Knight In My Bed (24 page)

Evelina placed the back of her hand against Isolde's hot cheek. "The sooner he succumbs, the better your chances, my lady."

And if I succumb
?

The words echoed boldly in Isolde's heart, loud and frightful as the cracking thunder renting the night. As if
 
she'd heard them, too, Evelina arched an elegant black brow. "If you well please him, you might find he pleases you as well."

Embarrassed, Isolde shifted her feet. Her face, her entire being, grew warmer by the minute. Soon, she'd be glowing brighter than a well-dipped resin torch.

Evelina drew a deep breath.

"I must go," she said, taking her hand from Isolde's cheek. She made to move away, but Isolde caught her arm.

"You cannot leave in this storm. Stay the night here, I will order a meal and –“

'Thank you, but I have already been offered a fine pallet for the night, and even a hearty repast," Evelina said, an odd catch in her voice. "I wish you well with the MacLean," she added, then made for the door.

Her hand on the latch, she paused and looked back. "Never forget, the road to the greatest happiness is sometimes fraught with peril and ofttimes the longest we must traverse." Her words sailed straight at Isolde's heart, as she' d no doubt intended.

As if she knew they'd found their target, she gave Isolde one last little smile. "Know, too, my lady, the rewards we reap at journey's end are worth more than a king's ransom."

That said, she stepped out the door and closed it soundly behind her.

Donall grunted as the largest wave yet slammed into his ribs. "Christ's wounds!" he swore, blinking hard against the stinging wetness in his eyes. "Saints, Maria, and Joseph!" he cursed again as an even greater roller crashed over him.

Sputtering, he tossed his head in a vain effort to clear his vision. Not that he cared to see how much higher the tide had risen since the storm's full fury had broke about an hour before.

Lashing rain slanted sideways through the ruined broch's sea entrance. Cold and hard as steel pellets, the blinding sheets of rain sliced into him with a force to rival the waves sweeping into the dungeon with ever greater ferocity.

Squinting, he glanced out at the open sea and saw ... naught. Only blackness. Roiling, surging water, and jagged bolts of lightning slashing across the angry night sky.

Summoning all his might, he clung to the cold, wet chain stretched taut above his head. Using his shoulder and arm muscles, he heaved himself above the tossing waves. Screwing his eyes shut against the bite of the salt water, he prayed to all his patron saints.

And a few others as well.

If the lightning didn't soon claim him, the furious surf would. Either way, if the wench's two buffoons didn't soon haul him out of this hellhole, he'd not have to send prayers heavenward much longer. He'd be able to make his felicitations in person.

Fetch him down
.

The three words boomed in the darkness. Strong, commanding, and sweet in Donall's ears.

Too sweet
.

For they were promptly swallowed by the roar of the sea and the fierce howl of the wind. A figment of his imagination or mayhap the taunt of a sea sprite, eager to claim yet another mortal man's fast-approaching demise.

"Make haste!" the voice carne again, oddly familiar, though not belonging to the two dolt-headed guardsmen.

But, of a certainty, a
human
voice.

Not a sea siren lusting to pull him into her watery clutches.

"See to it. Now!" the voice commanded, and Donall muttered a prayer of thanks.

He'd make his felicitations to the revered saints at a later date... one more suitable to his inclinations.

Hoping his relief didn't show, he craned his neck toward the voice and opened his burning eyes to narrow slits. Three male figures moved about on the sea ledge. The two buffoons, and another man. He couldn't make out the third clearly enough to discern his identity.

They' d thrust torches into the wall brackets, and the sputtering flames leaped and danced in the wind, casting an orange-red glow on the dungeon's rough, wet walls, and o'er themselves as well.

Three firedrakes risen from the depths of hell itself, but looking sweeter than heaven's holiest host of angels as two of them hurried down the steep flight of steps, then plunged into the surf, making straight for him.

And he' d be damned if he' d say thank you.

Not to
them.

Fixing his features into a mask of indifference, Donall awaited their approach.

"Don't try to look grateful, you whoreson bastard," Rory groused the instant he reached his side. Glowering fiercely, the lout thrust his arms below the foam-capped waves, grumbling to himself as he fumbled to free Donall's chain from the weights that had held him aloft since daybreak.

The giant slogged up to them a moment later. He, too, glared at Donall. "It would seem you have more than one friend above-stairs," he said, and wrapped his great arms around Donall's waist, catching him just as the chain gave way, thus saving Donall from plunging beneath the waves.

"I'd rather push your ugly face under the water than haul you out of here," Niels swore, grabbing Donall's upper arm in a fierce hold the same instant Rory seized his other arm.

Together, they dragged him through the surf and up the slick stone steps to the ledge. Still holding fast to his arms, they drew him before the third man. He handed Donall a coarse drying cloth, then swirled a warm, woolen blanket around Donall's shoulders.

For the space of a heartbeat, Donall considered tossing both the drying cloth and the blanket into the sea, but his sheer will to persevere, and escape, vanquished any such foolhardy behavior.

Standing as straight as his numbed and aching body would allow, he ground the drying linen into his eyes until most of the stinging subsided. Then he opened them and recognized his unlikely savior.

He was none other than the stone-faced blackguard who'd so arrogantly placed himself in front of the air slit on Donall's first day of captivity. The youngest of the graybeards, the one Isolde called Lorne.

The man stood straight and proud, every bit as arrogant as before, but something else lurked in the backs of his eyes.

Something indefinable.

"You," Donall said, naught else.

The gray-beard gave him a curt nod. "I am Lorne," he said, then glanced at Rory and Niels. "Fetch him water.

"
Fresh
water," he added as Rory stalked away.

While the pock-faced oaf dipped a cup into a wooden bucket set on the ground near the entrance to the mural passage, Lorne glanced at Donall's hands.

They shook.

Donall pressed his lips together and tried to still the shaking, but his hands were too numb from the chill, too weak from supporting his body weight for countless hours as he'd dangled from the ceiling.

"Help him." Lorne gave Rory a sharp look when he returned with the water cup.

Rory's face suffused with indignation, but he did as the elder bade him, and brought the cup to Donall's lips so he could drink.

The water, cool and sweet, flowed down Donall's throat, the most welcome libation he' d ever imbibed. But the moment Rory took away the cup, he returned his attention to the gray-beard. "To what honor do I owe your clemency?" he asked, cringing inwardly at the rasp in his voice.

Lorne's hard-set features didn't soften a whit. Nor did his stance. His broad shoulders thrown back, he held his hands clasped behind him and peered unblinking at Donall. The inscrutable glimmer still flickering in his eyes gave the only indication something had sparked his unusual show of consideration.

"Make no mistake, MacLean," he said, his deep voice imposing enough to be heard above the storm and the sea. "I yet hold you responsible for our lady Lileas's death, and you shall surely forfeit your life for the loss of hers, but I am a man of honor."

Donall lifted a brow. He wouldn't embarrass himself again by speaking with a voice that sounded more like a croaking frog than a man.

"And as such," Lorne continued, "I respect your valor. As a warrior, the warrior I once was." He drew a breath. "As a man, I revile you for your part in an innocent's murder, but my honor as an old knight myself will not allow me to see your strength of will and your astonishing endurance go unheeded."

Donall stared at him, too flummoxed to have commented even if his throat wasn't parched and hoarse.

After inclining his head in a nod one could almost deem respectful, Lorne turned to the two poltroons. "Take him to his friend's cell."

Rory's jaw dropped.

Niels pressed his lips into a tight seam and stared up at the dripping ceiling.

"But, sir," Rory protested. "The counc -"

"I will speak with the council," Lorne said. "See he receives a warm bath, his own garb, and decent victuals. Enough for himself and the MacFie."

"Holy alleluia," the giant swore, and raked a big hand through the wet tangle of his red hair.

Rory's face turned deep purple. "I would rather scratch the devil's backside."

Having already dismissed them, the gray-beard had been beading toward the entrance to the intra-mural passage, but be broke stride, turning slowly to face Rory and Niels.

The torchlight shining on his stern-set face revealed a trace of the commanding presence he must've been on the field of battle. "Do as you've been told," he said, and Donall knew instinctively that neither Rory nor the giant would defy him.

As if he knew it, too, Lorne glanced once more at Donall. "Do not give me cause to regret my lenience," he said.

And then he was gone.

Swallowed up by the orange-glowing mouth of the ruined broch's intra-mural passage.

Leaving Donall alone with the fair maid's volatile guardsmen.

Alone with them and his utter astonishment.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

By The Rood, Donall!" Gavin MacFie scrambled to his feet and came as far forward as his ankle chain would allow. "Saints be praised!" he cried, pulling Donali into a rough, comradely embrace.

"I thought you were dead. They wouldn't give me word of you." He released Donall, a broad smile lighting his beard-stubbled face.

Donall returned his friend's smile with a grin of his own. "There are varlets a-plenty here who'd savor naught more than to see me swing from a gibbet," he said, casting a glance at the two scowling churls affixing his chain to a heavy iron ring on the wall of Gavin's cell.

"But," he vowed with as much purposeful joviality as his hoarse voice would allow, "I refuse to oblige them."

"Pompous bastard," Rory snarled under his breath and jerked on the chain, testing the iron ring's hold. Apparently satisfied, he strode to the door. "Were it not for our misguided ladyship, I'd smash my fist into your jeering mouth until you spit out every fast one o' your teeth."

"Cool your temper," the giant admonished him, stepping aside to admit a stream of wide-eyed kitchen lads, each carrying a bundle of some sort in their scrawny arms. "Summer Solstice is fast upon us. Soon the crows will be picking his bones clean."

"Oh, aye?" Gavin balled his hands to fists. "Give me my blade and we'll see whose carcass ends as carrion fodder."

Donall leaned against the rough-masoned wall and feigned a look of detachment. Lifting his band, he pretended to examine his knuckles. "You ken what they say, Gavin. A dog who barks overmuch does so because he cannot bite."

Gavin tossed back his shaggy reddish-brown hair and laughed. To Donall's amazement, even the giant's lips twitched a bit before he caught himself. Rory sputtered, his eyes blazing with such fury fit wouldn't
 
have surprised Donall to see steam shoot from his ears.

"Say your prayers, you whoreson knave," Rory seethed, whipping out his dirk. He took one menacing step forward before the aged knight, Donall's unlikely champion, entered the cell, his thick brows drawn together in a near solid line.

"Becalm yourself, lest I am tempted to have you muck out the cesspit," he said to Rory. Grim-faced, he took up a position by the door, hands propped against his hips, his still-muscular legs planted apart.

He slanted a pointed glance at the double-edged dirk in Rory's hand. "Sheathe fit."

"Ram fit down his gullet is what I’d like to do," Rory groused. With a fast, outraged glower at Donall and Gavin, he jammed his blade into the leather holder at his belt, and stomped out the door.

"See he cools his blood," Lorne said to the giant, then inclined his leonine head toward the door in a clear gesture for Niels, too, to exit the cell.

Niels obliged him, ducking beneath the doorway's low
 
lintel to disappear into the dimness of the passage beyond. The kitchen lads scurried after him, clearly relieved to make a hasty retreat.

The moment their collective footfalls faded, Donall let himself sag a bit more heavily against the cold stone wall. If the stony-faced gray-beard didn't soon hie himself away as well, he might not be able to maintain the pretense of invincibility much longer.