Surrender to the Scot

by Emma Prince

  She darted out of his path and around the fire. To her horror, instead of chasing her from one side, he simply leapt over the flames. He plowed into her, driving them both to the ground. His bloody hands closed around her neck, his eyes wild. But so focused was he on squeezing the life from her, he left her hands free.

  She drove the dagger up, feeling it sink into his flesh. He shrieked in rage, gripping her throat tighter, but she stabbed again and again until at last his hands loosened.

  He coughed, this time splattering blood on his lips. He suddenly sagged on top of her, his weight pinning her to the ground. With a cry, she shoved him away and scrambled out from under him.

  He flopped on his back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. His breath came short and shallow for three terrible, long heartbeats, until at last his chest stilled and his eyes clouded with death.

  A high, shaking sob echoed through the cave. It took Elaine a moment to realize the noise had come from her. De Brechin’s dagger slid from her trembling, bloodied hands and clattered to the ground. Her vision spun and her stomach lurched. Abruptly, she turned her back on his body.

  There would be a time to cry, to shake, to curl into a ball and try to understand what it meant to take a life, even in self-defense, but now was not that time.

  Jerome was still alive—she prayed—and he needed her.

  She stumbled from the cave to find an unfamiliar, night-dark forest surrounding her. A solitary horse stood tied to a nearby tree. It must have been de Brechin’s.

  Elaine hastily gathered the animal’s reins and dragged herself into the saddle. She guided the horse toward the wooded rise off to the left. At the top of the rise, she studied the sky. Though darkness had fallen, a band of pale blue still clung to one horizon—west. In the distance to the south, she saw the glimmer of faint moonlight on water. The river.

  Her gaze traveled east until far off she made out several pinpricks of orange light. They must have been the torches at the docks. Which meant she was closer to Scone that she could have hoped. She pointed the horse southwest, knowing that once she ran into the river, she could follow it westward all the way to Scone.

  Digging her heels into the animal’s flanks, she prayed she would get there in time.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Jerome groaned in pain as he bounced face-down against the horse’s back. With his hands and feet still bound, he was lucky he hadn’t tumbled off the animal and broken his neck by now.

  After what felt like an eternity of rib-crushing jostling, his horse suddenly came to a halt. Rough hands dragged him from the saddle and dumped him unceremoniously on the ground. The hiss of steel against leather had him raising his head. If he was going to die, he wasn’t bloody well going to go without being on his feet.

  The three henchmen had their swords pointed at him, but instead of striking him down as he struggled to stand, they merely watched in silence. The apparent leader, whom de Brechin had called Orrin, stepped closer cautiously. With the tip of his sword, he sliced the bindings on Jerome’s ankles.

  Jerome gained his footing and braced his legs, but still they didn’t move to cut him down.

  “Ye remember what de Brechin said.” Orrin pulled the jeweled dagger from his belt and approached once more. “Try aught and the woman dies. We’ll watch ye all the way into the palace, and once ye’re inside, we’ll have eyes on ye at all times. If the task isnae complete in half an hour, I’ll send Maurice here back to de Brechin and the lass will pay.”

  He had half an hour, then, to find a way out of this. Though adrenaline coursed through Jerome’s veins, giving him a surge of strength despite his throbbing head and battered body, it would be three armed men against one if he tried to strike now. So he nodded warily at Orrin.

  Orrin pulled a cloak from his saddlebags and tossed it to Jerome, who caught it with his bound hands.

  “Put that on to hide yer bloodied clothes,” Orrin commanded.

  As Jerome settled the cloak around his shoulders, Orrin unsheathed the dagger and approached. He cut the rope on Jerome’s wrists, then re-sheathed the dagger and handed it to him.

  Jerome tucked the dagger into his belt and nodded again, but inside his mind scrambled frantically for a plan. If de Brechin truly had eyes and ears inside the Bruce’s court, he would never be able to alert the guards to this scheme before word reached Orrin—and then de Brechin—that Jerome had broken their agreement.

  He could only pray that some alternative would present itself once he was inside, or else he’d be forced to do the unthinkable.

  Orrin took his arm and pulled him through the trees while the other two outlaws trailed after them, weapons pointed at Jerome’s back. The palace’s wooden palisades loomed through the darkness ahead. They were approaching from behind, where a smaller gate was set into the palisades.

  Just before they reached the tree line, Orrin halted. “We’ll be waiting, Munro.” He released Jerome’s arm and shoved him toward the palisades.

  Gripping the jeweled hilt of the dagger in his belt, Jerome approached the gate, where two of the Bruce’s guards stood on duty. He drew up the hood of his cloak to cover his bloodied hair, but left his face visible. As he stepped into the light cast from the torches on the palisades, the guards hailed him.

  “Jerome Munro to see the King.”

  The guards nodded and immediately moved aside, for Jerome had been a fixture at the Bruce’s court for several months before he’d been sent to collect seals. He crossed the torch-lit yard swiftly, passing the abbey and moving straight for the great hall, where he assumed the Bruce was hosting his feast.

  Entering from the back forced him to weave his way through the winding corridors attached to the hall. As he drew nearer, the sounds of merriment drifted to him. Musicians were playing, and laughter and chatter hung in the air.

  Ahead, warm yellow light spilled into the mouth of the corridor. He ducked into the shadows, leaning against the arched entryway that opened to the hall.

  Sure enough, the room was abuzz with nobles, just as it had been the night before he’d departed for France. Though the Bruce’s court couldn’t rival King Philip’s for opulence and luxury, the room still glowed with candlelight that made the ladies’ jewels sparkle. All the rich silks appeared to shimmer as nobles spun with the music or stood holding goblets of wine and chattering.

  And the Bruce sat at the raised dais on the opposite side of the hall. He was watching the festivities, a smooth smile plastered on his face.

  The jewels encrusting the dagger’s hilt dug into Jerome’s palm. He was running out of time.

  Drawing in a ragged breath, he forced himself to step from the shadows and into the hall. A few of the nobles cast surprised looks at him as he began to weave his way toward the dais, but most were too drunk or focused on each other to notice him.

  But as he continued across the hall, he began to feel eyes following him. He glanced at a nobleman dressed in a red tunic and breeches in the style of the Lowlands, only to find the man’s gaze fixed on the dagger in Jerome’s belt. The man wore a pendant on his chest, a lion cast in gold.

  The lion. It was the symbol of England. The unicorn will fall to the lion. Balliol’s words cut through the haze in Jerome’s mind. It must have been the adopted symbol of de Soules’s conspiracy.

  As he slipped by, the man gave Jerome a subtle nod, and Jerome knew—he was one of de Brechin and de Soules’s co-conspirators.

  He weaved past a noblewoman wearing a brooch made of rubies—in the shape of a lion’s head. His gaze darted around the room. How many more were there? He saw at least one other man with a lion etched into the hilt of his ornamental sword.

  So de Brechin had been telling the truth—he had eyes even in the heart of the Bruce’s court. Which meant Jerome was good and cornered in his task.

  He ducked his head, praying for some solution, some way out of this bind, but instead his mind filled with images of Elaine. Bleeding. Screaming. Dying.

  Before he r
ealized what he was doing, he’d stepped onto the dais before the Bruce. He lifted his head, letting the candlelight fall on his face.

  The Bruce’s gaze locked on him, his keen brown eyes widening.

  “Jerome. What the hell are ye doing here, man? Ye are supposed to be in France.”

  The moment had come, and yet still Jerome silently begged for an answer. If he could trade his life for the King’s, or for Elaine’s, he would do it in a heartbeat. Yet cruel fate had given him no such option.

  He searched the Bruce’s confused features. This was the man who had united Scotland, who had shed blood on countless battlefields against the English for his people’s independence. He was more than a King. He was the country’s hero.

  Jerome couldn’t do it. But not because of his pride, his determination not to become a traitor like his father, or even his loyalty to the King. He knew that if Elaine somehow made it through this, she would never forgive him for destroying the cause she believed in most—freedom.

  An idea came to him then, one last chance to save Elaine, if not himself. If he appeared to attempt to assassinate the Bruce, yet failed, would de Brechin still harm Elaine? He would have to make it convincing to ensure that de Brechin’s co-conspirators in the hall would believe he was in earnest.

  It was the thinnest imaginable plan, but it was his only hope. He pulled the jeweled dagger from its sheath and pointed it at the Bruce.

  “Jerome?” The Bruce pushed back from the table and stood slowly from his chair. “What are ye doing?”

  “I pray that you’ll trust me, Robert,” Jerome said. “And that God forgives me.” He closed his eyes, letting the hall and the crowd and the Bruce fall away. “Elaine, I love ye.”

  He lunged across the table, but instead of driving the dagger point forward, he used his other hand to shove the Bruce into his chair. He pushed the King so hard that he and the chair tumbled backward and landed with a clatter on the dais.

  “He’s got a weapon!” someone shouted behind Jerome.

  Suddenly the hall erupted into shrieks of terror. Guards exploded through every door and entrance, shoving their way through the nobles to reach the dais. The nobles scrambled in every direction, some trying to flee to safety, others attempting to see what had happened to the King.

  When the guards reached Jerome, they threw him onto the table roughly. The dagger went flying from his hand to land a few paces away on the dais. Several of the guards bellowed at him to surrender, though he didn’t struggle against them. Others searched him for another weapon while still more circled the King where he’d toppled to the ground.

  Jerome’s ears rang with the panicked screams of those in the hall and the shouts of the guards. He could only pray that in the pandemonium, none of de Brechin’s allies would be able to tell if he’d succeeded in killing the King or not. With any luck, de Brechin wouldn’t hurt Elaine and she would find a way to escape somehow.

  He closed his eyes once more, letting the guards roughly search him. He expected at any moment to feel the sharp bite of a blade giving him a swift traitor’s death for the attempted assassination. But one voice, high and urgent, pierced the fog in his mind.

  Someone was shouting his name over and over again. A woman.

  Nay. It couldn’t be. Jerome’s head jerked from the tabletop and his gaze darted between the guards’ bodies and into the roiling throng of nobles.

  There, at the hall’s main entrance, he caught a glimpse of long copper hair as someone fought against the tide of nobles trying to flee.

  Elaine.

  She was clawing her way toward him against the crush of bodies going the opposite direction.

  “Jerome!”

  She was alive and unhurt. Somehow she’d managed to escape de Brechin.

  Which meant de Brechin’s plan had crumbled. They had to stop his allies before they disappeared into the woodwork once more.

  Jerome suddenly surged against the guards holding him down.

  “The lion!” he shouted. “Stop them! Dinnae let them get away!”

  Distantly, he knew he sounded like a raving lunatic, but he didn’t care.

  “Elaine, the lion!”

  Suddenly the King sprang to his feet and loomed over Jerome.

  “What the bloody hell is going on?” he roared.

  “Robert, there is a plot to kill ye.”

  “I surmised that,” the Bruce snapped.

  “They forced my hand. I can explain aught, but ye must stop yer guests. At least three here tonight are part of a conspiracy against ye. They bear the symbol of the lion.”

  Jerome stared up at the Bruce, panting raggedly and praying he would believe him. The Bruce lifted his gaze from Jerome to the throng of nobles scrambling about the hall. With a muttered curse, he turned to his guards.

  “Release this man and halt everyone from leaving,” he ordered.

  The guards’ eyes rounded in confusion, but they were well trained enough to obey without question. They abandoned Jerome and began plowing back into the sea of people, shouting for the doors to be closed and the palisade gates sealed.

  Just then Elaine broke through the crowd and reached the dais. Jerome sprang from the table and collided with her so hard that he brought them both to the dais’s wooden surface.

  “Ye’re alive.”

  “So are you.”

  He buried his face in her hair, squeezing her so hard that she made a pained noise after a moment. Reluctantly, he released her, only to find the Bruce standing over them with a baffled frown on his face.

  “Ye two have some explaining to do.”

  Jerome rose on shaky legs and helped Elaine up. The Bruce motioned to one of the nearby guards.

  “See that the entire palace and abbey are completely sealed,” he said. “And secure that.” He pointed at the discarded lion dagger that lay a few feet away. He turned back to Elaine and Jerome. “Ye two—follow me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “What in the bloody hell is going on?” the Bruce demanded for the second time that night when the door to his small meeting room had been closed tight.

  At his harsh words, the last of Elaine’s composure snapped. She sank into a chair, buried her face in her hands, and wept.

  Jerome was instantly by her side.

  “Are ye hurt, lass? What is it? Please, speak to me.”

  “Nay,” she mumbled into her palms. “I am not hurt—not truly. I am just so tired.”

  She’d driven herself beyond what she’d ever thought possible tonight, clinging to the hope that she would be in time to save Jerome.

  And she had been. Jerome and the King were both alive and well. They’d stopped de Brechin and de Soules’s plot. Yet Elaine had used every last drop of strength she possessed.

  Suddenly Jerome was lifting her in his arms. He cradled her against his chest and sat in the chair she’d occupied a moment before, settling her in his lap.

  “It’s over,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “Ye did it, lass. All is well.”

  For a long while, the small chamber was quiet except for Elaine’s soft sobs. When at last the worst of her tears abated, the Bruce spoke again, this time gentling his voice.

  “What happened?”

  Jerome’s arms tightened reassuringly around her. He drew in a breath and began.

  He told the Bruce of the uneventful voyage to France, but before he continued, the Bruce interjected.

  “And what of ye, Elaine? When I realized ye were missing, I feared the worst.”

  Elaine lifted her head from Jerome’s chest and looked up at the Bruce. “I-I bought passage for myself to France as well. I left the same night Finn did.”

  “Why on earth did ye do that?”

  She swallowed. “Finn said that if he had another man he could trust, he’d send someone after the envoy to warn them of what I overheard that night. I only thought to help, to save the mission to deliver the declaration.”

  The Bruce let out a long breath and s
ank into a chair opposite them. “Why didnae ye at least send word? We were worried for ye—especially Finn.”

  Confusion crashed over her. Her heart splintered at the mention of Finn. “We did—we sent a missive to be delivered only to Finn’s hands explaining what I had done, but it must never have reached him. I only wish…” Tears clogged her throat once more, but she forced herself to swallow them. “I only wish he would have gotten it before de Brechin’s men killed him.”

  The Bruce’s brows shot together. “But Finn is here, lass.”

  “Ye mean…ye buried him here at Scone?” Jerome asked, uncertainty lacing his voice.

  “Nay,” the Bruce replied. “I mean he’s here in the palace. He’s alive.”

  Elaine bolted from Jerome’s lap. “What?”

  “My guards found him no’ far from here yesterday morn. He’d been badly beaten, but he nearly took out a few of my men for trying to bring him to the palace. He said he’d tracked de Brechin back to Scone and was determined to hunt him down.”

  The Bruce rose as well and moved to the door. He spoke quietly with one of the guards posted outside, instructing the man to bring Finn to the chamber.

  Elaine listened in disbelief. “De Brechin said he’d set his men on Finn and killed him,” she said to the Bruce as he stepped back inside.

  “Aye, Finn said he’d nearly caught up with the bastard in the Borderlands when half a dozen of de Brechin’s men attacked and de Brechin himself slipped away,” the Bruce replied. “Still, Finn managed to best the men, and even with a broken arm and more than a few cuts and bruises, he tracked de Brechin all the way back here. As I said, he was none too pleased that he was forced to return to the palace, but my men thought he might drive himself into his grave in his search for de Brechin.”

  Happy tears blurred Elaine’s vision. “Aye, that sounds like Finn.”

  Just then, the door swung open and there he was, her surly, scowling brother-in-law, his arm in a sling and his face covered in half-healed bruises and scratches.