade them, though. One of the guards kept watch while she examined my bruised jaw, but she still managed to slip me the hairpin. I sprung the locks on my manacles and was working on the door before you came in.”

That explained the noise Juliana had heard.

She reached his side, and he took her left hand in his. “I did not mean to frighten you earlier or hurt you. The sight of you”—his gaze dropped to her lips—“is indeed very welcome.”

At his whisper-soft words, a tingling ache dragged through her. God above, she must crush this forbidden yearning. Regardless how she felt about him, he belonged to Nara.

“Edouard,” she said, struggling to rein in her emotions, “right now, Kaine and your men are trying to break free from the dungeon. Last I saw of Veronique and Tye, they were going off to quell the attempt.”

Edouard’s eyes glinted. “My men will need my help in that fight.” He squeezed her hand, then released it. As her arm lowered, a muted clatter sounded, and curiosity sharpened his gaze.