Lachlan nodded. Though he wished all the women could be freed, it was Bella and young Mary whose harsh treatment had made them the first to rescue.
With his team in place, Lachlan didn’t waste any time. Before the cock had crowed, he and the other guardsmen were riding hard for Berwick.
Bella stood gazing out the small window in her tower room, watching the people bustling around the courtyard below as they went about their duties and activities for the day. After more than two years, the faces were familiar to her. There was Harry the young stable lad, fetching water for the horses, and Annie, the young girl from the village who seemed to look for any excuse to linger near Will, the green-and-gold-liveried man-at-arms who excelled with a bow.
Those weren’t really their names, of course. But with nothing but needlework to pass the time, she’d made up names and stories for the villagers and occupants of the castle. At times it could be quite entertaining, almost like watching a play. But most importantly, it was a way to relieve the monotony that had proved her most dogged enemy—inside the cage or out.
She stood here most of the day. The window was small, but there were no bars to obstruct the view. Sometimes, for a fraction of an instant, she could forget the small room behind her. Forget the smothering sense of confinement that lingered since her release from the cage three months ago—ninety-seven days, to be exact.
But she was careful not to look up. She never looked up.
She knew the location of her chamber wasn’t an accident. They’d placed her in a tower room opposite the cage. It was just another way to torment and manipulate her, to not let her forget what they could do to her.
As if she could ever forget. She didn’t need a view to remind her of the hell of her imprisonment. She carried the memories with her every day.
How she’d gotten through it she didn’t know. Her daughter. Her pride. An obstinate refusal to let them win. Somehow she’d managed. She’d learned to ignore that people were always watching her. That she never had a moment of privacy. The pitying glances. The bars. She’d combated the sense of confinement by walking in place and stretching her limbs every morning. Alleviated her boredom by making up stories about the people in the yard.
The one thing she could not control was the cold. She shivered reflexively. This small, damp, soulless room seemed like a sultry haven by comparison.
She’d walked out of that cage thinner, weaker, and sadder, but with her back straight and her chin up.
She’d gotten through it once, but she didn’t think she could do it again. It wasn’t until she’d been released that the horror caught up to her. But each day she was getting stronger and feeling more like her old self.
Suddenly, the door slammed open. She stiffened, knowing exactly who it was. Other than the boredom, the one constant throughout her long ordeal was Sir Simon. Her personal tormentor.
She turned, knowing that if she ignored him it would be worse.
His eyes narrowed, as if he were trying to find something wrong with what she was doing. “You spend a lot of time looking out that window.”
Panic rose up her throat. The window was the one thing keeping her from going mad. If he guessed how important it was to her …
Bella felt her mouth go dry. She moistened her lips with a quick flick of her tongue, but immediately regretted the action when she saw how Simon’s eyes flared. After two years, she knew better than to draw attention to any part of her body—especially her mouth—but her nervousness betrayed her. “I was merely hungry and wondered at the time. Did you bring my meal?”
“I’m not your blasted servant,” he said angrily, as she knew he would. Distracting him with anger was the best way to steer him from the scent of her weakness.
She lifted a haughty brow, knowing she was playing with fire. “Then what did you want?”
His fists clenched, as did his jaw. “You’re leaving.”
Her mouth dropped open. She was so stunned, for a moment she forgot to control her reaction. She tried to tamp down the reflexive burst of hope. She couldn’t have heard him right. “Leaving?” she echoed.
“Aye.” He was watching her, toying with her, knowing exactly the effect his words would have.
She sat down on a stool and picked up her mending as if he hadn’t spoken, forcing her trembling fingers to work the needle through the linen tunic. She spoke with as little care as she could manage. “Where am I to go?”
Was the war over? Had her freedom been negotiated? Could she finally be going home?
“A convent.”
The twinge of disappointment was minor. If she wasn’t going home, a convent was certainly preferable to an armed fortress like Berwick. A convent would give her hope of escape.
But Simon had known the direction her thoughts would take and had only sought to torment her. He smiled before adding, “There’s a Carmelite convent of nuns on the outskirts of Berwick. You are to be sent there, where you will immediately take your vows.”
Vows? Good God! Every instinct rose in immediate rebellion. She wanted to shout out her refusal, to cringe at the mere suggestion. Vows were a prison she could never escape. Once taken, there would be no going back. She’d be locked away forever. The solitude … the monotony … the confinement would never end. Oh God, she should have guessed there would be some cruel twist.
But the years of controlling her emotions with Buchan had served her well during her imprisonment at Berwick. Her expression betrayed none of her horror.
Still, he knew. “It should make you happy,” he taunted. His dark eyes ran over her shapeless woolen gown. The fine gown she’d been imprisoned in was long gone, replaced by plain, serviceable cast-offs from the castle servants. The roughly spun wool was thick and scratchy, but that didn’t matter. It was warm. “You’ve been acting like a nun for years,” he sneered with a crude glance between her legs. Her thighs tightened instinctively. “Now you can be one.”
She heard the bitter reproach in his voice. How much easier it would have been had she just given in to his demands! Let him use her body as Buchan had done for years. She might have had more coal for the brazier, more blankets for her crude pallet, better food, a host of small luxuries to make her imprisonment if not comfortable, at least bearable.
But she couldn’t do it. It wasn’t just because every little thing about his person revolted her. The brown stains on his teeth. The white flakes in his greasy dark hair. The layer of sweat that made his face shine like the skin of a fish. Nay, submitting to him would be something she could never excuse. With her husband, she’d had a duty. With Lachlan, she’d foolishly believed there was something special between them. But with Simon, she would be selling herself. And she’d be damned if she’d give proof to the rumors. First about Robert, and then after her capture, thanks to Ross no doubt, about Lachlan.
She did not care that people called her a whore, but she would not make herself one.
So she’d endured cold, hunger, and two years of endless tormenting. Twice he’d gone too far and nearly killed her. Once the rotting food he’d given her had sickened her. Another time he’d punished her defiance by taking away her blankets on a night of cold and rain; she’d nearly frozen to death.
Like her former husband, Simon wanted to see her react. He looked for ways to break her. Many times over the past two years she’d wanted to give in. But one thing had kept her going: her daughter. She had to get through this for Joan.
“I hear the rooms are small and windowless,” he said snidely. She repressed a shiver. Though she’d hid her fear well, still he’d guessed it. “But you’re used to that, aren’t you, Countess?” He emphasized the last, then slapped his forehead with exaggerated affect. “Oh, that’s right. With Buchan dead, King Edward, the second by that name, has decided that you are no longer a countess.”
She held his gaze and smiled. “Aye, now I am merely the daughter and sister to the most ancient and powerful of all Scottish earldoms.”
Simon’s face turned f
lorid. She might have been set aside by her husband, and her title stripped by a king, but she was still descended from Scotland’s most noble blood, and as such, far above a coarse brute like him.
When Margaret, her only source of outside events, had brought her news a few months back of her husband’s death, Bella had felt nothing. Not happiness that the man who’d fought for her death for two years had met his own, or even relief from the knowledge that she would never have to see him again. Her only thought was for her daughter. Joan was alone now. What would happen to her?
Buchan’s death had made her even more determined to get out of this nightmare and return to her daughter. Something she would never be able to do if she took her vows.
Simon crossed the small chamber in three strides. He tore the embroidery from her hands and harshly jerked her body up against him.
She hung there like a poppet of rags. Having grown used to such treatment, she didn’t resist or feel any fear. Simon was a mean, foul-tempered bully who would touch her and manhandle her whenever he got the chance, but the worst he dared was crude gropings and a few bruises.
He’d wanted to rape her—more times than she could count—but despite the barbarous treatment done to her by England’s kings, they apparently had not forsaken every last bond of civility. Her status protected her, and she never let him forget it.
His face drew so near, she could see every black-dotted pore on his ill-shapen nose. Used to his stench, rather than cringe, the staleness of his breath beating down on her merely caused her nose to wrinkle.
“You’re nothing but a haughty, worthless whore. For years you’ve been flaunting your wares, trying to tempt me from my duty. But look at you: a pale, skinny crow. I’ll be glad to be rid of you.” He gave her a violent shake. “But you’d better dull that sharp tongue of yours. The nuns will not be as tolerant as I am of your sinful pride.”
If she could summon the effort, she would laugh. She tempt him? He, tolerant? No doubt the buffoon actually believed it. But his words pricked the small streak of vanity she had left. Had the years of imprisonment taken as much of a toll on the outside as they had on the inside? Bella hadn’t seen her reflection in a looking glass in over two years.
But what would it matter in a convent?
She didn’t respond, merely meeting his anger with a mute, emotionless stare. He hated when she did that. And heaven help her, no matter how bad it got, something inside her couldn’t resist defying him.
It was the same flaw that had reared its ugly head with her husband.
He tossed her aside with an oath. “Be ready to leave in the morning. The constable will be here himself to see you gone.”
She picked up her mending as if the entire unpleasant episode had never happened. “I will go to the convent,” she said quietly. “But no one can force me to take the veil.”
Bella kept her eyes on the needle, poking in and out of the cloth. For a moment she thought he hadn’t heard her. But a surreptitious glance out from under her lashes told her he had. A shiver of trepidation ran down her spine. He was smiling.
Her heart pounded, knowing what was coming. The English held the one weapon that would always defeat her.
“That’s too bad,” he said. Despite the idleness of his tone, Bella sensed the shift in power. Her victories were always short-lived. “I believe Sir John was reconsidering your request.”
Her heart stilled. She tried not to react, but his words tortured her with hope. “The constable has agreed to let me see my daughter?”
Allowing her jailors to know of her desperation to see her daughter had been her biggest mistake. They controlled her behavior by dangling the promise of contact with Joan before her, as if she were a hare with a tasty carrot hanging above its nose.
“Your daughter has no wish to see you.”
She stiffened. Sir John had told her Joan had cut her off years ago, denying all connection with the “Scottish rebel.” Bella lifted her chin. “I refuse to believe that.”
He shrugged his wide shoulders, the slouch of which had always reminded her of an ape. “Too bad, with her being so close.”
“Close?” she said hoarsely, her heart in her throat.
He smiled like the sadistic monster he was. “Aye, didn’t you know? The gel is at Roxburgh for her cousin’s wedding.”
Her heat stopped.
Roxburgh. Only a day’s ride away. Dear God, so close! Bella had assumed Joan was still residing in Buchan’s lands in Leicestershire with her uncle William, until the matter of her wardship had been settled. The knowledge that her daughter was so close ate at her facade of control like acid.
Simon was watching her carefully, knowing exactly what his words had done to her. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, though, since you aren’t interested in Sir John’s proposal.”
He turned to leave.
She clenched her fists, trying to resist, knowing it was all a game, but powerless to do so. If there was any chance … “What is it? What does the constable propose?”
With Sir John de Seagrave having been made Guardian of Scotland, Sir John Spark had replaced him as constable of Berwick.
He smiled smugly. The brute was enjoying this. “Sir John will permit you to write the lass and will ensure that you receive a response. If your daughter wishes to continue the correspondence, you will be permitted to do so as long as the nuns are given no cause for complaint. Once you have taken your vows, the girl will be permitted to visit you as often as she likes.”
Bella couldn’t breathe. Was it possible? Would she finally be permitted contact with her daughter? Or was this one more trick to keep her compliant?
“Why should I believe you? The constable has made promises before.”
Once she’d been released from the cage, they’d used the prospect of a reunion with her daughter to keep her in line. But whenever she got close, they always found a small infraction to delay it.
“You aren’t in any position to make demands. You are a rebel. A traitor. Consider yourself lucky that you are not still hanging from the tower cage. I told Sir John he is too soft with you, and this is how you reward him? You will take the veil, my lady,” he sneered, “or you won’t be the only one to suffer the consequences.”
She knew he was only trying to scare her, but it was working. After the unsuccessful attempt by some of Robert’s men to free her from her cage, her captors had none-too-subtly warned her that Joan would be the one to suffer if she were to escape.
His smile taunted malevolently. “I hate to think of the harm that could befall a young girl, without anyone to protect her. There’s a powerful fever spreading through England right now. You know how easy it is to catch a chill.”
Bella’s blood went cold. The beat of her heart seemed to pound in her ears. “You would threaten a young girl? My daughter is the sole heir of the Earl of Buchan—a loyal subject to your king. Would he let the blood of an innocent child stain his hands to punish one insignificant woman?”
“Insignificant?” he snorted. “You’ve caused the king almost as many problems as King Hood. Do you know that the Governor of Berwick had to make a law against the wearing of a pink rose? I should have crushed it under my heel, just as the king will do to all your rebel friends.” His eyes narrowed. “And no one’s threatening anyone, I’m merely making an observation. You wouldn’t want the girl to be blamed anymore for her mother’s actions, would you? The king wants you to be a nun, and if I were you I’d bow my head and find a little meekness to tame that wicked pride of yours.”
He slammed the door behind him. She heard the bar clang into place, and then the click of the lock.
Both precautions were unnecessary. They knew as well as she did that she wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the person who mattered to her most in the world. Her fate had been sealed the moment he’d entered the room, her defiance illusory. As long as Edward of England had Joan, he controlled Bella.
A tear slid from the corner of her eye, burning a path down h
er cheek. A nun. The rest of her life confined in a convent. She didn’t want …
No. She wiped the tears from her eyes. It didn’t matter what she wanted. She would do whatever she could to keep her daughter safe.
Nine
Sneaking into an enemy fortress wasn’t the wisest course of action for any of Bruce’s men, but for the most hunted man in Scotland it bordered on foolhardy. If Lachlan was caught or anyone recognized him, he knew from experience exactly what would happen to him. Knowing he could withstand the most brutal torture sure as hell didn’t mean he wanted to go through it again (although the current contraption he was wearing just about qualified), but an opportunity had presented itself, and Lachlan decided not to waste it. They had a much better chance of success if the countess was prepared and ready when the attack came. Besides, what was the chance of anyone recognizing him?
He pulled the cowl farther over his head, following the castle guardsman up the stairs. The young English soldier had turned to look at him more than once, but the deep hood hid Lachlan’s features and his downcast head did not invite conversation.
If Lachlan hadn’t already been guaranteed an eternity burning in hell’s fires, this was sure to do it. He was the last man in the world who should be wearing a churchman’s robes. God knew how many sins he was committing just by putting the bloody thing on. It itched like hell. Who needed a hair shirt with wool like this?
He’d wanted to leave his armor and clothes on underneath, but Boyd and MacLean had insisted they could be seen. The bastards probably just wanted to see him suffer. All four of his fellow guardsmen had howled with laughter as soon as he’d put the damned thing on. Even Seton, who’d borne a hefty percentage of Lachlan’s barbs over the past few years—the young knight was an easy target—had snapped out of his brooding long enough to get in a few jibes.
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