by Emma Prince
Just as they entered a dense forest, a cool spring rain began to fall, pattering softly on the leaves overhead.
If it hadn’t been for the murmur of the drizzle in the trees, Elaine might have heard it sooner.
Footsteps closing in on them. Jerome dropped her hand and spun, reaching for the sword on his belt, but it was already too late. Two men tackled him to the ground while a third raised the hilt of his sword toward his head.
Elaine screamed, but a hand closed over her mouth, muffling the sound. She watched in horror as the man looming over Jerome brought his hilt down with a sickening thud against Jerome’s skull. Jerome’s eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp even as dark red blood began to ooze from his scalp.
Elaine screamed again, uncaring that no one would hear her. She fought wildly against the man holding her from behind, kicking and thrashing. But the brigand who’d struck Jerome rose up and slowly approached, his weapon raised to deliver a similar blow.
“Gentler this time, Orrin,” the man holding her said.
Through the shroud of panic and fear enveloping her mind, cold clarity hit Elaine like a splash of ice water.
She knew that Lowland-intoned voice.
“We need them both alive, remember?” the man continued.
Orrin closed in and lifted the hilt above her head. One thought rang through her before all fell to blackness.
David de Brechin was alive—and now they were his captives.
* * * *
Jerome clawed against the pull of unconsciousness, but the darkness kept hauling him down. It wasn’t until he smelled smoke and felt cold, hard stone beneath him that he managed to drag his eyelids open.
His head ached, a dull, sickening pulse everywhere and a sharp, hot pain where he’d been struck. He squinted against the light of a fire and winced at the sound of steady dripping somewhere in the distance.
Slowly, he realized he was in a cave of some sort, for the firelight flickered off damp stone all around. He rolled his head slowly, trying to see more.
When his gaze landed on Elaine, he fought against the rope binding his hands and feet behind his back and tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea kept him on his side.
She was unconscious, propped up against one of the cave walls with her hands bound behind her as well.
“Elaine,” he hissed, his voice echoing painfully loud. “Elaine, wake up.”
She stirred, her head lolling to one side and a groan slipping past her lips, but before Jerome could do aught else, a pair of boots filled his vision as a man stepped between them.
“Ah, ye’re awake. Good.”
Jerome looked up to find David de Brechin standing over him, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes quirking his lips.
“Jerome?” Elaine’s pained, thin voice drifted from behind de Brechin.
“Both of ye,” de Brechin commented, glancing back at Elaine. “Even better.”
“Let her go, de Brechin, and I might consider giving ye a swift death rather than the slow and painful one ye deserve,” Jerome snarled.
De Brechin chuckled, cocking his sandy blond head at Jerome. “Blockheaded Highland brute. Arenae ye the one bound and bloody on the floor and I the one in control?”
Jerome bit back a curse and instead focused on catching Elaine’s eye around de Brechin’s boots. “Are ye all right, lass?”
Before Elaine could answer, de Brechin interjected. “She’ll be fine—if ye cooperate, Munro.”
“Cooperate with ye? A traitor?” Jerome replied, then spat on de Brechin’s boots.
It earned him a swift kick to the ribs. He grunted in pain, but he refused to back down. “We ken all about ye and de Soules’s little plot with Balliol.”
“I ken that,” de Brechin said testily. “Otherwise I wouldnae have taken ye.”
“How?” Elaine asked. “How could you possibly—”
De Brechin cut her off with a wave. He strode around the fire and held his hands out to it.
“Finn Sutherland.”
Elaine gasped. “What did you do to Finn?”
“Oh, he gave me a merry chase, I assure ye,” de Brechin replied, his voice filled with venomous mirth. “He hunted me nearly to the Borderlands before I managed to assemble enough men to take him down.”
“Nay!” Elaine cried.
Jerome’s heart broke for her, but there was no time to mourn the great warrior now.
For the first time, Jerome noticed that de Brechin looked haggard. Unlike the last time he’d seen the man, when he’d been all fine silks and courtly manners, de Brechin’s blond hair was disheveled and his clothes torn and dirty.
His appearance spoke of desperation. At least Finn had given the man a hell of a chase and put the fear of God in him.
“And after ye set yer men on Finn, ye made yer way back to Scone,” Jerome surmised. His head still throbbed, but he willed himself to concentrate. If he could wheedle enough information out of de Brechin, who’d always seemed a man with too loose a tongue, mayhap there would be an opening to save Elaine.
“I’ve been waiting at the docks for nigh on three days for word from de Soules,” de Brechin commented. “But even before then, I kenned something was amiss the moment I realized Sutherland was after me. When the missive of confirmation never arrived from de Soules, I thought all was lost, but then I spotted the two of ye disembarking.”
De Brechin strolled back around the fire and crouched between Jerome and Elaine.
“With the lass’s connection to Sutherland and ye supposedly in France, Munro, I guessed that ye had some part in all of this. And now ye’ve just confirmed it. I dinnae ken how ye came to learn of our plan, but now that ye have, ye’ll play yer part—or yer bonny English whore will suffer.”
Jerome’s blood ran cold as de Brechin cast a glare at Elaine. “What do ye mean, play my part?”
“I cannae get close to the Bruce’s court—thanks to whoever found me out and sent Sutherland on my heels,” de Brechin replied testily. “But ye can.”
“And why would I?” Jerome demanded.
“Because tonight is the night.” De Brechin’s thin lips curled in a smile. “The Bruce is throwing another feast to honor more of his nobles. It will be the perfect opportunity to strike him down.”
Through the pain and worry clouding his brain, realization struck. “And ye want me to be the one to do it.”
“Who better than ye, Munro? Ye’re the son of a traitor, the perfect symbol of our revolution. They tried to crush us, to eradicate us from Scotland. They killed good men like yer father, men who understood that the Bruce never should have gained the throne, yet we will rise again.”
“My father was a coward and deserved his death,” Jerome spat. “I’ll never follow him—or ye. Ye’re mad, de Brechin. Balliol willnae save ye. He’s a greater fool than ye.”
De Brechin snorted. “I never said Balliol was a great man. But he’ll play his part too, just as his father tried to before the whole country went mad and cast him aside.”
“Ye mean before we realized that freedom was worth more than the supposed protection of an English King who would’ve rather wiped every last Scot from our own lands than leave us be?”
“Enough!” de Brechin shouted, slamming his hand against the cave floor. He took a breath, smoothing his hair back. “I dinnae need to debate politics with ye when ye are completely at my mercy. Aye, ye’ll play yer part. Ye’ll be the one to take the Bruce down, for he trusts ye. He’ll let ye close enough, never suspecting that ye will betray him.”
Jerome ground his teeth until the throbbing in his skull forced him to stop. “Never.”
“Nay,” de Brechin replied. “Tonight. For if ye dinnae, she’ll bear the cost.”
De Brechin rose and strode slowly to Elaine. He casually pulled a dagger from his boot and inspected it. Then without warning, he plunged it into her upper arm.
Her scream of pain clashed with Jerome’s rage-filled roar. God, nay! He thrashed against his bonds,
but the rope held his wrists and ankles fast. When de Brechin turned back to him, holding up the bloodied dagger, Jerome growled like a feral animal.
“It’s simple,” de Brechin said. “Her life or the Bruce’s. Choose, Munro.”
Jerome lay panting on the floor, his gaze locking with Elaine’s. His heart rent in two when he saw the fear in her eyes. She shook her head ever so slightly, then mouthed I love you.
Damn it all, this was not how it would end! He could not let de Brechin hurt her. But nor could he kill his King.
“Ye’re taking too long, Munro,” de Brechin said. In a flash of movement, he was before Elaine once more. He drove the dagger into her other arm in a swift, cruel stroke.
“Nay!” Jerome bellowed, his gaze riveted on the twin spots of blood darkening the sleeves of her dress. His beloved Elaine’s blood. There had to be a way to save her and protect the Bruce. But he couldn’t think straight, not while staring at her tear-streaked, pain-drawn features.
He needed more time. More time, and he might be able to come up with a way… But he was out of time, for de Brechin was raising the dagger again, pointing its dull, blood-stained tip at Elaine’s beautiful face.
“Stop!” Jerome cried.
“Jerome, nay!” Elaine moaned on a sob.
“I’ll do it,” he shouted, ignoring Elaine’s plea. “I’ll do it, damn ye. Just dinnae hurt her.”
A slow smile broke across de Brechin’s face.
“Excellent.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Elaine saw the exact moment when Jerome made up his mind. His strong features twisted with pain even as something inside the depths of his dark eyes went dead.
She screamed at him, but then he was saying the words that would seal his fate.
He would kill Robert the Bruce.
Elaine struggled against her bonds, but her arms were numb with pain and the rope bit into her wrists.
Jerome stared at her, his eyes, once so full of love, now desolate and empty.
De Brechin crossed to the mouth of the cave and called to his henchmen. While he was out of earshot, Jerome spoke softly.
“Forgive me, Elaine.”
“Jerome, nay, you cannot—”
“I’ll do everything in my power to find another way,” he cut in, his voice flat. “I still need to be taken to Scone and get close to the Bruce. I might be able to…” He shook his head, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment. “But if I cannae…”
“My life isn’t worth his,” she sobbed. God, she didn’t want to die. But she couldn’t let Jerome kill the Bruce, for it would not only rip all of Scotland apart, but it would certainly mean his own life as well.
“I love ye,” he said simply.
She opened her mouth, but there was no time to say more, for de Brechin strode back inside with Orrin and the two others who’d tackled Jerome.
“Be careful with this one. Keep him bound until ye reach the abbey,” de Brechin said, waving at Jerome’s prone form. “And train yer weapons on him when ye free his hands and give him the dagger. He may be weakened, but he’s still a trained warrior.”
De Brechin removed a jewel-encrusted dagger from his belt and handed it carefully to Orrin. Elaine caught a glimpse of a lion’s head inlaid in sparkling gemstones into the hilt. The flickering light of the fire made the lion’s ruby eyes seem to dance.
“Ye,” he said, looking down on Jerome. “Dinnae try aught. My men will be watching yer every move until ye reach the abbey, and once ye’re inside, my allies will ken if ye dinnae play yer part. I have eyes and ears everywhere, Munro, and if word reaches me that ye faltered in any way, yer bonny whore will pay for it in flesh.”
Abruptly, de Brechin drove his foot into Jerome’s stomach, making him sputter in pain.
“Understand?”
“Aye,” Jerome croaked.
The two outlaws lifted Jerome under the arms and dragged him to the mouth of the cave.
This was it. The last time Elaine might ever see him. She screamed and tried to stagger to her feet, but de Brechin stepped in front of her and shoved her to the ground. She landed on her backside, breaking the fall somewhat with her bound hands, but a sharp rock jabbed into her palm, making her cry out again.
Orrin hesitated at the mouth of the cave. “Are ye sure we should leave ye alone with her, milord? One of the men could stay back if—”
De Brechin snorted. “Are ye jesting? Look at her.” He flung his hand toward her. “She’s just a foolish wee lass.”
Something stilled inside Elaine then. Her mind went very quiet as clarity swept over her.
De Brechin was wrong.
She was not a mere weak and silly girl—she’d proven that to herself. Yet he’d underestimated her, sending all of his men with Jerome and leaving himself vulnerable without even realizing it.
What was more, Jerome still lived, which meant she wasn’t through fighting for him—or herself—just yet. All was not lost. He would do all he could to find another way to free them from this bind, but she had to do her part as well.
Behind her, she groped for the sharp rock that had pierced her palm a moment before. When she felt its jagged edge, she curled it into her grasp and began working it against the ropes on her wrists.
With a curt dismissal, de Brechin sent Orrin after the others and Jerome. He rounded on Elaine and she froze, but there was no way he could see the rock in her hand.
“And now, my sweet Elaine, we wait,” he said, prowling around the fire.
Cautiously, she dragged the shard of rock against the rope. The motion made no noise and de Brechin didn’t seem to notice the ever so slight movement of her arms. So she kept working the jagged shard against the rope, feeling the first of its threads pop.
“What a shame it’s come to this,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back and watching her through the flickering flames. “Ye should never have gotten involved with a man like Munro, Elaine.”
She glared at him. “And I should have chosen you instead? A traitor and a coward?”
He smiled, but it was more a cruel twist of his lips than a true show of mirth. “Watch yer tongue, or I’ll cut it out.”
Another thread snapped, but the rope didn’t loosen. She was still a long way from freeing her hands, and even once she did, she’d have to somehow overpower de Brechin. That was, assuming he didn’t lose his temper and simply kill her first.
She walked a knife’s edge between needing to buy more time to cut the rope and avoiding de Brechin’s wrath. She would have to keep him talking—but carefully.
“Ye should have been mine,” he continued, stalking around the fire toward her. “But ye let that bastard Munro touch ye instead. Aye, I saw ye holding hands as ye left the docks. I should have never let him come between us that first night in Scone.”
His blue eyes gleamed with vicious intent as he approached. Foreboding lanced her. She pushed herself backward until she bumped into the damp cave wall, her hands pinned against the stone. She wriggled to create enough space to continue her work on her bindings, but still de Brechin drew closer.
“But I neednae be constrained by courtly etiquette now. Ye see, that is the beauty of this revolution,” he continued, crouching before her. “All these years, de Soules and I—and countless others—have been hanging on the Bruce’s hem, begging for scraps, when we should have been doing what he did from the beginning. He took what he wanted, stole the Scottish crown without asking permission. And once we are rid of him and have our chosen King in place, we will do the same.”
He drew the dull dagger he’d used on her arms from his boot once more. It still bore her blood on its edge. Sickening terror rose in her throat as he slowly waved it before her face.
“That is what this coup is truly about,” he murmured, smiling faintly. “Taking.”
“Y-you promised not to hurt me if Jerome did as you bid,” she breathed, her eyes fixed on the dagger.
“It will only hurt if ye struggle.”
He notched the dagger’s point against her throat, then slowly moved in. When his lips crushed hers, she forced herself to remain perfectly still—except for the hand behind her back that sawed the rope.
She felt another thread pop, and her hands separated a fraction of an inch. Her arms screamed in protest where he’d stabbed her, but she kept the shard moving, each impossibly small scrape bringing her closer to freedom.
De Brechin drew back with a satisfied grin at her passivity. “There’s a good girl,” he said, lowering the dagger from her throat. He slid it back into his boot, then reached for her.
She nearly howled in outrage and disgust when his hands closed on her breasts, but instead she squeezed her eyes shut. A few more seconds. She could do this. She had to be strong for Jerome. For herself.
His mouth covered hers once more, his tongue probing forcefully. Suddenly the rope snapped and her hands sprang free. There was no time to think—only to act.
She tightened her grip on the jagged rock in her palm even as she jerked her arms free. With all her strength, she drove the shard into the side of de Brechin’s neck.
He jerked, his mouth and hands coming away from her. His eyes widened in shock and he coughed wetly.
“Ye bitch!” he hissed, tumbling onto his backside. But instead of going limp, he reached for the piece of rock protruding from his neck.
Without thinking, Elaine dove forward and yanked the dagger from his boot. He kicked her viciously, but she managed to hold onto the hilt even as she went careening across the cave’s floor.
“Ye’ll pay for that!” he howled, but when he tried to pull the rock shard free, his fingers slipped in his own blood.
Elaine scrambled to her feet, brandishing the dagger before her. De Brechin staggered up, too, lurching toward her. Yet his movements were clumsy and she knew he was already weakening.
