An Oath Sworn (19 page)

A sword's wrath, they had it all wrong! “I am Colyne MacKerran, Earl of Strathcliff, a messenger sent by Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, Guardian of the Realm of Scotland to deliver a writ to King Philip,” he explained, keeping his voice calm, refusing to give in to the fear clawing through him. “I found her in the Highlands and was escorting her home.”

The healer scowled. “Another lie.”

“Nay, I am telling the truth! She became seasick as we sailed to France. When we docked, she hadna fully recovered. By accident, she fell into the bay,” he explained, damning the fact that his voice trembled. “Terrified for her life, I carried her here and called for the healer.” Colyne scanned the guards' faces. Each one glared at him as if they wished to slice open his gullet and feed him to the dogs. “The last thing that I, or my country, would wish is harm to befall her.”

With a curse, the guard he'd surmised as being in charge strode forward. “A well-crafted lie.” Cold satisfaction curved his mouth as he grabbed Colyne's throat. “In the name of King Philip, you are under arrest for the abduction of Lady Marie.”

“Wait,” Colyne choked out as the room started to blur, “I have proof!”

The guard's nostrils flared in disbelief.

Colyne struggled for his next breath. “'Ti—'tis hidden in my tunic.”

The guard's eyes narrowed. “Try to escape and I assure you 'twould give me the excuse to drive my blade into your heart.” He nodded to the men holding him. “Release him.”

The guards let go and stepped back.

Colyne gasped for air as he reached within the concealed pouch of his undershirt. He'd nae thought of the writ since they'd escaped from the ship. His fingers scraped across leather. Thank God 'twas still there!

His hand trembled as he removed the parchment from the sodden leather cover, displaying the unbroken seal. “As I have explained, I have nae abducted Lady Marie but am returning her to France. This document holds proof that the words I speak are true.”

The knights eyed him with disbelief.

Their leader raised a skeptical brow. “Open it.”

Colyne shook his head and lowered the rolled parchment. “ 'Tis for your king's eyes alone.”

“Seize it,” the lead knight boomed.

Before Colyne could prevent them, two guards pinned his hands against the wall. He struggled to break free, but the lead knight stepped forward and snatched the writ from his hands.

“Now,” he drawled, his words like ice, “we shall see what truths you deliver.” He grunted, as he studied Robert Bruce's seal. “'Tis fine craftsmanship”—his eyes flicked up—“whoever made it.”

A muscle worked in Colyne's jaw. “I am telling the truth.”

The knight gave an indignant snort.

A movement from the bed caught Colyne's attention. With soft words, the healer wiped Marie's brow.

A sword's wrath, she needed rest, nae to be subjected to angry words bantered about. “Open it,” Colyne charged. “But King Philip will call for your head when he learns of your deed.”

Without hesitation, the guard broke the seal. He unrolled the wet parchment and skimmed the writ. Face taut, the knight lifted his gaze, his eyes black as the gates of Hades. “Take him to the dungeon!”

“Wait!” Colyne struggled against the guards. “Did you nae read it?”

“Read what?” he hissed between clenched teeth, “smeared words as if written by a child?” Parchment crinkled as he shoved the writ before Colyne's face.

Colyne's knees almost gave way. The message penned by Robert Bruce nay longer graced the page. Instead, ugly black stains streaked the parchment, the words illegible. During the crossing of the swollen river, or when he and Marie had fallen into the bay, the writ had become soaked, the ink smeared.

“You will regret you ever dared abduct Lady Marie,” the lead knight growled.

Colyn's heart slammed against his chest. “You are wrong. I need to speak with King Philip!”

“The only person you will be visiting is the king's executioner.” With contempt, the knight cast the writ into the hearth. The flames greedily licked the sodden paper, blackening and then destroying the fragile parchment until it crumbled into the embers beneath it, the chips of wax bubbling within the fire like molten blood. “Take him away!”

The guards hauled him toward the door.

“You are mistaken!” Colyne shouted as he fought them, but they tightened their grip and continued. Frantic, he glanced at Marie.

Caught in the throes of a fever, she twisted on the bed.

He couldna leave her!

“Move.” One the guards behind him jammed his foot into Colyne's back, shoved.

Panic tearing through him, Colyne stumbled into the hall. Due to their false charges, he'd never see her again, hold her, or see her eyes light up when he told her that he loved her.

And without the writ as proof of his innocence, upon learning his daughter's abductor had been captured, King Philip would believe he was one of the Scottish rebels involved with her abduction and sever his support to Scotland.

Disgrace tainted his every breath, self-condemnation more so. He'd failed his country, failed Marie.

And with the damning facts in hand, the king would order what he believed a just sentence.

Colyne's death.

M
arie opened her eyes, wincing against the pain. Dismal gray light embraced her. The soft tap of raindrops striking a windowpane echoed through her misery. She pushed back another wave of discomfort, frowned as she realized she lay beneath a coverlet. Where was she? And why did her body ache?

Frowning when no answers came, she scanned the room. A silk tapestry woven in reds, blues, and greens, creating an image of a distant castle, adorned the far wall. Within a stone hearth, framed on each side by intricate marble carvings of lions standing guard, a fire roared, offering warmth. Angled on a ledge sat a volume of tales of King Arthur, the leather binding worn from use. To her left, atop an aged wooden chest, sat a doll given to her when she was a child.

A smile curved her mouth.
Her father's home.
This was the chamber she used whenever she visited him.

Marie inhaled the scent of fresh rushes entwined with the aroma of wood and rain cleansed air as peace wove through her. The feathered mattress against her skin cradled her as if in a dream.

“You are awake?” Relief filled a familiar deep voice.

Tenderness enveloped Marie as she faced the noble figure standing in the doorway of her room, his surcoat and vermeil mantle lined with ermine. “Father.”

King Philip strode over and brushed a kiss upon her cheek. “I have been worried about you.”

“Worried; why?” She fumbled for a reason. Vague images of a man with whisky-colored hair and deep blue eyes flickered to mind. Memories of being chased. Of hiding. As quickly, they faded.

Lines furrowed her father's brow. “You do not remember?”

“I . . .” More fragments slid into place. The howling of wind. Pounding seas.

Her father watched her, expectant.

“There was a storm.”

“You were abducted by the Scots.” Anger lingered within his words.

“Abducted by Scots?” She grimaced, somehow finding his statement incorrect.

“The incident is not a topic for you to dwell upon. You are safe; that is what matters.

Mayhap, but she saw the exhaustion hidden in his eyes caused by worry. Touched and needing to offer reassurance, she lay her hand on her father's arm. “I am well—”

“You are not. You have been ill since your arrival two days past. During the night your fever finally broke.” He covered her hand with his own. “You must continue to rest. In time your memory will return.”

The soft tap of approaching steps drew her gaze to the doorway.

A tall, dignified man entered. He walked toward her, his heraldic surcoat spun of royal blue silk and embroidered with gold fleur-de-lis. His straight brown hair scraped the edge of his shoulders, hard angles outlining his square jaw. Hazel eyes met hers, softening in relief.

Did she know this man? From the confidence in which he entered her chamber, 'twould appear so. But she had no memory of him.

“Sire,” he said as he bowed to her father. He faced Marie, a tender smile touching his lips. “It is good to see you awake.” Disquiet shadowed his gaze as he glanced toward the king, then back to her. “And we are thankful for your safe return.”

“Marie, may I introduce to you Gaston de Croix, Duke of Vocette, your betrothed.”

Betrothed! Marie clutched the bed linen, unable to shake her disquiet at this meeting. “We have met before?” Her heart pounded as she awaited his confirmation.

“
Non
,” Gaston replied as he lifted her hand. He pressed a kiss on her knuckles. “ 'Tis my pleasure, my lady.”

Heat stroked her face because she wasn't sure what to say, and was even more confused by how her pulse raced. Why would meeting her betrothed cause her such distress? She must have been aware of her upcoming marriage.

“I am sorry,” Marie said, fighting for calm, “I am having difficulty remembering.”

“Understandable after your ordeal,” the duke said.

Ordeal. He meant her kidnapping, an event of which she had no memory. “As we are affianced, please, use my given name, Marie.”

He nodded. “Please do me the honor of calling me Gaston.”

“Of course.” Why did thinking of him in a familiar light leave her on edge?

Her father's gaze shifted to the duke. “You have taken care of the task we discussed?”

“
Oui
, Sire.” His jaw tightened with anger. “He will be dealt with this day.”

A chill swept through Marie at the coldness of her betrothed's words. She glanced at her father. “Who will be dealt with?”

The king's mouth thinned into a hard line. “We have caught one of the Scots involved in your abduction. Before I am through, he will name all who are involved.”

“An action they shall regret,” Gaston stated.

A shiver slid through Marie. Though she'd never witnessed the methods her father's guards used to extract confessions, she'd heard of the rack, flogging, and other techniques employed to loosen an unwilling tongue.

A sense of urgency filled her, but the grogginess coating her mind smothered her ability to find the reason. “Father, I . . .” Why couldn't she recall the past weeks? And when she did, would she wish otherwise?

The king leaned closer. “What is it?”

A low pounding built in her head as she struggled to remember. “It has something to do with the Scot.”

“I should not have spoken of your capture,” her father said. “I have upset you when you need to keep calm and rest.”

“
Non
, I . . .” She pushed herself into a sitting position. “There is something important that I must tell you, it is only that . . .” Her mind blurred.

“Marie, I must add my agreement to your father's,” the duke added. “You are still weak.”

King Philip waved his hand in a subtle gesture, and a thin, somber man stepped into view. “See that she is given herbs to help her sleep.”

The man bowed. “
Oui
, Your Majesty.”

She recognized her father's personal physician. “I would rather not—”

“You are to rest,” her father stated. “We shall discuss this later.”

Her betrothed again raised her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss on her knuckles. “I shall return to visit after we sup.” With a formal bow, he departed, his stride sure, that of a man confident in his abilities. A man who took care of what was his.

Coldness crept through her at the thought of the latter. Why? She should be pleased at his protectiveness, a trait so like her father's.

“My lady.” Her father's physician held out a cup of water warmed over the fire and sprinkled with herbs; steam drifted upward in wispy tendrils.

Exhausted, she accepted the healing brew. After a sip to ensure it was not too hot, she gulped the liquid in three swallows and then returned the cup to the side table.

Her father nodded his satisfaction and dismissed the physician.

Alone, the king knelt beside her bed, his brow wrinkled with worry. “I will return once I am informed you have awakened.” He pressed a kiss on her cheek and then exited the chamber.

A lethargic warmth slid through her. Marie embraced the numbness, sinking into the luxurious comfort of her bed. As she gave in to blissful sleep, a nagging that she'd forgotten something of great importance persisted.

 

Beyond Colyne's dank cell, the distant calls of prisoners echoed with macabre finality. Outside, rain continued to batter the castle.

Sprawled on the floor, he struggled against the blackened void of pain that threatened to suck him back under. How long had he lost consciousness this time? Somewhere between when they'd dragged him back to his cell and now, the red-orange rays of sunrise had become smothered by the angry churn of gray.

A chill cut through his body, then another. He scanned his surroundings, the stench almost making him sick. Except, after the last several hours of being tortured to gain a confession, he couldna scrape up the energy to move, much less retch.

He awaited the echo of steps announcing the guards' arrival. They would return again and again, until he admitted his part in Marie's abduction.

Even if 'twas a lie.

Colyne gritted his teeth as another spasm of pain tore through his body. His vision hazed, but he forced himself to remain awake.

A sword's wrath; why was he even bothering? He should let go, succumb to the dark void. At least then he wouldna feel. Or remember these last few days of misery.

Since the king believed him one of the Scottish rebels who had taken part in his daughter's abduction, he would never be able to see Marie again or tell her that he loved her.

Regret dragged his grief deeper as he thought of her battling a fever as the guards had hauled him from the inn. He stared at the gray walls marred by aged blood and the rust of forgotten chains.

Steps thudded past his cell. A short distance away, they paused.

Muted voices.

The creak of a door opening.

A curt order.

A man's plea to spare his life reverberated through the dungeon.

Colyne fought to quell his fear, the feeling of inevitability. How many times since his incarceration had he heard the same, or the din of the crowd outside as they cheered for the executioner to swing his ax? He swallowed hard. 'Twas a fate he could envision all too well.

Footsteps again sounded. This time they halted outside his cell. Keys grated in the lock, a heavy, loud clank.

He braced himself.

The door opened with a shuddered groan. The thud of boots against the stone floor announced he had a visitor. Several, in fact.

“Look at me,” a guard ordered as he shoved his boot into Colyne's side.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he complied. Instead of the grizzled face of a dungeon guard, a well-dressed man stared down at him. Framed by golden hair the color of sunlight were eyes so filled with hatred, if he'd claimed to be the devil, Colyne would have believed him. Stunned, he recognized the man dressed in a surcoat and a mantle of vermeil—
King Philip
.

As the monarch studied Colyne, his expression grew more ominous. “Lift him to his feet.” Venom raked his words.

The guards hauled Colyne up.

At the agony raging through his body, he smothered a scream.

Another man with straight, shoulder-length brown hair strode to the king's side. Caustic hazel eyes bored through him.

Colyne didna recognize the man, but the gold fleurs-de-lis sewed on his surcoat, along with his arrogant stance, ended any doubt.
Marie's betrothed.
His heart slammed in his chest. The man she would wed.

Colyne wanted to scream that Marie belonged to him. That he loved her. “Sire,” he forced out, trying to make his tongue create the words, aware this was his only chance to explain the misunderstanding.

The king nodded to his guard.

The man's fist lashed out; Colyne's head snapped back.

“How dare you abduct my daughter?” King Philip boomed.

The coppery taste of blood filled Colyne's mouth. By the grace of God! King Philip didna know the truth; Marie must still have a fever, as he'd suspected. Or . . .

His knees buckled and blackness threatened. Colyne struggled for consciousness. She couldna be dead. “I—”

The king again nodded to the guard.

The man's fist rammed into Colyne's gut.

On a groan, he doubled over. Before he could catch his breath, Marie's betrothed grabbed Colyne's hair and jerked his head up.

“But that was not enough for you, was it?” The duke nodded to a guard.

The man drove his fist into Colyne's jaw.

Bones crunched. A ringing reverberated in Colyne's ears and the room began to spin. Needing to explain, he pulled himself back to consciousness.

Barely.

“My physician has informed me that my daughter has lost her innocence,” King Philip charged with lethal menace. He shoved Colyne's jaw against the stone wall. “She had bruises around her neck, her wrists, and others on her body. You will regret having tied her up and raped her!”

Visions of making love with Marie slid through Colyne's mind, of her beauty, of her sensual awakening. Nae the brutality her father painted or her betrothed believed. “Nay, we . . .” Colyne fought to explain that she'd acquired the bruises when the Englishmen had seized her on the dock in Glasgow as well as their escape from the ship, but pain crushed his words.
We made love
, he silently finished.

“Admit the truth,” Marie's betrothed demanded.

Colyne stared at King Philip, forced his mouth to form words he wished to tell Marie instead. “I love her.”

“You love her?” The king's indignation boomed through the cell. His nostrils flared. “How dare you twist your depraved actions into self-serving righteousness.”

“Nay.” Colyne's mind blurred. Somehow, he had to make her father understand. “Marie—”

“Silence! How dare you speak my daughter's name? You are unworthy to breathe. Now,” he said with deadly authority, “you shall pay for your transgressions!”

Colyne tried to speak, but his tongue, swollen and parched, hindered his labored attempts. “I did nae abduct her,” he managed to force out. “The Duke of . . .” His throat worked as he fought to speak. “The Duke of Renard—”

“Enough of your lies!” the king's roared.

“Aye,” her betrothed agreed with disgust. “The Duke of Renard warned us the Scot would try to accuse him of such treachery.”