Isolde's Wish (16 page)

Bevan watched her for a minute before she grew bold enough to offer Isolde the tea. She accepted it with as much grace as she could muster, took one scalding sip, and replaced the cup on the small silver tray.

“Will ye let me assist ye with yer boot strings, mistress?”

The window drew her attention again. Perhaps she could shimmy through it if her bottom wasn’t too wide. She wouldn’t know without trying. Those velvet draperies would make fine ropes for climbing to the ground.

Why was she acting as if she was a prisoner here? She had purposely ridden into Millvale’s lair. This was no time to fear the beast. She must tame him, turn the situation to her—and Sadler’s—advantage.

“My lady?”

Bevan’s voice broke into Isolde’s thoughts, and she remembered her offer to help her with her boots. The leather was fine and molded to her feet, but the high laces up the front, reaching to her midthighs, were constricting.

“Aye, if ye please.”

The maid’s fingers worked lightly to loosen the bindings. When Isolde slipped her foot from the tall boots, she sighed with relief. Without her to fill them, the black leather footwear slumped like two weary animals.

Bevan looked up at her from the corner of her eye. “What is it?” Isolde asked, suspecting she wanted to speak.

“I wanted to say, Princess, that my mother served yer mother. She spoke highly of her. And I’m sorry about the outcome.”

Isolde’s heart softened, and she patted the servant’s shoulder. “Thank ye.”

She crossed to the window and stared down at the grounds. In the distance, a small airship floated in the skies, and at the gates, two monstrous zeppelgongers stood sentry, each programmed to detect Sadler, to seek him, to kill him.

“Bevan,” Isolde said, turning to the maid. “How well do ye know these lands?”

Chapter Fourteen

Sadler stood locked between two zeppelgongers’ massive metal shoulders, waiting for Millvale. He shifted from foot to foot, trying to escape the newfound pain of his sword wound. While Millvale’s men had him on the ground, they’d delivered some ruthless kicks to that tender area. No doubt they’d had direction. Now blood trickled down his thigh, making his breeches stick to the wound. No time to worry about it now.

He stared through the open doorway of Millvale’s study, hoping to catch a glimpse of Isolde. Being torn from her was giving him a frenzied feeling, even if he had chosen this path.

As he waited, he took stock of his surroundings. Four high, windowless stone walls. A single exit. A fire blazed in the hearth spanning the length of one wall. Above the fireplace hung the usual array of weapons for any respectable household—sword, battle-ax, mace. If the zeppelgongers would allow him to move an inch, he could reach the handle of the mace. His palm itched to feel the weight of the weapon, to heave it over his head and bring it down upon Millvale’s skull.

At that minute, Millvale’s form appeared in the doorway. Backlit from the torches in the corridor, his face was in shadow. He paused for a long minute to study Sadler. The old feeling of helplessness of the boy he’d been rose inside him. His muscles clenched to do battle, and the metal hulk on his left squeezed him into the bulk on his right.

Millvale slowly entered. He had changed into a long coat with a high, stiff collar that brushed his ears. His breeches were dark blue fabric to match, and he wore a red sash across his tunic. The winner’s sash.

“So ye’ve won the airship race again. How many vessels did ye torch out of the sky? Or did the other contestants stay out of yer way this year?”

Millvale’s eyes were black and glittering. “Choose yer words with care, boy.”

At the word “boy,” Sadler worked to remain still. It ignited his blood. Right now, he needed the earl on his side.

He looked him straight in the eye. “I request yer help.”

“Ah.” Millvale began to circle the zeppelgongers and fugitive, coat flapping about his sleek leather boots. Beneath the jacket, a rapier was positioned on his hip. Sadler wanted to grab that blade and draw it across Millvale’s throat. The zeppelgongers would waste no time crushing him into the stone flags, but at least the earl would die before that, spurting blood from his slash.

The cut on Sadler’s thigh tingled and burned. Where was Isolde in this great keep? If he could kill Millvale and incapacitate the zeppelgongers, he could find her and flee. There would be no need to ask Millvale’s help or give up the woman he loved, as was his original intent.

He swallowed hard. “I ask that ye protect the princess’s name.”

Millvale came to a stop, nose to nose with Sadler. He smelled of greasy and pungent meat. Sadler thought the boar he’d stopped from killing Isolde that morn at the loch smelled fresher.

“Ye stole her maidenhead.”

Sadler stared unblinkingly at him, the visions of making love to Isolde playing behind his eyes. Golden limbs and frothy hair spilling over the bed of moss, a leaf tangled near her temple. Her ripe lips parted like fruits, as succulent as fruits, tasting of fruits.

He focused on the onion scent clinging to Millvale and the strong smell of oiled metal wafting from the robotic creatures.

Millvale grasped the laughably tiny hat that was perched near his forehead and tossed it to the floor. It lay like a small dead bird, the green feather shivering in the heat of the fire.

Millvale’s fist rocked Sadler’s head.

Adrenaline tingled through Sadler’s limbs, begging him to retaliate. He drew a lungful of Millvale’s stink, stretched his neck muscles, and glared at him, teeth bared.

“Ye dare smile at what ye’ve done?” the earl bellowed into his face. “I’ll make ye pay. The king will make ye pay.”

“That’s why I’ve come,” Sadler said calmly, staring in a way he hoped declared his hatred. After being hit, his jaw popped with the movement of his mouth. “I’ve come to barter. The princess’s good name for my imprisonment.”

“Oh, never fear that the treachery ye’ve committed against Princess Isolde will be made known. I will protect her with my life.”

“I expect that. I’ve come to exact yer promise that ye will accept her though she’s been deflowered.”

Millvale’s eyes flickered. His hand poised over his rapier. “It’s true? She
let
ye touch her?”

Sadler felt the spring of love for Isolde pool in his chest, along with pride that she’d given herself to him. He might have made a grave error in claiming her, but he would relish the memory for the rest of his life, which, if Millvale had his way, would be mere hours.

The weight of his decision pressed directly on that heartstring between him and Isolde. He glanced at the exit, wondering how far he’d get before Millvale’s blade was thrust between his shoulder blades or the deadly strong zeppelgongers tore his limbs from his body and left him to twitch on the floor.

When Millvale threw another punch, Sadler anticipated it. He caught his fist with a
snap
, muscles shaking with the urge to twist it and drive the bone ends through the skin. Instead he said in a low voice, “Do not dare to lay a hand on me again. Soon enough ye’ll have me marching the steps to the guillotine.”

A trickle of sweat appeared on Millvale’s forehead. It caught in his hair before breaking free to drip into his eye. With a grunt of exertion, he ripped his hand from Sadler’s iron hold. He stumbled a few steps and straightened the collar of his jacket. He bent at the waist, swiped his dropped hat from the floor, and brandished it atop his crown. It perched there like a strange little chicken, and Sadler laughed out loud.

The booming sound startled the earl, and the zeppelgongers pivoted toward him in their jerky, clanky way.

In a flash, Millvale’s chest was pressed against Sadler’s. “Do not play with me, boy. If ye live to see the guillotine, I’ll be sure the executioner is inefficient,” he snarled.

“Ye won’t sully Isolde’s name?”

“Isolde will be my wife. Why would I do that?”

Sadler swallowed the sickness that flooded his throat. As the zeppelgongers closed in on him, each then seizing an arm, the thread in his heart binding him to Isolde stretched taut. No more stolen moments, no flash of fairy fire in her eyes, no declarations of love. No hearth to share or old age to grow into. Because Sadler would be no more.

As he was jostled into the corridor between the two mechanical giants, a sudden hope flared bright inside of him, a candle in the dark of his shrinking soul.

There may be no Sadler, but perhaps his child would grow in his beloved’s womb, leaving a piece of him upon this earth that could no longer shelter him.

* * *

Alone in a prison cell, Sadler sank to the grimy stone floor and dropped his head into his hands. The journey to Nyon Prison had been fraught with pain, both physical and mental. The earl had personally seen him placed in the cell, twisted the key in the lock, and given him a maniacal grin.

“Rest assured the promise will be honored.”

Sadler pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting against the threat of tears. Leaving Isolde in Millvale’s keep had been as difficult as watching his father die. Both events left him feeling bereft, adrift in a loveless world. Yet deep down, he knew he’d made the right decision. Isolde deserved to be cared for, and during the long hours of the night while she’d slept, he’d come to this realization. The delicate golden-haired beauty was worthy of a better life than an outlaw could offer. To steal her royal blood from the kingdom was a treachery.

For the moment, his bloodlust was replaced with a longing that singed his world, darkening his vision to a narrow tunnel with flames licking the edges.

After the freedom of the countryside, his holding cell was constraining enough. Add the clamp in his throat that he couldn’t breathe around, the throb in his thigh from his reopened wound, and the tormenting scent of Isolde still lingering on his flesh, and he was maddened.

He plastered his hands to his face and inhaled deeply, filling his nose with her womanly smells. The night of stolen passion had been stupid and careless and undeniably thrilling.

He searched his conscience, and while he still believed she needed to be cared for as a princess, he would never regret having her in his arms. It diminished the memory of being beaten by Millvale and the torturous drawing he’d experienced, where one zeppelgonger had pinned him to the floor while the other attempted to pop his leg from his socket. This was repeated for all four limbs, and when they had finished, Sadler had crumpled, weak and shaking with pain. His joints still felt too loose, brittle.

What time of day was it? He’d lost all sense, trapped in a continuum of desire, fear, loss. His death order could arrive in a fortnight or a few minutes. He wondered how Isolde would react to his imprisonment. He’d seen the determination in her face before she had been whisked away by the servants. When she wore that expression, he knew a furious plan was being concocted in her mind. His only hope was that she would keep a tight mouth about sleeping with him. Otherwise, they would follow in their parents’ footsteps to the guillotine.

In the adjoining cell, he heard a man relieving himself. Beyond the walls, a bell was gonging. He wondered if it was dinnertime and guessed at the fetid fare Nyon Prison fed its prisoners. He hoped Isolde sat at a grand table, dining on delightful meats and vegetables. If she spoke openly of their night of passion, she would land herself in the predicament he had sought to avoid. Knowing he had sent her to her death would be worse than dying himself.

Chapter Fifteen

When the door of the chamber opened, Isolde jumped. The servant girl, Bevan, slipped through the crack. Isolde’s smile spread over her features, and she rushed to her side.

“What did ye discover?”

“The earl is away from the keep, my lady. He’s taken the prisoner, Sadler, to Nyon Prison.”

Isolde’s veins clogged with ice. She felt her blood drain from her face and sat abruptly on the side of the bed. “Nyon,” she whispered. She stared at the gray stone floor, fighting her panic. Sadler, captured. She had expected Millvale to hold him here. “Why did the earl not keep him in the oubliette?” she asked. As a child, she’d been shown that terrifying dark cell during her visit.

“I don’t know, my lady.”

Isolde leaped to her feet and began to pace the floor, her boot heels clacking. Her hair swirled about her like a long shawl. She remembered how Sadler had buried his nose in it, pillowed his face on it. She began to shake.

“Bevan, our plans are destroyed. Everything we hoped to do is irrelevant if Sadler is in Nyon.” She strode to the window and looked down on the quiet grounds. She and Bevan had spent an hour constructing a rope from bedclothes, which they intended to climb down and locate Sadler in the oubliette, rather than wander the castle corridors and cause suspicion. Even with Millvale gone, his guards would be watching.

But Sadler wasn’t here. He was in Nyon, the place where his father had been sent to await execution.

The maid appeared at her side. “We must get ye to the stable, Princess. A fast horse will see ye at Nyon in a day’s hard ride.”

“Ride unescorted?”

“Aye, under disguise. I can lay hands on a man’s uniform easily enough.”

Excitement swelled in Isolde’s chest, replacing the sick knot of dread. “Hurry, Bevan. The light is waning. I must get my bearings before darkness falls.”

The maid scurried to the door and disappeared. Isolde located a strip of ribbon in her pocket and held it between her teeth while she plaited her hair, fingers flying through the locks. She secured the end with a bow of midnight blue silk and turned again to the window. I’m coming, my love, she thought. And I’m wearing yer colors.

* * *

Halfway to Nyon Prison, Isolde changed course. Only one person could pardon Sadler, and that was her father.

Shimmying down the makeshift rope had been a breeze. Sprinting to the stables unseen and stealing a horse had taken good luck and a dose of timing, which Bevan offered with her knowledge of the groundskeepers’ habits. Getting from the stable to the main road without being stopped by one of the many men-at-arms who guarded the wall proved to be more dangerous, but here too, Bevan had poured on her charms, allowing Isolde to slip free.