An Oath Broken (22 page)

What would Sarra do when she learned of his death? God’s teeth. She didna deserve this.

Another blast of pain ripped through him. The lure to slide into unconsciousness, away from the agony raging through his entire body, grew. He struggled to remain awake.

Flakes of snow swirled with a hypnotic bliss, the fragmented clusters twirling like fairy wings as they tumbled in haphazard angles to the ground. The wind increased with a low moan. A snowdrift began to form on his left side.

From somewhere in the distance he heard the strains of music, pure and sweet. A smile creased his. A fairy’s song. He’d heard it before, but never so lovely. The tender serenade lulled him, engulfed him in its warmth.

A hand touched his brow.

Giric looked up into emerald eyes. The pixie smiled down at him, her wings fluttering as she seemed to take him in. With calm sureness, she laid her hand against his eyelids and drew them shut.

The words drifted to him from faraway. He tried to open his eyes, but his lids refused.

Then he realized it was the fairy’s voice. He sighed, understanding her gift. This time when the shroud of blackness threatened, he surrendered to its merciful bliss.

T
he door to Dunkirk Castle’s keep slammed open, and a man staggered inside. Blood streamed from a gash in his forehead, and he clutched the shaft of a broken arrow. On a broken gasp, he stumbled forward and crumpled to the floor.

“Sir Neyll!” Sarra jumped from her seat on the dais. Heart pounding, she ran to him, glancing toward the door, expecting Giric to enter.

Empty.

“Fetch the healer,” a man near the back yelled.

As Sarra reached Sir Neyll, a hand caught her shoulder. She turned.

“I will take care of this,” Drostan said, his face grim. “Please.”

“I need to find out where Giric is.”

Sir Neyll groaned. Blood dribbled from his mouth, and he shifted, favoring his left arm. “We were attacked.”

She pulled free of Drostan’s hold and knelt by his side. “Attacked?” The man’s head lolled to the side and he moaned.

“Where is Giric?” she all but shrieked.

Men gathered around her, the room a buzz of activity, the scents of spiced fish and sauce rich in the air.

When the man’s eyes began to roll back, she clutched his wrist. “Where is he!”

“De—” Sir Neyll coughed. Fresh rivulets of crimson oozed from his mouth. “He-he is dead. I brought back his horse ou—” He began to cough again, each bout wracking his body. “Outside.”

“No!” She jumped to her feet. “He is lying! Tell me where he is!”

Deep lines wedged Drostan’s brow as he caught her arm. “You are distressed. Let me take you to your chamber so that you rest and calm down.”

Calm down? How could she be calm when Giric lay somewhere dead? It had to be a mistake! She pulled free and rushed outside, halted at the top step.

Paces away, Giric’s mount stood alongside Sir Neyll’s. Blood streaked both saddles.

A shiver tore through her, then another. Her body began to shake.

Hands, soft but firm, settled on her shoulders. “Come inside,” Drostan urged, his voice rough with regret.

“I must find—”

“Sarra.” Sinclair turned her to face him. “You are overwrought. The snowstorm has just begun and ’tis too dangerous to risk allowing you to join the search. I will send men out immediately. If he is alive, my guard will find him.”

As much as she wanted to go, with the hazardous weather, no room remained for error. And with her emotionally exhausted, too easily she could make a mistake. She nodded, and she prayed that they found him alive.

 

“You shouldna be outside,” Sinclair said as he strode toward her on the wall walk. “The storm is growing worse.”

“How is Sir Neyll?” she asked, praying that he was wrong and Giric lived.

“The healer is still with him, but his wounds are severe.”

The thud of hooves sounded in the distance.

Hope ignited as she shielded her eyes from the thick, fat flakes and stared into the swirl of white.

Two riders came into view, three, and then the fourth man he’d sent out; all riding alone.

Nausea rose in her throat, and she began to shake.

“Sarra.” Drostan caught her hand as she started toward the turret that led to the courtyard. “Go inside. I will speak with my men.”

“I must know for sure.”

Worried eyes held hers. “Then I will accompany you. Whatever news they bring, I willna have you face it alone.”

Thankful for his support, she hurried down the steps. They reached the courtyard as his men cantered into the bailey.

A moment later, the knights halted before them.

The lead rider glanced toward Lord Sinclair, then toward Sarra, his expression grim. “My regrets, my lady.”

His somber words shattered in Sarra’s mind. She gasped for a breath, then another. “Where is he?” she asked, her voice raw with tears.

“About a league away, my lady.” He shook his head. “I had intended to bring his body back, but by the time we arrived, wolves had found him.”

At the gruesome image in her mind, she almost wretched. “Oh, God!” The air became thick, hard to breathe. Her vision began to haze. From far away, someone called her name, but she didn’t respond, couldn’t. Hands caught her, and she crumpled into the blackness.

 

A cool cloth pressed against her brow and a pounding thrummed in her head as Sarra slowly regained consciousness.

“Sarra?”

Drostan’s gentle voice reached into the misty void.

She fought against it, unsure why.

Someone removed the cloth. Water trickled nearby, and then the refreshing cloth was again laid against her brow. With difficulty, she opened her eyes. The chamber swam into view, but her memories remained in a fog.

“She is awake,” Sinclair said. “I will take care of her now.”

Confused, Sarra took in the lines of concern on Drostan’s brow as he sat beside her.

“Yes, my lord,” a woman replied. “See that she has plenty of rest.” A plump elderly woman plucked a wicker basket from the floor.

“I will,” he replied.

After one last worried glance toward her, the elder departed, her footsteps scraping into the silence. The door closed behind her with a soft snap.

Uneasy to be alone in the bedchamber with Sinclair, Sarra met his gaze. His actions were inappropriate. Giric would be . . . Everything came rushing back.

Sir Neyll’s injuries.

His claim of Giric’s death.

Drostan’s knight’s confirmation.

Grief overwhelmed her and she looked away.

“Sarra,” the baron said.

“Leave me.” She wanted to be alone in her misery. Couldn’t he understand that?

He withdrew the moist cloth. “I am sorry.”

Silence filled the room.

A ragged breath fell from her lips, then another. The pain, hurt, too immense. Sarra fought to control her emotions. Once she was alone, then she could fall apart. “How is Sir Neyll?” she forced out, her voice breaking at the last.

“I am sorry. He died shortly after I carried you to your chamber. His injuries were extensive. Naught could be done.”

A hot ball of grief swelled in her throat. Would no one be spared from this tragedy? God in heaven, who would do this? Then she remembered overhearing Colyne and Giric’s conversation at Kirkshyre Castle. Giric was wanted for murder. Had the man called Maxwell tracked him down and delivered his own brand of justice?

She closed her eyes, wishing back the hours when Giric had held her in his arms, his last words of love.

“I promised your husband when he left that I would take care of you.” Face dredged with concern, Drostan shifted in his chair. “At the moment you are overwrought, but ’tis important that you know that you are welcome to remain in my home, however long you wish. If you need me, anytime, day or night, I am here for you.”

Sarra nodded, unable to reply, wanting to be left alone.

He leaned forward and laid his hand on her shoulder. “Please rest.”

She remained silent, her eyes burning with unshed tears.

On a sigh Sinclair stood. “There is water by your bed if you are thirsty. I will order a tray of food sent to you in a bit.”

Not caring, she didn’t respond.

“I will check in on you later.” He departed. Silence filled the room.

Thick.

Cloying.

Firelight danced in the hearth. Embers popped. A spark tumbled into the ashes, the warm, red glow stark against the faded gray. “Why?” Her rough whisper echoed into the silence. Last night they’d made love until exhausted, and then they’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms. Now Giric would never touch her or whisper words of love to her again.

Pain streaked through her soul. Unable to face the present, she closed her eyes. How long she lay there, she wasn’t sure, but sometime in the mangled void, when only coals glowed in the hearth and the sunlight on the panes ebbed, did she finally succumb to exhaustion and slept.

 

Heat strangled him. Giric tried to twist away from the flames, but they crept forward to scald, to char his skin until he couldna stand the pain. “Nay!” He jerked back. Strong arms pinned his shoulders.

“Settle down, lad,” a woman’s voice urged.

“The flames,” he gasped. “Must get away.” He fought to free himself, but firm hands kept his shoulders still while another pair secured his legs.

“The fever is a bad one,” the woman said, her voice filtering through Giric’s ravaged haze.

A male grunt from near his head sounded in answer. “He is lucky to be alive.”

Alive? The prickle of hay on his back pierced him like a thousand needles, heat scorched his body and eroded his thoughts with caustic accuracy. He fought their hold, but they held tight. In the next moment, iciness washed over him to extinguish the heat. His teeth chattered as he began to tremble.

“Looks as though his fever is breaking,” the woman said. “Hold him while I fetch a cup of water.”

A woman’s face swam before Giric. Her pale beauty stunning, her smile when given brilliant. Then he recognized her.

Sarra.

Giric smiled. The memories of the past few weeks rolled through him, the attack, their escape, their fated marriage, and eventually her love.

Pain jerked him to his senses along with memories of Sir Neyll, who’d tried to murder him, a man he’d known since a lad. And a traitor, loyal to Sinclair.

The baron’s name curled in his mind like rotting fish. With Sarra refusing an annulment, furious, he’d plotted to end Giric’s life. But the plan had failed. The bastard would pay for his treachery with his life!

What of Sarra? Had Sinclair murdered her for her wealth? Or, would he play the grieving friend, help her through the loss of her husband, with his intent to gain her bed? Like blasted Hades!

Giric tried to rise.

The woman tsked, but firm hands held him down. “There is nay Sarra here.” She wiped the cool cloth across his brow.

“He canna understand you,” the man said, his voice gruff.

“I know. He has been calling out her name since he fell into a fever. Looks as though he is beginning to settle. Thank the Lord. If he keeps fighting us, he will reopen the stitches I put in him three days ago.”

Shivering, Giric blinked open his eyes. Muted colors blended in his hazed vision. “Th—Thirsty.”

A woman’s slender shadowed form came into view. “You are back with us are you?”

“Ay-Aye,” he rasped.

She released her hold, and then laid another blanket over him.

A man held a leather pouch against his lips.

Giric drank several sips, thankful for the cool slide of water against the rawness of his throat. When he started to drink more, the stranger moved the pouch back.

“Nae too much at once,” he cautioned.

“So—So cold,” he whispered, the new blanket offering but a token of warmth.

“Aye, you have had a fever for three days now.” The woman sat back. “We had begun to fear that you wouldna come out. My name is Mary and this is my husband, Iames.”

Giric shivered. “I have been here three days?”

She nodded.

Saint’s breath! If Sarra still lived . . . Nay. He had to believe that she was alive. What had Sinclair told her? He couldna lay here wondering. Giric pushed through the pain and focused on the room, on the woman by the bed. He glanced to where the man stood at his side.

“I am the Earl of Terrick. I need your help. My wife must be informed that I’m alive and that she’s in danger.”

“Your wife?” Understanding dawned on the woman’s face. “That would be Sarra?”

Giric nodded, taking in the shabby clothes worn by both, then his bleak surroundings. “Where am I?” He turned his head to see more, and a throbbing at his temple began in earnest. “’Tis nae much of a shelter,” the woman explained, “but ’tis the best we could do under the circumstances.” She gave the man a warm smile. “We were traveling north when we came across you sprawled in the snow. At first we thought you were dead.”

They had saved his life. “My thanks, but I need to send word immediately to my wife that I am alive.”

The man shook his head. “Impossible.”

Panic swept him. “If you have an extra horse, ’tis enough. I shall ensure that your mount is returned along with a bit of gold.” Giric tried to rise.

The woman caught his shoulders. “You are too sick to be going anywhere, my lord. After we took out the arrow, I had to sew several stitches that are still healing.” She grimaced. “As for the horse, we have one, but he is well past his prime.”

“We made a travois to bring you here,” the man added.

That they’d brought him here and tended to him was a blessing in itself. Many would have left a stranger to die.

“We were lucky to have stumbled upon this abandoned crofter’s hut,” the woman explained, her gaze locking with her husband’s. She scowled her disapproval.

Giric focused on his predicament. A day’s ride north with the horse dragging a makeshift travois; they’d nae traveled far. On a sturdy mount, he could make the ride in half a day. But where would he find a dependable steed in the middle of the wilderness? “My thanks for the care you have given me.” He would figure out his dilemma. The last thing he wished was to sound ungrateful.

The woman held the cup to his mouth, nodded for him to take another drink.

When he tried to hold the crafted wood, a wave of tiredness swept him and his fingers grew clumsy. He let his hand fall back to his side.

She frowned. “You will be needing several more days’ rest, my lord, before you should be on your feet, much less travel.” Mary stood. “We will remain with you until you are fit to walk, then we must go.”

“My thanks.” He swallowed several sips of water and took the opportunity to scan his surroundings. Besides the straw piled across the room where his hosts had slept, his makeshift bed was the only other piece of furniture in the hut. They’d gone out of their way to help him when it was obvious that their own means were meager at best.