“You’ll stop your infernal wailing at once and get this mess cleaned up, or I’ll have you join your husband.”
“Ye devil! I’ll kill ye!” Darcy scrambled to her feet.
Lester was ready. Driving his dagger through her heart, he shoved it in to the hilt, then pushed her back to fall over her dead husband.
“Anyone else want to cross me?” Lester asked the staff that had gathered and looked on in horror. They began to scatter, not wanting to be the one he turned on next.
Lester grabbed a man by the arm before he could escape. “Toss their bodies over the cliff. They don’t deserve a Christian burial. And you,” he pointed to another, “have Stewart meet me in my solar!”
Taking the stairs two at a time, he headed up to the tower to see the room for himself. From the center of the cold and bleak cell, he made one slow turn.
The loss of his captain of the guard was an expensive turn of events, one he blamed entirely on Morgan. Her confinement was Cyril’s responsibility.
Cyril had failed.
Morgan would pay once he got his hands around her slender throat. He smiled bitterly as he headed back downstairs to his solar. Yes, she would pay for a great many things, and, oh yes, she would pay in a great many ways.
~*****~
Stewart Whittaker stood facing the fireplace as Brentwood entered. With his hands behind his back, he studied the oversized portrait of the Fifth Duke of Seabridge, Lord Brentwood’s stepfather.
Stewart resented the feeling the painting gave him. It was as if even from the grave, the Fifth Duke was lording over him, mocking everything he had ever tried to become, knowing all the while he had fallen short in the eyes of this great man.
Slowly, Stewart turned.
“I understand you need my services,” he said softly. Choosing to never draw attention to himself, Stewart found it to his benefit to hold an appearance of servitude.
Lester took a brief survey of the man, noting Stewart’s modest dress and clean-cut appearance. Lester had always sensed something familiar about the man; even the very first day they had met, he thought he should know him from somewhere. He couldn’t put his finger on it, and he usually didn’t dwell on it, feeling more important things needed his attention and efforts than why Stewart struck a familiar cord.
In his opinion, Stewart wasn’t a man most would think to fear on first glance. He was sure such an advantage was useful for him and was the primary secret to his success in his chosen profession. However, appearances could be most deceiving. He was a man that Lester was glad to have in his pocket and not another’s. Moreover, there was always a place for such an asset as Stewart. He was ruthless, uncaring, and almost without a soul in Lester’s mind. Lester easily found a place for him at Elderage Castle and then Seabridge, keeping Lester’s hands clean as Stewart did the dirty work.
Lester largely doubted Stewart was his real name. Besides, who was asking? He surely wasn’t. When Stewart had appeared eight years ago with no explanation of who he was or why he chose to grace Elderage Castle with his presence, Lester briefly wondered who he might be. However, Lester stopped caring almost immediately on Stewart’s arrival. The man possessed a bag full of neat little tricks, which were extremely useful at times just like this. He had discovered the man to be most worthwhile. So, his true identity failed to matter.
Lester nodded. “Aye, I find myself in need of your special skill set. It seems my disobedient and most ungrateful niece has seen fit to flee the confines of my tender care.”
Stewart snorted. “Tender care, indeed,” he mumbled under his breath. “Imagine that.”
Lester ignored the comment as he pulled a locked metal box from his desk drawer. “I need you to find her and bring her back before the king gets wind that she has fled.”
Or more importantly in Lester’s mind, he needed to get her back before her would-be husband arrived at his doorstep, demanding his rights by royal decree. An ugly encounter that would prove to be, he felt certain. He was capable of defending himself under usual circumstances, but Henry’s knight wasn’t usual. A huge man with a natural ability to dominate on the battlefield, Nic McKinnon would make him his plaything.
“I must have her back, wed and bedded before the knight arrives. I don’t care to have an encounter with the man.”
Lester could see from the look on Stewart’s face that he actually found the thought amusing and might be willing to stick around to watch the predictable outcome. Nevertheless, Lester had other plans for Stewart’s time.
“You have my permission to use any and every means available to you, Stewart. My only stipulation is you’re not to openly beat her if she’s uncooperative. And you know she will be.” He was beginning to think he might go with Stewart after all. The prospect of hunting her down and tying her up had a nice feel to it.
Stewart shrugged. “Ensuring her cooperation won’t be a problem.”
Lester was quite certain that Stewart had his ways of ensuring obedience.
“Good,” Lester said.
Leaning over the large desk once belonging to his brother, he handed his puppet a leather pouch heavy with the coins that he had pulled from the strongbox.
“Her condition upon return?” Stewart asked, lacking any real emotion that might betray his true feelings on the subject.
“I only need her alive. Other than that,” Lester gestured with a dismissive wave of his hand, “I don’t care what condition I find her in on her return.” He watched as Stewart continued to stare at him. “Were my orders clear?”
“Aye, they’re clear.”
“Then why are you still standing here?” Lester got the feeling when he looked at Stewart that something wasn’t quite right with the man. Perhaps this needs to be his last job, Lester thought. When Stewart returned, it might be wise to allow him to inspect the castle bowels and become a permanent resident there through some unfortunate accident. “Was there something else?” Lester added as Stewart continued to return his gaze.
“I need you to send out a large complement of men to search for her. Make sure they are visible,” Stewart commanded a little more forcefully than intended.
“Why?” Lester asked, suspicious of Stewart’s motives.
Lester caught the look. Stewart wasn’t quick enough to cover his irritation in the questioning of his tactics.
“I want the larger party as a diversion to cover my own activities. I will track her myself. I find one man can go where many men cannot.”
Lester nodded. “Consider it done. I’ll dispatch them immediately,” Lester said, satisfied with the reasoning to expend resources.
“Then with that, I take my leave.”
Stewart turned to leave by the double door and walked soundlessly across the lush carpets, spoils from the Crusades fought by some long-forgotten ancestor.
“Stewart?” Lester questioned, then paused, lending greater weight to his final word. He waited for Stewart to turn around. He needed to reassert his dominance. “Do not return without her.”
Stewart nodded in understanding before softly closing the door.
Shortly after Stewart’s leaving, Lester scanned the room from behind the elegantly carved desk. He had come to think of all this as his own. He had been guardian and overseer of Seabridge for seven years. He had been lord and master since the fire that had killed his older brother. Now, he was going to have it all. It was going to be his if it was the last thing he did. It was just a matter of time.
Chapter 4
“What was I thinking!” Morgan screamed as the magnificent black stallion barreled uncontrollably towards the rubble of the old Roman wall. She was certainly seeing that the decision to take Demon had been extremely reckless regardless of her need for speed and agility in navigating any obstacles she expected to encounter.
The stallion gracefully leaped the wall with little wasted effort, unseating his slight burden in the process and throwing her clear of the stone barrier, straight into the bog flanking the path. Morgan
felt the blow to her head as her body shook with the impact of her landing.
Feeling the shadows of oblivion dragging her into the abyss, Morgan ceased to care.
The sun was shining and she was free.
It was a good day to die.
~*****~
Nic caught a glimpse of the young rider out of the corner of his eye. Now focused on the movement, he saw through the trees a black stallion leap over the ruins of some Roman fortification deserted hundreds of years ago and forgotten by time and man. He also saw the rider go flying through the air, landing with a potentially deadly impact on ground strewn with rock and rubble, before the young man rolled a few feet and fell into a shallow bog. The boy was going under just as he arrived. Nic pulled him out and checked for a pulse.
“Good, he lives,” Nic said after satisfying himself that there was a heartbeat.
“Ummmm.”
Nic heard the boy groan softly in pain. He eased his touch. “Hold still, lad. Moving around will only increase the discomfort.” Nic continued to hover over the lad. “Let me have a feel. Now, hold still just a minute more. By the way, I’m Sir Nic McKinnon,” he offered as he continued his inspection, hoping the gift of his name would foster trust. “I’ll not harm you, lad.” Nic didn’t know if the boy was coherent enough to hear him and understand. The lad had taken a nasty blow to the head and had yet to fully open his eyes.
The disembodied voice floated over Morgan as she remained still.
Strange how the arms of death are so comforting, she thought. It was almost as if she could feel them, tangible and inviting. Did the Grim Reaper talk, too? she wondered. If so, with a voice like his, no wonder some craved death, welcoming it with open arms. Again she wished for the dark nothingness.
It wasn’t to be.
Slowly the effects of the fall were receding, giving way to realization that she wasn’t dying and this wasn’t the Grim Reaper. She was in the arms of a strange man whose name she thought was Nic. She knew his strong, capable hands running down her arms satisfied him that there were no broken bones.
Wisely, Morgan held still.
Resisting the urge to bat his hands away wasn’t a battle easily won for her, and she wasn’t sure that battle was over. No one ever touched her except to cause her pain, yet she could see his touch was utilitarian with no malice intended. Still, the impulse to flee was overpowering. Upon closer reflection, Morgan conceded that the fear of this giant man and what he might or might not do to her was a far distant second to her fear of discovery or him forcing her back to Seabridge.
If she spoke at this point, he would realize two things: she wasn’t hurt and she was not a boy. The ruse might work at a distance, but close inspection might find her disguise lacking credence. If the knight discovered she was, in reality, the duchess of Seabridge, he would send her back. He would have no choice. The law was clear, and he would never believe that doing so would be to deliver her truly into the arms of death.
She glanced at him. Death by her uncle’s hands would never look like this man regardless of her thoughts just moments earlier.
She wasn’t going to delude herself. The beating she would receive for this escape would be severe. The punishments had been getting more violent and frequent over the last year. With this escape attempt, she had just given her uncle the excuse he needed to kill her should he ever get his hands on her again.
She could never go back. Not while Lester was alive.
Years as a soldier had finely honed Nic’s senses. He noticed the pulse racing in the hollow of the boy’s throat. He smelled the boy’s fear and knew the young man would try to run at the first opportunity. Nic’s conscience, slight as it might be in many instances, wouldn’t allow him to leave the filthy, skinny creature until he was sure the lad was fit to travel alone. He would be easy pickings if someone was set on evil.
“Easy, easy, I’ll not harm you,” Nic repeated. His words were softly laced with the influences of his deceased Scottish mother. His home was just two miles south of the Scottish territorial border. Hence the surname of McKinnon. Apparently, somewhere back in time, loyalties were blurred. His were not. Yet, even if his loyalties were firmly set in Henry’s court, it didn’t change the fact he sounded like neither an Englishman or a Scot. It had caused him much angst through his career in Henry’s service. The Scots felt he was a turncoat, and the English trusted him only as far as they could toss him, until they got to know him. Those who did know him never doubted his love for his king and country. At this point Nic would never dream of defying his king even given his Scottish roots.
“You’re lucky nothing’s broken, but rest assured, my young friend, you’ll be verray sore. It was lucky for you that I happened along to pull you out of the mire before you went completely under.”
Nic waited for acknowledgment. There was none forthcoming, making him suspect the boy was more injured than any outward appearance might suggest.
“Can you speak, lad?” Nic asked.
Morgan was fully awake and mesmerized by the soothing voice of her rescuer. His face was only inches from hers, and she thought it was the most handsome she had ever seen. He was in his late twenties. His jaw was square and his lips wide and sensual. Below that tempting mouth was a deep cleft in his chin, keeping his lips from seeming overly soft. She had the inexplicable urge to pull his face closer to test the softness for herself.
However, his eyes struck her the most. Those pools of brown reflected the real depths of the man thinly veiled by cynicism and worldly knowledge. He may be young, she thought, but he has seen much.
He was a seasoned warrior, undoubtedly hardened by endless battles and loss, which only added to his appeal.
She shook her head as if to clear her thoughts. It was a mistake. That action sent the world spinning.
Nic saw the color drain from the lad’s face. He had seen it before. Head injury and vomiting went hand in hand.
“You’re going to be sick,” Nic said as a matter of fact. His reaction time was quick; his movements done with little care given. Turning the boy to his side, he kept the lad’s breakfast off his boots.
“Don’t swallow it. Rinse and spit,” he said, handing the boy some water. “Better?”
Nic observed the lad shake his head in the negative, spit the water out and then vomit again. This time Nic wasn’t quick enough to have it miss his boots.
“Och! Well, ‘tis nay a first time,” he said with a sigh as he shook it off.
Nic also realized the boy didn’t apologize or speak. There could be several logical reasons for his silence besides simply being an ingrate. Not that he was ruling it out at this point. Could be the boy had a deep lack of trust or was in shock. More likely the boy just was incapable of speech.
“Are you mute, lad?”
Morgan jumped at the opening that the knight unknowingly provided her. It was a brilliant cover and one she wouldn’t have considered. If he thought she couldn’t speak, it would keep her from having to answer any questions. She had no idea how long the ruse might hold up, but even a day would buy her time.
Impulsively, she nodded. The slight movement cost her dearly as the world began to spin again.
“Ahhh,” she let the sound of agony slip past her lips. She grabbed the collar of his light leather armor and hung on to make the world slow down.
“You need to move slowly. Give yourself a chance to recover,” Nic said as he stood up and extended his hand.
Sitting on the soft, moist earth, Morgan looked at one of the largest men she had ever seen.
She studied his extended hand that was offered in assistance. She hesitated to take it, knowing all deeds come with a price and wondering what the price would be for accepting this knight’s offer of help.
“Fate is knocking at the door, Morgan. Answer it,” the voice of her mother seemed to speak to her. So, placing her trust in fate, she placed her hand in his.
Chapter 5
Dusting off his hands, Nic was ever alert to any
danger lurking. It wasn’t unheard of for highwaymen to set traps using just such tactics and attack while the unsuspecting Good Samaritan had his back turned, distracted by the decoy.
However, if the boy’s a decoy, he’s a good one, Nic thought.
“Will family be looking for you, lad?” Nic asked, helping the lad to his feet.
The boy shook his head, never meeting Nic’s gaze.
Nic inclined his head to the stallion grazing just up the ridge. “Did you steal him?”
He doubted the boy would be honest, but it would give him opportunity to judge his reaction to the question. Body language always told Nic more than words alone.
Now, he looked him square in the eye.
Well now, Nic thought, this boy is angry. He found it slightly amusing considering the company the young man was in at the moment.
Nic held up his hands in a gesture of concession, amused at the fight he saw in his new charge. “Now, my young friend, just be at ease. It’s a fair question. It’s not often I come across someone where ownership doesn’t hinge on possession being eleven points in the law, and they say there are but twelve,” he said, then smiled as he remembered the ancient Scottish proverb.
Nic turned away from the boy, looking toward the stallion, with his hands planted on his hips, long muscular legs spread wide. That was one fine piece of horseflesh. Turning back, Nic looked at his new traveling companion and knew instinctively this urchin was in need, no matter how rich the horse.
Nic was also in need. Maybe fate was feeling generous today.
“I find my choice of traveling light and without a squire is proving to be a poor decision. If you wish, you can act as my squire until we get to my home in the north.”
He assured the boy that after they arrived, if he wanted to stay, he could find something for him to do. There was always plenty of work for an honest set of hands. He agreed to pay a modest allowance and offered protection. In return, his expectation was to take care of his horse, attend his needs, and obey his directions always and without question.