His Captive (18 page)
Authors: Diana J. Cosby
“I understand this,” Alexander insisted.
“Here,” Nichola said from behind, startling the brothers who had apparently forgotten her presence. Her cheeks were pale. Her hands trembled as she held the goblet of wine up to Alexander. The pleasure he’d planned to see on her face, the expectant delight, was crushed by her look of humiliation.
“Lady Nichola,” Seathan said. “My apologies. Had I known of your presence, I would have held my tongue.”
Duncan blushed.
God’s teeth. He’d not meant for her to have overheard their discussion, or the references to her bedding. He took the goblet and drank deep, but the warm slide of wine tasted anything but celebratory. Alexander handed the cup back to her.
With stiff movements she accepted the vessel, and he cursed himself for allowing her this embarrassment.
“Lord Grey,” a knight called from the distance.
They all turned toward a knight who hurried toward them, worry etched on his face.
Alexander recognized the man as one of Sir William Wallace’s. His senses went on alert.
Seathan strode toward the man. When the knight halted before him, he asked, “What news do you bring?”
The knight gave a dismissive glance at the woman and turned to Seathan. “It is Sir William Wallace, my lord. He has been imprisoned at the Warden’s dungeon in Ayr.”
Wallace in an English dungeon? Alexander recognized his own grim feelings on the faces of his brothers. ’Twas unthinkable. If Wallace died, their entire rebellion could be at risk. Whatever the cost, they must free him.
Chapter Thirteen
The men gathered closer to the runner to learn the details of Wallace’s capture. Overwhelmed by the anti-English furor of Alexander and his brothers, Nichola tried to step back.
Alexander caught her arm. “Stay.”
She looked through the gatehouse at the forest. A few hours ago, she and Alexander had almost made love. But with the runner’s news, he’d withdrawn as if they’d never kissed, never touched as lovers do. Now he stood before her as the cold, emotionless warrior she’d first met in her solar.
And she’d been recast as his enemy.
“How did it happen?” Seathan demanded.
“A young lad was being harassed by a steward in the streets of Ayr, my lord. Wallace defended the lad,” the knight explained. “The confrontation turned into a brawl, and the steward ended up with Wallace’s dagger plunged into his heart.”
“And English troops surrounded him,” Alexander finished.
Pride glowed in the knight’s eyes. “Aye, they did, but several of the English bastards paid with their life.”
An image of Wallace defending an innocent youth formed in her mind. Her English peers were quick to slander the Scottish rebels as a band of outlaws fit for nothing but death. But the stories she’d heard of the English troops’ dishonorable actions and the decency she’d witnessed since being held within Lochshire Castle portrayed the Scots as a kinder people.
As Nichola gazed at the men, she couldn’t help but respect them. They fought to hold their own, their acts of savagery wrought out of desperation to ensure Scotland remained free.
“We will have to break Wallace out,” Patrik said, hatred in his voice.
Thunder rumbled, this time closer. Nichola glanced skyward. Angry black clouds swirled with the threat of rain. Not tonight, she silently pleaded. Her emotions were already fragile. After almost making love with Alexander this day, news of Wallace’s capture, and Patrik’s verbal attack, she doubted her ability to endure the storm’s fury.
“They have set a trial date to sentence Wallace for the end of the month,” the knight said.
“Patrik,” Seathan ordered, “send out several runners to the surrounding lairds. There is to be a clan meeting in three nights at Lochshire Castle.”
“Aye.” Patrick strode toward the guardhouse.
“Duncan, send a runner to contact Wulfe and ask for his aid. Before the runner leaves, I will inform him on where Wulfe and I will meet.”
Duncan nodded.
Seathan turned to Alexander. “Speak with the master-at-arms. Have him select his ten best men and ensure they are readied to travel within the sennight.” His gaze slid toward Nichola. A frown darkened his brow. Then he turned to Alexander again. “Return her to her chamber.”
Alexander cupped her elbow and Nichola shuddered. His cold expression assured her that Wallace’s imprisonment would eliminate any leniency toward her. Believing Patrik’s volatile comments this day reflected those of other rebels within Lochshire Castle, when the ransom didn’t arrive, would they kill her?
Nichola prayed her brother could somehow scrape together her ransom. She paused. Was Griffin safe? Had he even learned of her abduction? Grief built in her throat as doubts lingered that her brother would care for her enough to try to gather the coin.
Through the years, she’d thought of her and Griffin as a family, had worked hard to keep the illusion alive. Compared to the uncompromising depths of loyalty interlaced between Alexander and his brothers, she and her brother didn’t even have that.
How she wished to be a part of such a family, one that would stand behind her, whatever the cause.
Stunned, she paused. What was she thinking? They would never accept her, not that she would ever want such. But a part of her still, foolishly did.
And what of Patrik’s quips of Alexander’s bedding her during their spar? Though his words had not been meant for her ears, Alexander hadn’t denied Patrik’s charge. Why would he? Men reveled in their prowess. Alexander was no different.
Thunder again rumbled through the heavens. Nichola slowed. She didn’t want to return to the chamber, to be locked inside when her emotions were shattered and a storm approached.
“What is wrong?” Alexander asked.
She glanced up at him. A mistake. Warrior’s eyes watched her. The intimacies they’d shared in the forest seemed ages ago. The tenderness he’d shown her, lost. Except at the moment, missing her brother and agonizing over her desire, she hurt too much to care.
“Who is Wulfe?” she asked, to break the silence spilling between them as forbidding as the echo of thunder of the oncoming storm.
He studied her a long moment. “A lord who believes in and aids Scotland’s cause.”
She thought of Alexander’s hesitation, then understood. “You mean an English lord?”
Alexander didn’t reply. Why would he? If King Edward learned of the English lord’s loyalty to the Scots, he would brand the man as a traitor.
They entered the keep, then headed up the spiral steps. A cold breeze swept past them with an eerie howl, tossing the flames of the torches about in an erratic dance.
She fought for calm.
“Nichola?” The concern in his tone tugged at her conscious, but she refused to look at him, to allow him to see her weakness. What was it he’d said of sword play? That a warrior used his opponent’s weakness against him.
The bells of nones tolled the arrival of midday, their deep clangs overpowered by the rumble of thunder.
The morning had already faded? Her heart slammed against her chest. In hours, the day would be consumed by the night. Please let the storm have passed before then.
Another howl of wind surged down the stairway, cold and unwelcome. She focused on thoughts of her youth, of her mother’s laughter, her father’s intriguing tales of his travels.
But with every step toward her chamber, the walls seemed to close in. Her chest tightened, her every breath a task unto itself.
Memories of being trapped while the bitter summer storm unleashed its fury overwhelmed her. Her vision blurred. Nausea swirled in her stomach. However much she wanted to keep Alexander ignorant of her fear, she couldn’t allow him to lock her inside this night.
Nichola halted a foot from the entry to her chamber, the pain too close, the hurt too raw, the fear from her past too vivid.
“Do not lock me in,” she gasped.
Through Alexander’s troubled gaze, she saw the regret. Then determination thinned his mouth into a tight line. “It is for the best.”
She pressed her hand against the wall and shook her head. “You do not understand—”
“Later, the servants will bring you food.” Alexander caught her elbow and ushered her into the chamber.
She whirled to face him, her breaths shallow. “Do not leave me alone with the storm.” She made to slip past him, but he blocked her exit.
“I have no choice.”
He couldn’t lock her in! “Leave the door unbarred.” The desperation she fought to keep under control edged into her voice.
“No.”
His refusal to listen spawned anger; she clung to the emotion, much safer than fear. “And your words hours ago of friendship? Did they mean naught?”
Alexander’s brows narrowed. “Nichola—”
“No!” She stepped back into the chamber, cut by his denial of even a degree of trust. “You never wanted friendship, nor a truce. Admit it,” she demanded. “It was only your interest in bedding me that motivated your appeal. A fact that became clear when you sparred with your brothers.”
He had the grace to blush. “I am sorry for that. I had meant to clear up their misunderstanding.”
She gave a harsh laugh, fear of the storm clouding her restraint. “Did you? And what time would have served you well in telling the truth, before or after the passing of the next moon? Or ever?”
The coldness of her charge left him scowling. “I am a man of my word,” he stated, his voice as icy as hers.
“Mayhap, but right now, I am not sure what to believe. Especially from you.”
Anger flashed in his eyes. “Believe what you want then.” He turned on his heel to leave.
What was she doing arguing with him? She should have kept quiet, at least until she could have discussed the issue with a modicum of calm.
“Alexander!”
He crossed the threshold and shoved the door shut. The bar scraped into place with a hard bang. His footsteps faded away.
A shaft of lightning split the sky outside her window. Thunder shattered the heavens. She threw herself onto the door and pounded until her fists ached.
“Please come back!”
The reverberation of another blast of thunder rattled in reply.
Nichola turned, hugging herself, clinging to her fragile grip on sanity.
Through the open window, a blast of wind whipped into her chamber, cold and moist, pungent with the storm’s fury. Beads strung from a thin line near the panes danced with a macabre jig. The skies continued to darken, and shadows within her room grew into menacing creatures of grotesque shapes.
Mary’s will. She had to be strong.
Then came the rain. Hard. Merciless in its battering strength.
Caught by the storm’s indignation, shaken by its intensity, she could only watch the torrential downpour. When the next bolt of lightning slashed across the sky, Nichola started. She stumbled across the room. Gripping the shutters one at a time, she shoved against the wind’s strength.
They slammed closed.
Breathless, she turned and leaned back against the stone wall; cold, wet, and absolutely terrified. The tempest howled outside, while fear clawed in her chest. The nightmare of her past raged with mindraping vividness.
Again she was the child traveling with her parents on that storm-filled summer night, en route to pay for Griffin’s freedom. The covered cart had lost a wheel. Out of balance, and on the treacherous terrain, the cart had flipped over. In the jerky crash, the door had been ripped off and her mother had been tossed out into the storm. She and her father had remained inside, battered, but alive.
Except she had been trapped, helpless to move beneath the groan of broken wood. She’d cried out, in pain, fear, and desperation. Finally, her father had regained consciousness. He’d ripped the heaps of wood and baggage from her, then wrapped her in his cape. He’d bade her to remain inside and told her he had to find her mother. After crawling outside, he’d disappeared into the fierce lash of the storm.
As lightening had ravaged the blackened heavens and the wind had howled around her, she’d remained there, waiting, watching for any sign of her father.
He’d never returned.
The next morning, hungry and desperate, she’d broken her promise to her father and had climbed outside. Splattered by sun-dried mud, their driver lay dead, his leg twisted in an unnatural position, her father and mother nowhere in sight.
Then she’d seen the nearby cliff.
With a yell of denial, she’d ran to the edge and found the bodies of those she loved sprawled far below. With her throat raw from tears, she’d gathered her father’s thick cape, wrapped it around herself and followed the rutted path away from the accident in a shocked haze.
She’d finally stumbled upon a crofter’s hut, but she’d barely felt the hands that had cared for her or heard their murmurs of concern. Then from somewhere in the murky mists of pain, Griffin had drawn her into his embrace. She’d broken down in his arms.
Days had passed in a convoluted succession. Her brother had tended to her, helped her heal from the tragedy she’d witnessed, from the horrific loss she’d suffered.
“Griffin,” she whispered into the shuttered blackness, her hopeless whisper smothered by the crash of thunder. “Oh, God.” She stumbled toward the bed.
Her gown caught. Then a loud rip sounded as the cloth tore, leaving her chemise exposed from the waist down. Nichola stared numbly at the torn fabric. As if a ruined gown mattered now? Cold and wet, she curled up on top of the linen bedding and stared into the storm-fractured blackness.
Sleep wouldn’t come. For her, this night of reliving her own personal hell had just begun.
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