“Have ye never loved again?” Hilaire’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“Nay.” This time he didn’t lie. After losing two wives and a daughter, he’d kept his heart under lock and key. To his third wife, he’d shown courtesy and companionship, no more.
“What o’ your parents?” she asked.
“Dead.” It was no great loss in his mind. His father had been a cruel and ill-tempered Highlander, killed in a clan brawl he’d probably instigated. His mother had been feeble, living at the mercy of her husband’s fists most of her life.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“That, too, happened long ago.”
“Indeed? How old are ye?” Hilaire asked.
He smiled humorlessly. “Old as Methuselah.” He felt that old at least, despite the fact he was in the prime of his life. “I’ve just passed my twenty-sixth year.”
She laughed, and he thought how incongruous the sound was in this tomb. “As old as that? And just what have ye done to pass all o’ this tedious eternity then, Sir Claw?”
Giric furrowed his brow in puzzlement. Was the lass flirting with him? It had been so long since he’d heard the lilting music of a woman’s jesting that he hardly recognized it. But aye, it seemed she curved her words around a coy smile.
So how could he answer her? He’d done nothing but eat, breathe, fight, and mourn for years. But there was a time…
“I suppose ye haven’t much time for pleasure,” she said, filling in the silence, as he found most women were wont to do, this one in particular, “what with travelin’ from place to place, goin’ on noble quests and so forth.”
He raised a brow, a gesture completely wasted in the darkness. The only noble quest he’d ever undertaken was trying to catch a butterfly for his wee Katie.
“And how have ye filled the hours?” he asked her.
“With music.” He could feel her passion for it like a living thing in the dark.
“The harp.”
“Aye.”
Before she could be reminded of her injury again, he intervened. “When we are out o’ here then, lass, and ye’re fully healed, will ye favor me with a performance?”
“Aye,” she softly replied.
“I count upon it.” His lip curved up into a wry smile. “Perhaps ye shall sing o’ the great underworld adventures o’ Sir Claw and Lady Hilaire.”
“Aye, and ye’ll accompany me on the rock wall.”
Her gurgle of laughter washed over him like a healing balm. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of joy he might have found listening to a lifetime of that delightful sound.
Chapter 5
There was little enough air in their prison, certainly not enough for idle chatter. But Giric took pleasure in the sound of Hilaire’s voice, and she reveled in conversation. Exchanging pleasantries seemed the best way to keep her demons at bay. So he obliged her as he chafed away at the wall, though he doubted he’d uttered as many words in a month of days before now.
“Tell me o’ your adventures, if we’re to immortalize them in song,” she entreated playfully, reminding him of his daughter asking for stories by the evening hearth. “What great feats o’ prowess have ye undertaken? What dragons have ye slain?”
“No dragons,” he said, chuckling. “Dragonflies perhaps.”
“Have ye saved a maiden in distress before?”
“Maiden in distress.” He paused to think. “Once I rescued a damsel from a swarm o’ bees.”
“And how did ye do that? Did ye battle them with your sword? Lay siege to their hive? Gallantly let them sting ye while she escaped?”
He grinned at the memory. Though it had worked brilliantly, Elaine had been none too grateful for his rescue. “I tossed her into the moat.”
“Oh, Sir Claw, ye didn’t!”
He rather liked the sound of that silly name on her lips. And he liked the way she chided him.
“What about ye?” he asked. “Any feats o’ great renown?”
She sighed. “Alas, nay. I am my father’s youngest, his only lass, and he guards me like a mastiff. My brothers have seen the world,” she said enviously, “but I’ve ne’er set foot outside my home.”
“Ne’er?” Giric asked, incredulous. A wealth of images suddenly riffled through his mind like pages of a book—scenes of the stark Syrian desert and the steamy Tunisian coast, of crumbling Roman temples and lush Greek olive groves, Flemish towns crowded with craftsmen and fishmongers, and Paris, where velvet-clad nobles encrusted with jewels shared the streets with waifs and rats. To take her there, to see it all again through her unworldly eyes…
But it would never be. She feared The Dire Dragan. Even if, by some incredible quirk of fate, they got out alive, it would be on another man’s arm she’d discover the world, for he intended to keep his promise to her, to grant her her freedom.
“I wager ye’ve traveled far and wide,” she marveled.
“Some.”
“Tell me about all the places ye’ve seen.” He could almost hear the sparkle in her eyes.
He paused to lean against the rock wall and think. “My father took me to Spain when I was four.” Odd, but he hadn’t thought of that journey in years. “’Twas the first time I’d seen the sea.” He smiled. “I waded in the waves near the dock, and he chided me for ruinin’ my new boots.”
“Is it as vast as they say?”
“What—Spain?”
“The sea.”
He blinked. “Ye’ve never seen…” Sweet Mary—she was sheltered. He wiped the sweat from his careworn brow with the back of his hand. He’d always loved the sea, but how could one describe it? “’Tis magnificent. The water stretches as far as ye can see, like an enormous coverlet, till it meets the edge o’ the sky. Its hue is always changin’—blue, green, silver—and sometimes the wind whips the peaks o’ the waves to white froth. Ye can taste salt in the breeze, and when ye’re far from shore, the only sounds ye hear are the lappin’ o’ waves against the ship, the creak o’ the hull, the slap o’ the sails, the screech o’ the gulls circlin’ above the open water.”
“The open water,” she sighed. “I should like to sail on a ship.”
And he should like to take her, to share the ecstasy of wild ocean breezes caressing their arms, salt spray bedewing their faces, to point out the sleek silver dolphins that followed the vessel, leaping and frolicking and chattering like playful children.
“Tell me more about your travels,” she demanded, her appetite whetted.
He should be tunneling at the wall. Time was slipping away, and their discourse wasted precious air. But it had been so long since he’d engaged in agreeable patter with such a charming companion. Her words were like sweet mulled claret to his parched spirit.
“I was born in the Highlands, in Glen Coe.”
“Glen Coe,” she repeated reverently.
“The country is rugged there. The mountains weep with waterfalls. In the fall, the heather turns, and ’tis like the hills wear a plaid o’ purple and gold.”
“Oh,” she breathed. Then she hungrily asked, “And then where?”
“I earned my spurs in the Lowlands, at Rivenloch.”
“Indeed? What was your first battle?”
“I fought in the Holy Land.”
“On Crusade?”
“Aye.” Those images were not so joyous. But despite grim memories of poverty and bloodshed, he recalled other things—the warmth of the desert wind, the magnificence of the walled cities.
“What was it like?”
“The fightin’ was ugly. But the country… The air is scented everywhere with exotic spices—myrrh and cinnamon and frankincense,” he remembered, “and the ladies wear layers o’ cloth as sheer as mist and in every color o’ the rainbow.”
“Was…he…with ye then? The Dire Dragan?”
Her question caught him off guard. “Nay. I…came after the death o’ his first wife.” In a sense, it was true. Giric mac Leod—the man he once was—had been buried by The Dir
e Dragan, sunk into the grave beside his wife and daughter.
“Were ye not afraid o’ him, o’ his curse?”
Aye, Giric thought, that curse was the only thing he feared. Instead he said, “I’ve ne’er judged a man by the misfortune that plagues him.”
“Some say ’tis more than misfortune. Some say he’s,” she murmured, ending in a whisper, “the servant o’ Lucifer.”
“God’s eyes.” Giric didn’t mean to swear, but it was just such gossip that had made his life a living hell. Just because he’d lost faith in a god who would tear away all the beauty in his life didn’t mean he was the devil’s minion. “The Dire Dragan is a man, no more, no less, and anyone who—”
Her hand made awkward contact with his chest. “Fie! ’Twas wicked o’ me, speakin’ thus o’ your lord. Forgive me.”
It wasn’t her words, but rather her proximity, her warm breath upon his cheek, and the womanly scent of her, that instantly cooled his wrath. He wanted to take her in his arms again, to feel the slender nape of her neck and the playful caress of her hair. Forgive her? He wanted to embrace her.
But when he didn’t respond, she withdrew her hand.
“To be fair,” he sighed with a twinge of disappointment, “ye say nothin’ that hasn’t been voiced a thousand times.”
“But ye clearly care for him to leap so quickly to his defense. He must count himself fortunate to have such a loyal vassal.”
Giric didn’t know how to answer her.
She didn’t seem to require an answer. “Tell me, what is it about him ye admire?”
He puzzled over the question. Was there anything left of Giric mac Leod in The Dire Dragan? Anything he could be proud of?
He supposed his stoic suffering counted for something.
And there was still his sense of justice.
He was generally a man of peace, preferring diplomacy to the sword.
And he was unflinchingly loyal to the king.
But Hilaire probably wouldn’t understand any of that. She believed in shining knights who saved damsels from dragons.
Quietly, she added, “Tell me why a woman should desire to marry him.”
His heart skipped a beat.
Was Hilaire reconsidering her escape?
Was she asking him to persuade her to honor the betrothal?
He couldn’t do that. Not in good conscience. He might convince her that The Dire Dragan was not an ogre, that he was undeserving of the taunts that dogged him. Indeed, he longed to purge that poison from his soul.
But nothing would lift the curse destiny had placed upon his wretched name.
“He is…fair,” he decided, “in trade and in battle.”
She muttered low, “Yet he storms my father’s keep.”
“Only to claim what is his by rights.”
She mulled that over and couldn’t seem to come up with a defense. “What else? How else is he worthy?”
He thought for a moment. “He works hard. He trains hard. He’s generous with his hospitality. He’s frugal with his coin.”
He smirked. Upon reflection, that last might not seem a virtue to the lass. Mary and Katie had begged him endlessly to spend his coin on ribbons or cloth dolls or a jeweled trinket every time a peddler came to the gate.
“Does he play music?” Was that hope he heard in her voice?
“Nay.”
“Oh.” She sounded discouraged.
He added quickly, “But he likes to hear it. At least he used to.”
“Ye mean, before he started ki—, before his wives were killed?”
Giric bristled. She still doubted him. Pointedly, he told her, “Aye, before his wife and daughter fell in the river and were drowned.”
“Mm. But his second wife, she was poisoned, aye?”
“She died from sickness,” he said wearily.
“Sickness? Like your wife?”
“What?”
“Like your wife. Ye said your wife died o’ sickness.”
“Oh, aye.”
“And what about his last wife, the one they say he beat?”
His blood began to simmer. He bit out a reply between his teeth. “He’d sooner cut off his arm than lift it against a woman.”
“But he pushed her from a tower and—”
“Nay!” he shouted, startling even himself with the vehemence of his denial. After that, against his better judgment and against his will, his thoughts poured from him like ale from a cracked barrel, and there was nothing he could do to stop them. “He would ne’er do such a thing. She flung herself from that tower. He had no part in it.”
Even now, Giric wondered at the veracity of his words. Was he truly blameless? Could he have stopped her? Could he have reached her in time?
“Why would she do that?” Hilaire pressed.
He blew out a quick breath. “She was afraid…very, very afraid.”
“O’ him?”
“O’ herself.” He swallowed hard. He’d never spoken to anyone about the horrible agonies Bess had endured.
“Herself?”
He rested his head back against the rock wall. He’d wanted to talk about it for months now. He’d longed to tell someone what had truly happened.
But he’d been afraid. Afraid no one would believe him. Then afraid they would believe him. And if they did, they might dig up poor Bess’s body and bury her in unhallowed ground.
Here in the dark, staring death in the face, he could finally say what he wished. There was no one to judge him, no one to tell him that he was a devil or that Bess was a witch.
He let out a shuddering sigh. When he spoke, his words were as quiet as thoughts.
“It started as voices she heard whisperin’ in her head, tellin’ her evil things. She tried to ignore them. But they wouldn’t go away. Before long, she began speakin’ to them. Yellin’ at them. Cursin’.”
That had been the most painful, listening to gentle Bess shriek at imaginary demons in a voice that no longer belonged to her.
“Still they haunted her,” he continued. “Soon she began seein’ them. She imagined they were attackin’ her. She’d beat herself purple with a poker, tryin’ to pry their claws free. Her arms were slashed with cuts from her own dagger and, when I took that from her, her fingernails. She shunned her clothin’, claimin’ the demons would only steal it from her. And oft she wandered naked through the halls o’ the keep. In her madness, she tore out her hair and lit her veil on fire.” He swallowed hard at the memory. “Then one fateful night, her mind cleared long enough for her to see what had happened to her, how mad she’d become. She couldn’t bear to live with the torment any longer. Before I… Before anyone could stop her, she leaped from the tower ledge…and broke on the stones below.”
Hilaire could scarcely breathe. The story was horrifying. But it wasn’t the story that paralyzed her. It was his telling of it.
I, Sir Claw had said. I took the dagger from her.
The truth was almost too amazing to believe, but there could be no other explanation. Sir Claw must be The Dire Dragan.
Giric was the given name of her betrothed, not Claw, but no matter what he called himself, he was The Dire Dragan. His slip of the tongue had betrayed him.
And yet, she might have uncovered his secret anyway, for who but a loved one could speak so intimately of a woman’s mind? Who else would know her so well? The ragged timbre of pain in his voice described not the distant suffering of a witness, but the agony of a husband.
This was him. Sir Claw was The Dire Dragan.
A frisson of cold panic raced along her spine. She was trapped with him. Alone. In the dark.
He knew who she was. And he knew she abhorred him.
God’s eyes—what would he do to her?
He was cursed. It was certain now. They’d not yet exchanged the vows of marriage, yet already he brought her death.
Her heart stuttered, and she felt the walls closing in again. But before she raced into headlong anxiety, he spoke.
“F
orgive me. ’Twas not my intent to upset ye.”
The words stuck in her dry throat. “’Tis…’tis…it must have been dreadful for y-your lord.”
He grunted in agreement. “He’s had a lifetime o’ sorrow.”
That was all he said. But he spoke simply and from the heart.
He’s had a lifetime o’ sorrow.
While the words hung in the air—raw, naked, vulnerable—suddenly their truth rang out like a hollow bell in the melancholy dark, dispelling all of Hilaire’s doubts.
The Dire Dragan was no ogre. He was but a man, a sad and lonely man. Adversity had dropped a heavy burden upon him, a burden he clearly didn’t deserve. Fate had been unkind to him. He’d suffered terrible tragedies, unspeakable losses. But that didn’t mean he was forever cursed. And it didn’t mean he was a monster.
Her heart melted, and she yearned to console him, this lost soul with the broken spirit.
“Perhaps,” she allowed, “I’ve been too hasty in my judgment. Perhaps he’s not cursed so much as—”
“Nay, ye have it right,” he snapped. “He is cursed. But by fate, not by his own deeds.”
She could hear it now—the bitterness, the anguish—hidden appreciably by his gruff voice, but nonetheless there.
“Well, then,” she murmured in all humility, “as ye say, I should not judge him by his misfortune.”
A weighty silence ensued. If she hoped he’d reveal himself now, she was disappointed.
Instead, he returned to his labors.
She, too, scraped at the wall, but her mind flitted about so wildly she scarcely heeded her own progress.
After a long while, he rested, and his weary panting filled the cave.
“Pity ’tis a harp ye play and not a clarion,” he said in a rare moment of wry humor. “Otherwise, we could fell the walls as Joshua did.”
She grinned at his unexpected wit, which threw her into an even more complex melee of thoughts.
Who was he truly? Who was The Dire Dragan? All she knew of him was what she’d heard, largely improbable tales about his vicious nature, his dark moods, and the curse that followed him. Certainly this was not the man with her now.
This man spoke kindly, nobly. He’d offered her comfort. He’d dug his way to her when she cried out for help. He’d breathed with her, bandaged her injured hand. He’d held her when her fears got the best of her and anxiously seen to her when she’d fainted. He’d promised to get her out, even knowing she thought him a monster, even knowing…
The Storming Page 5
