"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" Sir Dunstan demanded, but Bertram only beamed.
"Begging your pardon, sir, but look who just came charging down the hill, bold as Henry V at Agincourt!" Bertram gave Rachel's wrist a tug, and she stepped into the light.
For an instant, Sir Dunstan glared, his lips twisting in a sneer as if she were a camp follower who had dared defile his sacrosanct chamber. Then his eyes widened, one hand flattening on his medal-spangled chest. "Rachel?" he gasped, the blood draining from his face. "Rachel, my God!"
He stumbled to his feet and rushed toward her, reaching out to touch her face, as if he expected her to disappear, some phantom of his imagination.
"It's me, Dunstan," she said as he smoothed his pristine fingertips across the smudges of grime on her cheeks.
"Leave us." Sir Dunstan barked out the order, the other officers and Bertram tumbling pell-mell from the room in a hail of good wishes and praise for her resourcefulness.
The instant the door shut behind them, Sir Dunstan's arms swept around her, crushing her against him. The medals bit into the tender flesh of her breasts as his mouth came down on hers in a kiss that ground her lips against her teeth.
"I can hardly believe it's you!" he rasped, breaking the kiss. "How ever did you get away?"
"A woman named Fiona Fraser helped me. She unbarred the door and helped me find a horse."
"Thank God! I've been out of my mind, picturing you, helpless in that bastard's clutches! If it had been in my power, I would have razed every inch of this godforsaken land to find you! When I think of you at the mercy of animals like that—" His face contorted with very real pain. "But you escaped them, didn't you, Rachel? My brave, bold love! What an officer's wife you'll make!"
She flinched inwardly, wanting nothing more than to extricate herself from his embrace. His muscles pressed against her in an overzealous embrace, as if in some subtle way he was intent on making her feel that his strength, his power, was superior to hers.
She saw his features harden, his eyes blaze with cold fire. "Did they hurt you, Rachel? I vow, if one of those traitorous bastards so much as laid a finger on you, I'll tear them apart with my bare hands!"
"No!" Rachel said, flattening her palms against his chest, gaining enough space to breathe. "No, they were—they were kind to me. They never meant me any harm!"
"Never meant you any harm?" Sir Dunstan echoed with a bitter laugh. "They abducted you, held you hostage! They threatened to kill you if I didn't accede to their demands."
"I know, but—but they would never have done so. I'm certain of it."
Sir Dunstan's brows crashed together over his hawk-like nose, displeasure and confusion tightening his thin lips.
"What the devil is the matter with you? You're acting so strange." Sir Dunstan grabbed up her hands. Rachel couldn't stifle the tiny gasp, a wince as his grasp chafed the abrasions that splashed her knuckles. Sir Dunstan's gaze flashed down, locking on the scrapes and bruises. "Rachel! What happened to your hands?"
I all but broke them pounding on a door, desperate to escape, to ride here and set the Glen Lyon free. Rachel couldn't meet Dunstan's eyes. She pulled away from him, crossed to where an elegant sideboard was weighted with enough food to feed the children at the Glen Lyon’s cave for three months.
"It's nothing," she insisted. "I came to you, Dunstan, the instant I was free. I knew that when I reached you, everything would be all right again."
"Of course it will, my love. You're safe now." His voice dropped, gruff with the emotion he so rarely showed. "You know I would do anything in my power to protect you."
The words stung, and Rachel felt guilt wash through her—guilt that she'd not been honorable about the betrothal, that she had betrayed the promise she'd made to Dunstan in the most unforgivable manner possible. Yet, most dishonorable of all was the knowledge that even if she had the power to change what had happened in the croft, she would change nothing. She would run into Gavin Carstares's arms, into his bed, with joy, despite the betrothal ring Dunstan had given her.
"I know that you would protect me, Dunstan," she said slowly. "You're a man of strength and of honor." She winced, realizing that she said the words in a vain effort to ease the tension knotting inside her.
She turned toward him, looking up into that face that was so familiar to her, yet suddenly so different, as if she were looking upon it for the first time. "You would never allow anything unjust to happen, would you?" she said, attempting to keep a tremor from her voice. "You would stop it if you could."
Furrows carved deep into Dunstan's brow. "Rachel, what is this about?"
"You have two men imprisoned here. Someone ordered that they both be executed at once. Dunstan, you can't let that happen!"
He drew away, his features oddly still, as if carved in ivory. "One of those men kidnapped you, threatened to kill you. Not to mention the fact that he's been mounting insurrection from one end of the Highlands to the other. The Glen Lyon is a traitor, aiding and abetting fugitives from the king's justice. I signed the death warrants with my own hand."
"Dunstan, no." Rachel choked out. "You're making a terrible mistake. You can't kill them."
"I never wished to execute them both," he said, his eyes holding a brittle edge of defensiveness when anyone dared to question him. Rachel couldn't help remembering Gavin's casual dismissal when she'd called him a coward.
"Rachel, don't look at me that way!" Sir Dunstan snapped. "I'm not a heartless monster. I have a duty to perform for the crown—to bring the traitor Glen Lyon to justice."
"What justice? A hangman's rope for the crime of saving children? For aiding helpless women? Dunstan, you don't know what he's done, how good he is."
"And you do?" Sir Dunstan looked as if she'd shoved a sword into his chest. If only he knew how blatantly she had done so in the crofter's hut. But it wasn't his fault that he didn't understand. She had to make him understand.
"I know that war can be brutal and ugly and that soldiers must do things that they abhor. Papa told me that when I was scarce a child. But I saw the orphans he gathered, Dunstan. You don't know—you can't know what is happening out there! The savagery, the bloodshed."
Sir Dunstan paled, his mouth a tight line. "Rachel, the man is an outlaw, a rebel. You can't possibly believe any wild tales he tells. They're lies."
She cut him off, flames dancing in her memory, her ears echoing with screams of terror. "I saw it. I saw soldiers—English soldiers—destroying a village filled with women and children and old men too weak to raise a hand in their defense. They herded the women and children into a building, Dunstan, and the soldiers set it on fire."
"I had to try something to flush him out. Make him show his face! If he was captured defending the Jacobite rabble, I could force him to tell me where you were being held! I was waiting on the moors with a troop of men. We captured the traitor bastard. At least I thought we had."
"You were there? You saw what was happening?" Rachel stared as if he'd been transformed into an abomination.
A muscle in his jaw worked; his eyes narrowed. Anger pulsed in the veins that stood out in his temple. "We chose that village for a reason. They were enemies of the crown."
Rachel feared she'd be sick or rage at Dunstan, betraying her horror, the sudden, paralyzing loathing she felt toward him.
"Their only crime was that they were left behind by their fathers and husbands."
His eyes darkened. "They breed rebellion from the cradle here, Rachel. I know these children of yours seem harmless, but I've seen a boy of eight bring down a soldier. They're not like English children. They're half wild—animals. The deathblow that felled my father came from a boy twelve years old. The seasoned warriors were teaching him how to murder."
Rachel cringed at the memory of Barna, seething fury that would have flared into violence someday, if it weren't for Gavin's love. "The Glen Lyon was taking them away from the killing, away from the hatred."
"You know what
these people did to my father? My grandfather?" Sir Dunstan demanded. "Maybe I don't know exactly what crimes the people of that village were guilty of. But you can be damned certain they deserved the destruction that rained down on them."
Rachel's stomach pitched, and she shrank back from him, recoiled from his words, the gleam in his eyes. She shuddered inwardly, remembering the game the children had played, piling up corpses, gloating over the destruction, I am Sir Dunstan Wells.
How could Dunstan be such a monster? He had wooed her, intended to marry her. Dunstan had danced with her at military balls and amused her with tales of battle and glory.
Rachel felt her eyes burn, her throat ache. "No child deserves to die that way. No child."
He crossed to her, one hand hooking beneath her chin, raising it up so she had to look on his face.
"It sickens you, the destruction. You think it does not sicken me as well? I was desperate to get you back."
Desperate. If only it were that simple—a single act of a man willing to do anything to get his betrothed back safely. What had happened would still be horrifying, inexcusable, but it wouldn't be the cold extermination of God knew how many innocent people—mass murder under the guise of military duty, an excuse for Dunstan Wells to exact revenge against those nameless, faceless Scots who had killed his father and brother.
"I cannot wait until this is finished, Rachel," Sir Dunstan said. "We can return to England and marry."
Rachel's stomach churned at the very thought.
"I wish I could pluck from your sweet eyes all that you saw," Sir Dunstan insisted, "but I can't, no more than I can erase what happened in that village. The Glen Lyon had to be brought to justice, even if the cost was high. No one in the military sets out to do evil. We're all merely doing our duty—what the crown demands, what honor demands."
Honor. Why did it suddenly sound so hollow, an echoing void filled with the boasts of men who gloried in destruction? Why was it that when Rachel closed her eyes, it took on a whole new meaning—filled her with the heartbreaking beauty of Gavin surrounded by a dozen clamoring children, Gavin gently guiding Mama Fee through an ocean of grief so stormy the old woman might never survive it without his hand to aid her.
Did Dunstan see her thoughts written on her face? Did he sense her recoiling from all that she'd once admired? He was looking at her so strangely, a wounded expression on his face, an uncertainty she'd never seen there before.
"Rachel, I thank God you're safe," he said. "And because you're here, my darling, you can make certain no unnecessary blood is spilled. The men who are to be executed—I'll place them in your hands."
Rachel looked up at him, disbelief warring with thundering hope. "You'll stop it?"
Sir Dunstan stroked her cheek, an eager light in his eyes. "We will go down to the prisoners' cell together and put an end to this madness at once."
Rachel's heart soared, elation racing through her, a relief so great her knees all but buckled from it. Whatever he'd done, she was grateful for the gift of Gavin's life. "Dunstan, thank you! Oh, thank you!"
"No, love. I'm the one who should be thanking you. You have solved my dilemma. Here I was, trapped with two prisoners claiming to be the Glen Lyon . Most frustrating of all, there was no way to be certain which one was telling the truth."
"The truth?"
"The crown needs to make an example, show these rebel Scots what fate befalls traitors who dare defy England. Someone must face the king's justice."
Bile rose in Rachel's throat, dread engulfing her in a suffocating haze. "But you said you would stop it!"
"That there would be no more bloodshed than necessary. And there won't be. Don't you see? You were the Glen Lyon's captive, Rachel. You saw his face, heard his voice."
"No." She grabbed the edge of a chair, fighting for inner balance as Sir Dunstan plunged on.
"I will let you play angel of mercy, my love." He beamed, triumphant. "I give you the power to choose, the power of life and death. One of the prisoners may go free. The other man will die."
Chapter Eighteen
Horror slashed through Rachel, sending her reeling. She wanted to scream at Dunstan, rail at him. Choose? Choose between Gavin and Adam? Send one man to his death and condemn the other to a life forever crippled by the fact that his brother had died in his stead?
She wheeled on Dunstan, wanting to refuse, yet the instant her gaze fell on his, she knew with cutting clarity that if she did so, she would be sending not one of the men she cared about to the gallows outside, but both of them.
Rachel's fingers clenched in the folds of her skirt and she had to fight to remain standing. Oh, Gavin . . . Gavin, Gavin, Gavin . . .
Sir Dunstan frowned, marring those features that had handed her a choice that could have been offered by the devil himself. "Rachel, you don't look pleased. I thought you'd be delighted at the prospect. You can make certain the man who abducted you receives his rightful punishment, and at the same time make certain that an innocent man will not die."
But someone would die.
Adam, with his quick temper, his gruff denial of anything resembling affection. Adam, who bellowed at his brother for getting wounded, yet couldn't hide the very real fear that had been in his dark eyes. Or would Gavin meet his doom? The lover who had woven a wreath of enchantment about her that even war and bloodshed and despair couldn't strip away. Gavin, with his poet's soul and his inner strength, his artist's hands and his fiery kiss.
How could she send either of them to the end that awaited them on Dunstan's half-finished gallows? How could she not save at least one of them?
She raised her gaze to Dunstan's, her stomach pitching until she feared she would retch. She forced herself to nod. "I—I'll do it."
Dunstan smiled. "I shall take you down the instant you're changed. Now, I'll order up a bath for you and see if one of the officer's wives can roust up a gown that would fit you."
"No!" Rachel burst out. "I'd rather do it now. Confront the prisoners before I lose my courage."
Sir Dunstan regarded her intently then shrugged. "As you wish. Remember, my love, this is the man who stole you away, who might have killed you. You owe him no mercy."
Rachel clutched a grief too great to hold. I owe him my very soul.
Sir Dunstan led her down corridors, through hallways, to where stone stairs wound to the heart of the ancient keep.
Outside what had once been the dungeon, a brace of soldiers lounged. Augustus Cribbits, pimples still adorning his gawky face, glanced up at Rachel and all but swooned in awed delight. He gasped with the reverence one would reserve for angels. "Mistress de Lacey! You're safe! Sir Dunstan, you found her at last!"
"No. Our Rachel escaped by her own wits. There's not a scurvy rebel alive that could best Lord General de Lacey's daughter!"
Augustus all but burst with pride. "Aye, sir. Mistress de Lacey is the most incomparable lady in all England. Ma'am, if you don't think it too forward, may I tell you that I—I prayed for your safe release? These villains who hurt you—I swear, the men are all so riled over what they did to you that I'll have to fight for space at the front of the crowd to watch when those two fall under noose and knife."
"Private Cribbits, thanks to Mistress de Lacey, only one of the men will have to die. She can identify the Glen Lyon beyond a shadow of a doubt."
The youth gaped at Rachel with a thunderstruck stare. "Why, that's so! You mean, Mistress de Lacey, you're going to confront that villain face to face? Begging your pardon, but I'd heard what a store you set on being brave and all. I just want to say that this—you goin' in and confrontin' that monster— well, it's the bravest thing I ever saw."
Rachel couldn't even look at him. It was all she could do not to rip the iron key from his hand and plunge it into the lock herself. She fought for inner balance, grappled with the terror pulsing through her, the desperation to look into mist-gray eyes, to find strength in the infinite well of Gavin's love.
Courage. Did she truly h
ave the courage to do what she had to do if she loved him?
"Rachel, before you go in," Sir Dunstan hesitated. "This man held you captive. I used every power at my disposal to attempt to get him to tell me where you were. I could do no less. I just want you to be warned."
She heard the key scrape in the lock, saw the door open, but no warning could have prepared her for what she saw inside the cramped stone confines of the cell.
Adam sat on a crude bench, looking as if he'd been dragged by his horse down a rocky gorge, while Gavin stared, brooding into the flames of a torch. Neither of them even glanced at the door.
"Are they back again, Gavin?" Adam asked in a bored tone.
“What I wouldn't give for a sensible Latin text to teach them the meaning of the word no."
"Better still, what's Latin for 'Go to hell, you vicious sons of bitches'?"
"Hold your tongue before I have it ripped from your mouth." Sir Dunstan's command reverberated through the room.
"My tongue," Adam echoed. "That's the one part of me that isn't hurting like hell."
"There's a lady present." Sir Dunstan roared. "She's suffered enough at your hands without listening to your swearing."
"A lady?" Adam swiveled toward Rachel as Gavin turned. Rachel nearly cried out when she saw the bruises on Adam's face, but even those were not so terrible as the anguish in Gavin's eyes.
"Rachel." He choked out her name, made a move toward her, shackles binding his wrists, the clank of chains grating against her ears.
"Damn it, woman, where the blazes did you come from?" Adam swore.
"Surprised to see her safe?" Dunstan snarled. "You would have preferred her dead, wouldn't you?"
"No." Gavin's eyes drank her in with stark desolation. "I only wanted the ship to sail. Freedom for the children."
"Freedom?" Dunstan scoffed. "Did you really believe that I could have let a ship filled with fugitives sail from Scotland, no matter what the personal cost to me? Then you're a fool! I had a duty to perform—a sworn duty. I would have honored that duty, even if Rachel had to be sacrificed because of it."
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