by Jillian Hart
Aye, she was vulnerable without weapon and protector, vulnerable to this man without mercy.
He sat tall, easily guiding his giant destrier as dawn brightened. He looked magnificent riding in the blinding gleam of the rising sun. Light radiated all around him in eye-watering shafts.
He stopped to allow her to tend to her body’s needs, and then wordlessly offered her drink and food. They rode again, unrelenting and hard. They traveled thus for two days. And when Elin saw the silhouette of a city on the horizon, she knew a different sort of fear. One so quiet and cold it wrapped around her soul like a winter’s freeze.
She would die in that city. ’Twas a certainty. And would Malcolm the Fierce feel even a twist of conscience, knowing that he’d hunted her down like a ruthless wolf, only to deliver her to her death? That he could have shown her mercy and allowed her to escape, but had not?
Eyes averted, he hauled her from his horse and slung her over his broad shoulder. He easily carried her down stone steps into a dungeon rank with the scents of rotting wood and cruelty. He lowered her like a sack of grain to the floor and chained her to the wall.
Terror beat in her heart as she listened to the click of the lock. Though darkness cloaked him, she felt the force of his gaze.
He towered above her like a mythical warrior. Then he turned without a word, leaving her alone in a dark hell.
“Malcolm, I heard a woman got the best of you.” Ian the Strong slapped Malcolm on the shoulder, a gesture of old friendship. “Heard she rendered you and every last one of your men sick as dogs.”
“Tease all you wish. If Edward hadn’t assigned you to a different task, you would have been retching in the courtyard with the best of us.”
“Nay, my friend. I would have had the brains to know a woman should never be trusted. Liars and manipulators, every last one of them. Why, look at the tavern wenches. See how they plot and play for our benefit?”
“For the benefit of coin.”
“Aye, what woman doesn’t? From the queen to the lowest peasant, ’tis how they survive and how they are made.”
Malcolm drained the last of his ale and dropped the tankard on the table. “’Tis true I gave the traitor’s daughter too much freedom. After she saved Hugh’s life and mixed a healing ointment for the old innkeeper’s wife, I grew less suspicious. I thought she only meant to help serve the food.”
“I cannot believe you would give a woman aught but a good swiving.”
Malcolm rubbed his aching brow, where exhaustion and long-pent-up rage tensed the muscles, causing a blasting pain.
“Why, ’tis Sir Malcolm and Sir Ian.” A serving wench well known for more than her skills in dispensing ale appeared at the edge of the trestle table, pitcher in hand. “What a lucky maid I am to host such powerful knights in my tavern.”
“You, a maid?” Ian’s gaze roamed the wench’s form, from ripe, half-exposed breasts to the swell of her generous hips. “I’ve often been between those thighs. You long ago left maidenhood behind.”
“Aye, for womanhood pleases me better.” She winked at him, certain now there would be more coin added to her earnings this night, and ’twould not be only from serving ale. She filled both tankards handily. “And you, Sir Malcolm? Shall I send over a maid for your amusement?”
“Maid?” Ian laughed. “Your maids have too much experience for the Fierce One. They may well overpower him, and his reputation will be in ruins again.”
“Enough with the jests, Ian. Matilda, I have no need of a woman.”
As the wench turned, dropping their small coins into her pocket, Ian watched lustily. “Aye, I have me a liking for that one. Rough she is. Knows how to satisfy a man. I hear the king’s nephew attacked your band and you killed half his men.”
“Aye, but I did not kill the nephew.”
“Edward will owe you a boon, then. Mayhap it will compensate for the prisoner woman’s escape, and he’ll not demote you.” Ian’s eyes teased, but his words held a ring of warning as he lifted his tankard and drank deeply.
Fie, would the traitor’s daughter haunt him forever? Malcolm could still feel the womanly shape of her body pressed hard to his in the saddle, for he’d trapped her there, beneath his arms and against his chest. She’d been his captive, a slim reed of a thing, and the memory of it still ached like an old wound, like a tooth slowly festering. He’d scared the spirit from her and intimidated her until she did not dare even look at him.
He remembered her words, so cocksure and dismissing. Tell me what fearsome enemy of the king’s you have overpowered now. An old man? Mayhap a lame woman? A goat? He could not remember when anyone had dared to demean the king’s favored knight.
And he’d left her in the dungeon.
His guts tightened into hard knots and he drank until the tankard was empty, and the next one after that. But the image of the frightened-eyed maiden chained to the stone wall remained with him and would not fade. Even through a night of sleep and dreams and into the next morning, when word of Caradoc’s fury and Philip’s impending execution buzzed on the lips of the villagers.
Malcolm watched the new day dawn, and the brightness of it never touched him. For he knew there would be no mercy for the warrior dove. ’Twas the way of the world, and the futility of it deadened him. He gathered his men, because it was yet another day of serving the king.
“Elinore of Evenbough?” Booted feet halted before her.
Cold, hungry and stiff, Elin tilted back her head. Her gaze traveled up the hosed legs to the fine tunic bearing the king’s standard.
“Are you Lady Elinore of Evenbough?” This time it was a rough demand.
“Aye.” She tucked her ankles together. “Am I to go to the king? Will he hear my tale? I—”
“Silence!” Unlike Malcolm the Fierce, this man’s voice seemed to resonate with cruelty, as if he treasured doing violence.
She felt the tug on her chains, and the brutal oaf nearly pulled her arms from their sockets before he unlocked her. She stood and her irons clattered. Her knees wobbled. Fiery pricks of pain shot through her limbs, numb from cold and lack of circulation.
“Come.” The guard shoved her roughly, and caught her when she stumbled. “He awaits.”
“Who? Malcolm?”
Why his name came to her lips, she could not imagine, nor the hope that accompanied it. That man had dragged her here and chained her up like a misbehaving dog.
All night she had thought upon it, unable to sleep. The night noises of the dungeon were terrifying, and she had much time to think upon her crimes. She had poisoned the king’s men and she was the daughter of a traitor. No king would allow her to live.
The only man who could stay her execution was Malcolm. And if he’d come for her—
“Nay, Edward has granted Lord Caradoc a boon.” The guard’s laugh rang with glee, as if he enjoyed bringing the worst of news. “’Tis Caradoc who awaits you.”
Defeat lodged like a blade between her ribs. Caradoc was planning to claim that they were betrothed. What had she done to deserve this end? She would refuse it—that’s what she would do. She would rather have a swift death at the hands of the executioner than allow Caradoc the right to finish the rape he’d started years ago.
“Elin, how pathetic you look.” That putrid swine rose from a cushioned chair in a private chamber. He wore an elaborate tunic of embroidered gold on red velvet, and he looked like a rooster, all trussed up for show.
“Caradoc. I am not surprised to see you. As I walked down the corridor, I could not quite place the unpleasant odor—”
“I warn you, Elin.” His hand entrapped her wrist, his grip much used to inflicting violence. His eyes gleamed coldly, bold and naked and brutal. “Tempt me not, for I hold the power to spare your life.”
“What makes you think I want it spared?” She jutted her chin and met his flat gaze.
“No mortal wishes to face the agony of being drawn and quartered. ’Twould be a shame to waste your beauty on the edge of
a blade.”
Fear at the king’s judgment lodged hard in her stomach. “’Tis preferable to what you propose.”
His thumb rubbed bruising caresses on her skin. He would not let her go, even as she struggled. “You will marry me, Elin, and your life will be saved. That is, if you hold your tongue and refrain from insulting the king.”
“Insult him? He needs none of my insults, for he is related to you. That is pox enough on his name.”
“Now you anger me.” His hand swung back, ready to land a blow.
She planted her feet and lifted her chin, prepared for the strike.
It never came. Malcolm clamped his unyielding grip around Caradoc’s wrist. “Edward awaits the girl.”
’Twas all he said, and he avoided her gaze. She’d been wrong in believing he might come to free her. He despised her. He’d not forgiven her. She could see it in the cold steel of his face as he released the king’s nephew. His free hand remained on the hilt of his sword.
He’d come to make certain she would not escape her punishment. A cold anger brewed, low and deep. How she despised him, despised both men.
The fierce knight’s fingers bit into her shoulder, as if to remind her of his authority. He would escort her down the passageway to her execution.
She clamped her jaw, determined to hold back the tears balled in her throat. She shook with terror, yet she did not fight le Farouche as he herded her down a long corridor. “I suppose you take great pleasure in my execution.”
“I take no satisfaction.”
She heard no anger in his voice, yet his rage had been unmistakable when he’d chained her in the king’s dungeon. “I sickened your men. I humiliated you.”
“You made me writhe on the ground in intestinal agony, ’tis what you did.” A muscle jumped in his jaw, the only sign of emotion on the rogue’s face. “You leveled a half-dozen warriors with your evil herbs.”
“Herbs are not evil. Only man has the capacity for that.”
“And woman.” His chain mail jangled, echoing in the stone corridor.
“I suppose you intend to stand by my side and make sure I take the noose obediently. Or will you terrify me into it?”
“Your words are far too bold for a disgraced woman facing death.” His gaze did not meet hers, but his voice held censure. He nodded to the guards who flanked a pair of great iron doors. “Consider acting contrite before Edward.”
“What, you give me advice?” Her stomach curdled, and she tried to swallow the sob in her voice. She did not want him to know how terrified she truly was. “A cowardly knight like you? I’d think you would advise me on how best to swing from a noose.”
“Do not call me a cowardly knight.” Low and harsh rang his warning, as lethal as a wolf’s growl.
The ringing din of voices within the hall silenced. Elin looked up to see a tall man robed in brilliance, and she knew at once she gazed upon the king, upon Edward, and that he had heard all that she’d said to his favorite knight.
Heat flamed her face. ’Twas far too late to act meek and contrite now, not that she was good at acting. She might be a traitor’s daughter, but no one, not even Malcolm the Fierce, could call her a coward.
She set her chin and stepped forward. “Your highness—”
“Do not speak until I request it of you.” Like a hard punch, she heard the king’s icy condemnation and knew the truth: death awaited her.
“On your knees, traitor.” A rough hand shoved her to the ground, but it wasn’t Malcolm’s grip or Malcolm’s roughness.
Her kneecaps struck stone, and pain shot upward. She bit back a curse, and then realized she did not kneel alone. Her father huddled at her left shoulder. To see him again made her heart stammer. She both feared the man and pitied him. She couldn’t rightly say she cherished her father, but to see him like this…
Though his head was bowed, he looked furtive. His brown hair, greasy now, had grayed since she’d seen him last. His proud face was haggard, with many wrinkles and lines.
“Philip.” The king’s voice boomed, and riveted the onlookers. Even Elin started at the innate authority in his royal manner. “You have been found guilty of murder and treason. Now, after much consideration, I will sentence you.”
There was no startled gasp from the crowd, and no remorse shown on the king’s face as he delivered his judgment. “Your lands and title will be seized. All your wealth now becomes mine. You shall be immediately hanged, drawn and quartered, a just penalty for the death and suffering you brought to my cousin and her protectors.”
“’Twas not me,” Philip cried pitifully. “I will give you all I own, sire. But pray, spare my life.”
“As you showed no mercy, none will be shown to you.” Edward lifted a hand, as if dismissing a scornful fly on a dung heap. “Guards, give him his just punishment.”
“But you misunderstand, dear sire.” Philip’s eyes sparkled with cunning. “I was Edith’s lover, but not her only one. The killer you seek is Caradoc—”
“Silence.” Fury drove Edward forward, his royal robes whispering of masculine power as he moved. He leveled a mighty punch to her father’s jaw, and the man reeled backward, knocking against the stone floor. “That was for Edith, a gentle woman who suffered by your treachery. Guards, take him.”
Rough hands hefted Elin’s father from the floor and dragged him through the crowd toward the yawning doors.
Tears battered her eyes. ’Twas horrible to see Father so humiliated. Pity sliced through her, sharp edged and raw, and so great she could not draw breath. Her father, this man she’d feared and fought all her life, was no longer terrifying. He now cried like a child.
“’Twas my daughter and Caradoc!” Philip kicked and twisted, struggling to break free. “’Twas they who plotted against you. Caradoc thought himself next in line for the throne, once your cousin and your family were gone!”
“Silence! A true man faces his sins and admits them. He does not blame others.” Edward shook his head, as if truly saddened by events. But there was no softness in the gesture, nothing diminutive about him as he turned his gaze upon Elin’s face. ’Twas not a look of mercy.
She quaked before this man of great power who now sought to judge her, who even now might believe her father’s desperate accusation. What could she say to save her life? What argument would be good enough?
’Twas all she could do to draw air into her lungs. “Your highness, my father lies.”
“I commanded you to remain silent,” Edward barked, and his words reverberated off the stone and tapestried walls. Shocked onlookers gasped in the breathless silence.
How would he view the traitor’s daughter? Elin feared she already knew.
“Your highness, may I address you?” Caradoc’s arrogant voice fragmented the silence. His shoes tapped as he faced the king.
Elin’s chin fell. She stared hard at the floor. Please, Edward, do not listen to that rooster.
“Nephew.” Edward nodded. His voice was steady and betrayed no emotion or hint of what was to come. “Speak.”
Behind her, she heard the slight jangle of a knight’s chain mail. Malcolm le Farouche stood guard directly behind her, no doubt with his hand on his sword’s hilt. Was he so determined to see her punished? Or did he think she would push past the guards and flee?
Well, the thought had crossed her mind. But she was no coward, not like her father. She would face any fate but marriage to Caradoc.
The cocksure Caradoc gave a nod in her direction. “I’ve long been in love with Elinore of Evenbough and—”
Elin hopped to her feet. “You lie! I despise you—”
“Silence!” the king roared, striding swiftly toward her, terrifying in his anger. “I’ll not warn you again, lady. Sir Malcolm, I see now the trouble you had with this one.”
“Her worst weapon is her sharp tongue, highness.” Malcolm’s deep voice held a hint of mockery as his hand gripped her shoulder and forced her back to her knees. “She is not modest or well te
mpered.”
“’Tis true, sire.” Caradoc wrung his hands together, as if uncertain now of his case with the king. “I heard the lies Philip spewed as he was dragged from this chamber. But pray, do not believe the words of a proven traitor. Philip was sorely angry that I refused to rescue him in the forest, when I came to ensure my Elin’s safety.”
By the blood, she couldn’t believe this Caradoc’s wretched lies. “I’m not your—”
“Lady Elinore. Silence.” The king towered over her. “What am I to do with you, a woman who cannot obey a simple order?”
She remembered how Edward had struck her father, and knew that her life was forfeit to this man of wealth and power. She ought to take Malcolm’s advice and act contrite. She bit her bottom lip, determined to obey.
“I cannot release you. You are the daughter of a proven traitor.”
Her heart skipped five beats. “That doesn’t make me one, sire.” Then she clamped one hand over her mouth.
Edward paused, considering. His mouth quirked down in one corner. “Did you attempt to kill my knights with your poisons?”
“Of course not.” How could anyone believe that of her? “I’m a healer. I could never cause real harm. I was afraid no one in this court would believe me, so I chose to escape. I only meant to sicken your knights like the dogs they are.”
“Dogs?” Amusement glittered in those wise eyes.
Elin did not much like that he thought to laugh at her. Better to let her hang from a noose! She only told the truth. She would not stoop to lying, as Caradoc did. “Mayhap you would want to know how cruel your men can be. They trussed up my helpless old nursemaid, even though it was clear she was no traitor to the king and no threat. Do men of power feel greater when they harm those smaller? Methinks that is a sign of cowardice. And these are the men who serve you.”
“She offends the king!” A guard raised a hand to cuff her.
Malcolm’s hand curled around that offender’s wrist and stopped the blow. Elin gazed up into the Fierce One’s hard eyes, black and unreadable. Why had he protected her, he who vowed to condemn her?
