Alex’s glower of contemptuous disbelief tore her heart to shreds as her trembling legs failed, her lungs stopped working and she tumbled into darkness.
Baffled
THE SCOT LIFTED CLARICIA FROM THE BED. She threw her arms around his neck as he cuddled her. He murmured endearments in Gaelic, sounding more like a babbling idiot than a grizzled warrior.
Micheline knelt beside Elayne, patting her cheeks, frantically urging her to wake.
Alex surveyed the scene, his heart breaking. She had lied.
He was standing in a chamber in his own castle, but his legs felt as though he teetered on the edge of a bottomless abyss.
A warm hand took hold of his, pulling him back from the precipice. He looked down woodenly. Henry stood beside him, watching the events unfolding before them. He made no move towards the man who was evidently his father, instead gripping Alex’s hand as if holding a lifeline, his other hand hooked into Faol’s collar. A low growl rumbled from the wolfhound’s throat.
Alex became aware that the Scot had approached them, Claricia still in his arms. “What are my children doing here?” he thundered.
Henry shrank into Alex’s thigh. The dog moved to protect him.
Romain appeared from nowhere to stand shoulder to shoulder with Alex, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Had he been there all along, witnessed everything? Alex didn’t know but he was grateful for his brother’s presence.
Somehow he found a voice that sounded reasonably authoritative. “Your father sent them. It was he instigated the subterfuge.”
Dunkeld looked surprised. “You know who I am?”
“I do now,” Alex replied, hoping his words bore testimony to the sarcasm twisting inside him.
The Scot glanced down and seemed to notice his son for the first time. “Henry,” he said without warmth.
“Dadaidh,” the boy replied coolly.
“Papa has returned from the Crusades,” Claricia explained to Alex, her eyes wide with excitement.
This child he loved like his own had come back from death’s door but been claimed by a man who was supposed to be dead. She would never be his to nurture.
Dunkeld frowned, then laughed throatily. “Aye. You could say that. The Crusades.”
He walked away to put Claricia back in bed.
Henry tugged at Alex’s hand. “He never went to the Crusades. Maman gave us that excuse because she didn’t know how to tell us he’d died. Grandpapa told me the truth.”
Henry seemed to have taken on the role of the mature man, Alex the befuddled child. “But he isn’t dead.”
“No. He isn’t.”
The deep regret in the boy’s voice caught at Alex’s heart as he watched him walk to his mother’s side. He dropped to his knees and lay his head on her breast.
Romain shoved Alex gently. “Go to her.”
Alex shook his head, unable to contain the bitterness in his heart. “She lied to me. She told me she was a widow.”
His brother pushed him again. “You heard the boy. His grandpère told him his father was dead. Elayne is not a liar.”
Alex wavered, until Dunkeld approached Elayne. Henry came to his feet and braced his legs, defiance in his young eyes as he stood between his sire and his mother, his dog at his side.
Alex couldn’t bear the thought of this crude ruffian touching her. Nor could he allow the boy and his hound to be her only champions. He strode to scoop her up and left the chamber quickly, Henry and Faol guarding his rear.
ELAYNE STARTLED AWAKE.
She was lying on a bed—Alex’s bed.
Perhaps it had all been a terrible nightmare.
Dugald was dead, that’s all there was to it. His comrades had seen him fall, mortally wounded.
She blinked open her eyes. Alex stood beside the bed, staring at her blankly, leaving no doubt that Dugald’s sudden appearance had been no dream.
“Maman, ye’re awake.”
She turned her aching head slowly, hoping the lead ball lodged in her belly didn’t come up her throat.
Henry climbed on the bed to embrace her. “Papa is here.”
The pain in her son’s voice surprised her. “I ken,” she whispered.
She looked back at Alex. “I believed him dead,” she said, hoping he could see the truth in her eyes.
“I wish he was dead,” Henry blurted out.
She closed her eyes. Perhaps her son had guessed his father’s true nature, but a boy should never wish his sire dead. “You mustn’t say that, Henry. He is your father.”
Henry disentangled himself from her arms and slid off the bed. He looked at Alex, his tear-streaked face full of anger. “I wish you were my Papa instead. You love us.”
Before Alex could reply, he bolted from the chamber. Faol bounded after him.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” she murmured, staring up at nothing through the blur of tears.
Alex leaned forward abruptly to loom over her, his hands braced on the bed. “My name is Alex,” he reminded her slowly, his ice blue eyes burning with fury. “You have nothing to apologize to me for.”
“You’re angry.”
“Oui. But not with you. I’m angry that fate brought us together, and now seems intent on tearing us apart. I’m angry that you had to spend even one day of your life with a brute such as Dugald Dunkeld, and I’m completely baffled how a man like him could have sired Henry and Claricia.”
She swallowed the lump that seemed to have lodged in her throat. “My befuddlement comes from the fact he’s alive. And how did he come to be here, in Normandie?”
“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.” He held out his hand. “Do you have courage to face him?”
She accepted his hand. “With you at my side, aye.”
THEY WAITED.
Alex had sent a servant with a message to Romain to escort the Scot to the Chart Room, willing or no.
Elayne fretted. “I’m worried about Henry.”
Alex was concerned as well, but wanted to keep Elayne as calm as possible. “Faol is with him, he’ll be fine.”
The Scot blustered in through the open door, accompanied by Romain and two Montbryce soldiers. He tucked his thumbs into his leather belt. “Where’s my son?”
Elayne wrinkled her nose.
Alex wondered again how she had endured years of living with this barbarian. The real possibility that she would now have to return to the same life of degradation gnawed at him. “I remind you that you are a guest in this castle. I will ask the questions. You needn’t worry about Henry. He is safe.”
He was thankful Romain understood the brief nod sent his way. His brother left quickly.
Alex motioned Dugald to a chair.
The Scot rubbed his beard. “I’ll stand.”
Though his stance remained belligerent, Alex noted his voice had softened.
“As you wish. I am curious as to how you come to be in Normandie, when by all accounts you were killed in Northumbria some time ago.” He gestured towards Elayne. “Your wife was told you were dead.”
She glared at Dugald from where she stood, her hand on the mantel, and he was relieved to see no fear in her gaze.
“Aye, well, as you see I’m not dead. So, I’ll be taking my wife and children off your hands.”
Elayne glanced quickly at Alex, but gave no other sign of reaction to the threat.
Alex paced for long moments, hands behind his back, deafened by the pulse drumming in his ears, struggling for control of his racing heart. “You have been here for hours, yet you’ve never enquired once about your wife, and your son seems less than glad to see you. I believe you owe your wife an explanation.”
Elayne lifted her chin, but kept her gaze fixed on her husband. Alex admired her courage and determination to show no fear. Even in his own castle, surrounded by hundreds of soldiers loyal to him, he felt a little intimidated by the burly Scot.
Dugald looked at her and snorted. “I owe her nothing. She’s a mere woman. Never was much of a wife.
”
Alex wished for the fiery breath of a dragon so he could incinerate this dunghill of a man who’d been fortunate enough to call himself Elayne’s husband, to lie with her, touch her body in intimate places.
Poison roiled in his belly as an adder bit into his bowels. “Nevertheless, you will offer an account of your resurrection, or you will languish in the cells.”
His own words appalled him. He had sworn never to incarcerate anyone unjustly. Was he allowing his feelings for Elayne to dictate how he treated this man?
Dugald eyed him with suspicion, then chuckled as he took a step closer to Alex. “You want her for yourself.”
The Montbryce guards drew their swords and pushed him back.
Elayne had let go of the mantel, but remained before the hearth, hands clasped together. She didn’t flinch when Dugald approached her.
“An adulteress now, are you?” he accused, wagging his finger at her.
“Take him,” Alex commanded the guards, unable to stomach another minute in the man’s presence and fearful Elayne was close to breaking.
Dugald held up his hands in surrender. “No need for that,” he said. “I’ll tell the tale. Why not? ‘Tis an interesting one of bravery and boldness. And I love to talk about myself.”
“That’s true enough. You always were a braggart.”
Dugald’s brooding gaze swiveled to Elayne. Alex suspected he was thinking of ways to punish her later for the insolent remark.
Unexpectedly, the swarthy giant slumped into the chair Alex had indicated earlier. “I heard Norman barons are famous for their hospitality, yet I’ve not been offered even a tankard of ale.”
Alex ignored the insult but nodded to one of the guards who left quickly. He came to stand next to Elayne, arms folded across his chest, hoping she could feel his support though he couldn’t touch her.
“’Tis true I suffered terrible wounds during the raid,” Dugald began, tracing his forefinger down the scar on his face, “wounds that would have dispatched a lesser man to his Maker.”
Elayne rolled her eyes.
Dugald scowled, shifting his broad hips further back in the chair, flicking at his playd with dirty fingernails as if that could remove the grime of years. “Some of my comrades died at the hands of those mangy Lowlanders. All who survived were badly wounded.”
“Your father warned you not to go.”
Alex breathed again when a maidservant entered with tankards of ale, distracting Dugald from Elayne’s outburst.
He grabbed a tankard, swigged several long gulps, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, belched then continued. “Malcolm Murtagh and another man whose name I forget more or less carried me as far as Berwick, then the bastards left me to die.”
Elayne gasped. “It was Malcolm told me you had died.”
“Mayhap he thought I had. The bugger was half dead himself. I’m surprised to hear he made it back.”
He took another hefty swig.
Alex and Elayne remained silent. He felt her agitation though they stood inches apart.
Dugald belched loudly, thumping his chest with his fist.
Elayne turned slightly to Alex. “As you see, belching is a proud Scottish tradition,” she whispered between pursed lips.
Her capacity to see humor in a dire situation made his impending loss all the more acute.
“What ye’re whisperin’ there, lassie?”
Alex waved his hand. “Get on with it.”
Fairy Dust
“’TWAS INDEED MY LUCK that Malcolm left me in the tender care of an old crone who knew a thing or two about healing. Surprisin’ ‘cos he paid her to bury me.”
“Unbelievable,” Elayne whispered through gritted teeth without turning to face Alex.
He grunted his agreement.
She was grateful for his nearness, for the warmth emanating from him that was the only thing keeping her heart from freezing completely.
Dugald held out his tankard. The maidservant refilled it. He drained half of it in one long gulp then hiccupped. “Thirsty work this story-tellin’.”
“With any luck he’ll drink himself to death,” Alex whispered under his breath.
“Don’t count on it,” she murmured back. Dugald didn’t hold his liquor well, but he could hold lots of it.
Dugald winked. “By the bones of our blessed Saint Margaret, the crone had a bee-you-tee-full granddaughter. The mere sight of that dainty morsel and the delicate touch of her hand on my fevered brow helped me get well.”
Elayne’s foot started tapping of its own volition. Knowing Dugald, this didn’t bode well for the crone and her granddaughter.
“Aye. Hid me from my enemies they did. Fed me.” He wiggled his bushy eyebrows, grinning broadly. “Even bathed me.”
“He was clean once in his misbegotten life,” Alex whispered, rocking on his heels. “Hard to believe.”
She loved that about him, that he could bring humor to the worst situation.
“So, they nursed you back to health, but you didn’t come home,” Elayne said flatly.
Dugald looked sheepish for the first time. “Aye, well, er, there was a bit of a misunderstanding.”
She knew before he explained it.
“I was showing my appreciation to the young lass in the best way a man can, especially if he has no money to give, when the crone came upon us unexpectedly in the piggery.”
Dear Lord, he’d raped the girl in a pig sty.
Alex’s fingertips touched hers atop the mantel, otherwise she’d have launched herself at her husband and torn his eyes out.
“Nothing could persuade the owd coot I meant no harm, so what choice did I have but to take her donkey and leave?”
She sucked in a breath, suddenly believing the cruel whispers she’d sometimes overheard that Dugald couldn’t possibly be the father of her children. Mayhap it was a fallacy that babes were conceived in the marriage bed. Perhaps some kind-hearted fairy had sprinkled her with magic dust so she could bear two perfect children.
If she closed her eyes and wished hard enough would the same fairy remove this odious man from her life altogether?
“In other words, you thanked the old woman for saving your hide by raping her granddaughter and stealing her donkey?”
Dugald shrugged. “I had to get away, so I rode south to seek sanctuary with the good monks of Holy Island.”
And Fate being what it was, no doubt the men of God sheltered this rapist and thief.
“You rode south, instead of north towards us, your family and your home.”
“Well, I couldn’t ride all that way on a donkey, and you wouldn’t believe it, but monks know a lot, for all they’re locked up in cells and whatnot.”
Alex coughed.
“There was talk of a squabble between Stephen and Henry’s daughter, Maud. They reckoned if Maud invaded England, my father would attack Northumbria again to distract Stephen. Thinks the world of Henry, my father does, you know. I’d no wish to go home to face the auld bugger’s wrath only to ride back to Northumbria to fight.”
How had she not murdered this nincompoop before now?
“They said Maud was raising an army in Normandie to invade England, looking for mercenaries, paying well. I decided to sail there and offer my services, then my da would be proud of me when he found out I’d helped Maud invade England.”
“How did you secure a boat to Normandie?” Alex asked, his voice heavy with misgiving.
“The monks take their mead to sell in the market at Beal. What do monks need money for? I needed it more.”
“You stole from monks?” Elayne asked incredulously.
“Had to buy passage on a boat going to Normandie. Not cheap, I can tell you, but well worth it once I found Maud and that crafty husband of hers. They recognized right off what a prize they had when I revealed I was Scottish royalty.”
Elayne was certain Dugald had committed other crimes and offenses during his trek across Normandie, but she covered her ears, unwilling to listen
to another word. The Dugald she’d known before had been bad enough. This man was a mercenary in every sense of the word.
Alex stepped forward. “Maud and Geoffrey assumed correctly that you could identify the royal hostages. But now you know they are your children, what are you going to do about it?”
Agony
DUGALD’S EYES DARTED from Alex to Elayne and back again. “’Tis fortunate Maud and Geoffrey are not with the army sitting outside your gates. Off on some misbegotten mission to drum up support. Maud would know as soon as she set eyes on Henry and Claricia they weren’t who they’re supposed to be. She was beginning to get suspicious anyway.”
Alex breathed a little easier. It was unlikely Geoffrey would allow an underling to lead an attack against a castle such as Montbryce, but what did the Scot have in mind?
The color had drained from Elayne’s face.
Dugald lumbered to his feet. “It’s only a matter of time before she uncovers the subterfuge. What was my father thinking?”
“He was angry Maud asked for hostages, seemingly not satisfied with his sworn oath to support her,” Elayne explained wearily.
The despair in her voice kicked Alex in the gut.
“So, here’s my plan. My family will accompany me to our encampment. Everyone will congratulate me on a fine job of extracting the hostages safely, and in less than a day. When they’re all well into their cups and I see the time is right, I’ll spirit them away.”
“How can you be sure the mercenaries will drink themselves into a stupor?”
“Because you will provide the ale, and mayhap a cask or two of your famous apple brandy.”
Alex bristled. Was it not enough they’d destroyed the orchards? But he saw the wisdom of Dugald’s plan. “Very well. Bonhomme will see to it. Where will you take them?”
“To Caen.”
Some winged creature with sharp talons flapped around inside Alex. Caen was where his father had been incarcerated, where he’d been born. He’d sworn never to set foot in the town. “Caen?” he exclaimed.
Jeopardy (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 10) Page 13
