“Aye,” Logan replied, not looking away from his own blade. Using a soft rag he polished its newly sharpened edge. “We’ll see who outlasts whom.” Furtively he glanced at Kristiana’s shuttered window. “If he still watches when the signal is given, create a diversion so I can get to the passageway.”
“We cannot stay here all day. If we do, his suspicions will rise further.”
“There are other places from which we can watch,” Logan said, his gaze again fastened to the claymore. “Just make certain that when the time comes Black is kept busy.”
Again he glanced in the direction of the window; his heart ached unmercifully. Desiring to be with her, knowing he could not, Logan kept his continuous vigil, his mind burdened by all he had made her endure this past month. Even now she suffered because of him. And would be made to suffer more.
By his count she was nearly a month early, and he feared his child would not survive. In order to protect the babe Mala planned to make Edward believe it had been stillborn. For it to work, she insisted that Kristiana also needed to believe the tale. Once Kristiana could travel safely, Logan hoped to rescue her and the others from the castle, whereupon she would be reunited with her child. But with the babe coming too soon, it might surely die. There would be no hope of a joyous reunion, one certain to lift her from despair. Nor would that same emotion soon leave her.
At the knowledge, a silent curse rolled through his mind, for Logan blamed himself. Not only had Kristiana endured Edward’s volatile moods, but she’d been made to suffer from Logan’s own tormenting tempers, and he could not help thinking his harassment had been too much for her to bear.
Vividly he remembered how he’d stalked her, backing her into darkened corners, pressing his hard body fully into her own. He’d purposely moved himself against her in a suggestive manner—not to arouse her, but to frighten her, with indecent proposals whispered into her ear. No gentleness was shown her, for his attacks were meant to terrorize. When his blatant words became more than she could endure she’d shuddered with revulsion, drawing his menacing laughter. Then, when she thought to strike out at him, he’d discarded the role of evil seducer, at once threatening the witless Letitia’s virtue, prompting Kristiana’s immediate fear for the girl’s safety. All this because he had wanted revenge. And it had been for naught!
He was as guilty as Edward in causing Kristiana undue misery, and for that Logan could not forgive himself. Likewise, he was positive Kristiana would not forgive him. All he could hope for was that their child lived. He would ask nothing for himself, save that his beloved Kristiana should be kept safe also. Pray God it would be so, Logan thought, a heavy sigh escaping him.
The sun made its slight arc in the wintry sky, rising to its scant pinnacle, then quickly sloping downward toward the craggy hills on the distant horizon. Although to most the day seemed far too short, to Logan each hour seemed like a day unto itself.
As he awaited Mala’s signal—which seemed to an impatient Logan as if it would never come—his concern grew, as did his fear. More than once his mind’s eye envisioned Kristiana’s lovely face twisted in pain, and his heart agonized over what she was made to suffer. Anxiously he wished he could stride back and forth in the hallway outside her room. If nothing more, he would at least be nearer to her. But knowing he could show no outward sign of emotion, for it was sure to nourish Black’s already growing suspicions, he leisurely claimed a place in the courtyard below her window, busying himself with nonessential tasks. Yet his mind paced continually. Had it been his feet, a rut twelve hands deep would have formed in dirt beneath him. The wait became nearly unbearable. Hoping to ease his mind, Logan reaffirmed that it was best if the signal came after sunset, but he found his thoughts were still tortured.
Sebastian stayed close by his side, leaving it only once. On the pretense of needing a tool to fix the bridle he examined, the man had stridden across the yard to speak briefly with Alain. Upon his return he gave Logan a slight nod. Seeing it, Logan knew the blacksmith had agreed to help get the babe safely to the village.
At sunset Richard Black, having at last grown weary of eyeing the pair—who had, in the interim, sharpened their swords and daggers, repaired their steeds’ bridles and inspected their saddles, polished their armor and helms, engaged themselves in a bit of swordplay, after which they’d sharpened their blades anew—took himself off to bed. Other than the Fox’s going to the blacksmith, loudly announcing he needed a tool in order to repair a bridle, neither man had strayed very far from his original position—certainly not more than the length of the yard itself. Finding nothing suspect in their actions, a thwarted Richard decided his loss of sleep had been for naught.
Surreptitiously watching Black as he stomped off toward his quarters, Sebastian chuckled. “We outlasted him.” He rose from the low wooden bench where he and Logan sat, supposedly engrossed in a game of dice. “Fortunately, yer lady outlasted him as well. When the time comes it will now be easier to put our plan into play.” He looked to Logan. Though he could not see them, he knew the younger man’s eyes were on the window. “Take heart, friend. It shouldn’t be too much longer.”
The sun sank farther beyond the horizon, and night took hold. Beyond the window above candles were tipped by fire; light beamed through the cracks in the shutters. Yet Mala remained out of sight. Behind his mask Logan’s eyes closed; a long sigh fell from his lips. When his eyes reopened tears clouded his gaze; a heavy weight crushed his chest. Trapped by an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness, Logan wanted to lash out at someone, and Edward MacHugh was first in his thoughts.
His anger barely controlled, his voice quavered with raw emotion when he spoke. “I cannot bear this waiting any longer. I must discover what is happening to her.”
Before Logan could spring from the bench Sebastian’s hand clamped over his still-tender shoulder, forcing him to keep seated. “Ye risk too much by makin’ known yer interest in her. Bide yer time, lest ye cause her even more misery. The babe will come soon enough. Now keep calm—if not for yerself, then for yer lady and yer child.”
Though Logan desired nothing more than to storm the hall, his claymore swinging fast and wide, assailing all who stood against him, he knew Sebastian was right. Forcing his anger down, he slumped upon the bench; his tormented gaze met the window anew. Oh, sweet goddess, how fare you, my love?
Her pain-smitten body draped in no more than a sheet, her long hair soaked with perspiration, Kristiana curled her fingers in the bedclothes beneath her, gripping them tightly. Her head arched against the pillow as her teeth clamped together, rapid breaths drawn between them. Not wanting Edward to know she would soon give birth, she refused to cry out in her agony.
The hard pang eased, and she drew a long breath. Though Kristiana thought to relax, she knew the next pain would be upon her in less than half a minute.
Offering her mistress encouragement, Mala smiled, then she said, “The babe will be here soon.”
No sooner had the words left the woman’s mouth than a heavy pounding sounded on the door “Wife!” Edward’s voice boomed through the wood as the bolt rattled. “Open this door at once!”
Kristiana’s gaze shot to her nurse; fingers bit into the woman’s hand as a hard contraction overtook her again. “Don’t let him in,” she pleaded between gasps of air.
“I’ll send him away,” Penelope stated, rounding the other side of the bed. But before she could reach the door several shoulders met the panel with force. The wood splintered; the door crashed to the wall. Stumbling back, Kristiana’s aunt watched as Edward strode into the room. She thought to block his path and stepped in front of him. “Take yourself from here!” she ordered, only to be shoved aside.
His men remaining in the corridor, Edward made his way toward the bed. Through narrowed eyes he watched coldly as Kristiana struggled with her pain; then his gaze met the woman beside her. “When I inquired earlier, why was I not informed about her travail?” he asked, his jaw clenched.
He spok
e of his midday appearance at his wife’s door, when Kristiana had assured him through the locked panel that she was well. He’d left, but Mala felt certain he would return. Although her mistress might have wished otherwise, Mala was glad he had. For her plan to work, he must know the child was soon to be born. She rose from the side of the bed. Turning, she placed herself between her mistress and the angry MacHugh. “She did not wish to worry you, especially when the child comes too early.”
Frigid blue eyes stared down at the woman, but Edward saw her not at all, for a vision of a Gypsy rogue, hard and lean, his manhood fully displayed, had claimed his thoughts. Over these past months he’d denied the obvious. But as it now stared him in the face, Edward could no longer avoid the truth. “Aye,” he said, “the child comes too early. When it is birthed I want to see it. Until then I’ll wait outside the door.”
Edward’s feet beat a hard tread into the corridor, the door swinging shut behind him. Relieved, Mala turned back to her mistress. When her pain had subsided Kristiana whispered, “He’ll know, Mala. Oh, God, what shall we do?”
“Pray, my child, that the babe has your coloring. That is all any of us can do.”
A hard contraction gripped Kristiana again; examining her, Mala noted the babe’s tiny head had crowned. Fortune was against them, for a wealth of black hair met Mala’s eyes. She stepped to the table and mixed some special herbs with a dram of water poured from the pewter flagon into the shallow cup. Not having time to do it herself, she instructed Penelope to stand by the window and wave.
“For Heaven’s sake, why?” the woman inquired. Nonetheless she moved toward it.
“Just do as I say,” Mala snapped, pouring the herbal mixture down Kristiana’s throat.
At the sharpness of Mala’s tone Penelope began to wave.
Catching sight of the woman from the corner of her eye, Mala glanced heavenward. “Open the shutters, you twit!”
The panels sprang free, and Penelope waved frantically. Below, Logan leapt to his feet, relief washing through him. “Tell Alain,” he said. “Then pray, Sebastian, that all goes well.”
Not awaiting an answer, Logan headed toward the postern gatehouse, the same one he’d stolen through hours earlier. Once there, he hid in the shadows and surveyed the lone guard as he walked the wall above.
As Logan waited for the right moment to advance he reviewed the strategy devised by Sebastian, the blacksmith, and himself. By now Sebastian, having first informed Alain that the signal was given, should be situated in the great hall, his eyes set firmly on Edward. Word received, the blacksmith should have left by the main gate, as he did at the end of each workday, to drive his small cart down the lane toward the village. Reaching a small stand of trees, he was to hide his cart, then double back on foot to the castle’s northern wall, where he would meet Logan at the bottom of the steep incline. At least that was the plan. Luck would proclaim if it worked or not.
Seeing that the guard’s back had presented itself to him, Logan stepped from the shadows. The sentry turned around. Falling back, Logan held his breath and prayed he’d not been spotted. For what seemed an eternity the guard stood there, facing Logan’s position, then finally he rotated.
When the man’s back was fully delivered to him again Logan sped toward the gate. Silently the heavy wooden brace was lifted free of its supports, then placed against the wall out of sight. Once the iron bolts were quietly slipped Logan eased his way through the opening, shoving it to.
With the stealth of a cat he edged himself along the base of the outer wall, praying the unlocked gate would go unnoticed. If it were discovered, his only access would be through the secret passageway and the door exiting into the alcove. Since it was on the same level as the apartments, he risked being spotted. No explanation could possibly suffice as to why he found himself there. If caught, his life was worth naught. Yet to protect Kristiana and his child, Logan knew he’d chance anything. Finding the entry to the hidden corridor, he forced the door open and disappeared from sight.
Fewer than ten minutes had passed since the signal had been given. Mala’s hands stood ready to receive the infant into a length of soft wool cloth. “Push, child,” she ordered.
Braced on her elbows, pain gripping her, Kristiana heard the words at a distance. A bitter taste still clung to her tongue, and she wondered what had been in the drink Mala had given her, for she felt as though her mind were drifting away from her body.
“Push,” Mala ordered again. “Scream if you must.”
Kristiana bore down; the pain was unbearable. A strangled cry escaped her throat, and the babe slipped from her body; Kristiana fell back onto the pillow. Strangely, she could not move.
At the same time the door burst open, and Mala saw Edward striding her way. With deft hands she loosely wrapped the cord around the infant’s neck. “It is stillborn,” she told him. “Strangled as it made its way from the womb.”
Stillborn. Strangled. Kristiana’s heart lurched. Nooo! her mind cried, but the word refused to pass her lips.
Lifting the child slightly, Mala prayed it would not send forth a whimper. “I could try to breathe life into him, but his senses are certain to be muddled. Should he live, he will be an idiot.”
Edward gazed down at the small infant. Through the blood and mucus he noted the child’s skin was deeper in tone than his own fair complexion; black hair crowned the babe’s head. “Let the Gypsy bastard be,” he growled. His cold gaze raked over Kristiana, then he turned on his heel and strode toward the door. “Have it buried in a common grave before morn.” The order came over his shoulder just as the door slammed behind him.
Trying to relay her protests to Mala, wanting desperately to see her child, her last link to the only man she would ever love, Kristiana attempted to fight off the darkness that suddenly surrounded her. Distantly she wondered if death had come to claim her as well. Were it to do so, she would accept it gladly, for there would be no more grief, no more despair, no more tears, only the promise of silence. As the blackness completely overtook her Kristiana welcomed it. She no longer had any reason to live.
Once the cord had been cut and bound with a string, the mucus cleared from the infant’s mouth and nose, Mala glanced up to see the herbs had taken effect—Kristiana slept. Straighaway she wrapped the small babe in several lengths of wool, then rushed toward the door. “Finish caring for her,” she ordered Penelope. Then, opening the panel, she nearly collided with the guard who stood just outside. “I take the child to be buried,” she said, her narrowed gaze on the man’s face.
Seeing his nod, Mala hurried down the corridor in the direction of the stairs leading to the kitchen. It was the same direction as the alcove. Although it had been a scant two minutes since the babe’s birth, Mala felt it had been an eternity. Fortune had been with her when the babe had not cried out at birth. Because of its early arrival she had depended on its silence. But now, in order for it to survive, it needed the breath of life.
Glancing over her shoulder, she observed that the guard’s gaze was set in the opposite direction. Quickly she dashed past the stairs and ran to the entry where the passageway lay hidden. Inside the alcove she threw the wool wraps away from the babe’s face. As her hand reached for the lion’s head, twisting first left, then right, her mouth lowered over the babe’s nose and lips; she expelled a short breath into the child’s lungs.
As the door opened Logan saw Mala thus. She raised her face; eyes locking with his, she shook her head. Again she tried. Nothing—not even a small whimper. Anxiety streaked through Logan as fear swelled in his chest. Taking hold of the woman’s arm, he pulled her through the opening. His fist hit the lever, and as the door scraped to he took the child from her.
In the torchlight beaming from above his head he noted that a blue tinge painted the babe’s lips. Gently but surely his finger pressed its chin down; the mouth opened. Through the mask Logan’s lips nearly covered the infant’s face. He blew softly. Again, no response.
Sweet Jesus
, please!
The silent appeal went up as Logan’s breath poured into the child’s lungs, expanding them fully. Beneath his mouth, there was cough then a small wail poured forth. The babe breathed on its own.
Though Mala could not see his eyes, had she been able to, she would have espied crystal tears shimmering in a gaze of gold. However, she did see the wide grin that spread across his otherwise hidden face. “You have now given your son life a second time,” she said with a smile of her own.
Reverently Logan held his child. “A boy,” he whispered, his finger trailing the infant’s tiny face. The cries had quieted, and the babe’s mouth now chased its sire’s finger, its wee tongue curling and sucking; Logan smiled anew. Then he sobered. His concealed gaze shot to Mala’s face. “Kristiana. Is she—”
“She will be fine, but I must go to her.”
Gentle fingers touched Mala’s arm. “When might she travel?”
“In a fortnight. Maybe more; maybe less. Now take your son. MacHugh thinks the babe was strangled by the cord. He knows it is not his. He ordered the ‘Gypsy bastard’ to be buried in a common grave by morning.”
Logan’s jaw clenched. “I’ll see to the burial.” Edward’s, he pronounced silently. “In three weeks, at the dark of the moon, I will come for her—for you all. It is then MacHugh will die. Keep her safe, Mala. Should Edward try to harm her know I’ll not be far.” He took the torch from its holder. “I’ll speak with you soon.”
Mala viewed the child once more, then uttered a Romany blessing. The lever was pressed, the door eased open; slowly it closed behind her.
With the small bundle held in one arm Logan made his way from the hidden passage. Gazing up at the heavens, he awaited the dark cloud to cover the quarter moon. Sure of foot, he descended the steep slope several hundred feet to its base; Alain scurried to meet him. Carrying the nearly weightless burden, Logan continued at a fast pace with the blacksmith into the trees. Secreted among the birch, he issued the smithy instructions. Then, after one last look at his son, Logan placed him into Alain’s arms.
Deeper Than Roses Page 28
