by Jillian Hart
Giles knelt at the bars, his words but a whisper. “They say poisoned ale was found in your chamber. All believe you served the Fierce One his morning meal and tainted his drink.”
“He did not eat in our chamber this morning. They lie.” Grief made her bold. Fear made her disregard Ian’s threat. She no longer cared for her own life as much as she did for her husband’s. All that mattered was Malcolm. “Giles, you must help me.”
“What can I do? I cannot go against my orders.”
“Which is more important—Malcolm or your orders?” She already knew his answer. “I know he needs me. If you refuse to help me, then I shall rescue Malcolm myself.”
“Rescue? He is dying.” Grief pealed in a voice well acquainted with darkness.
“I did not poison him, but someone did. Someone close enough to put tainted ale in his chamber. That someone could be with him now, standing close to make sure he perishes. Can you not see?” She tugged angrily at her chains. “I will not stay here and let him suffer alone.”
“Even if I wanted to aid you, there is no way I can.”
“Fine. Then at least do not stop me.” Elin caught the blade of her dagger between the inside of her elbow and her ribs. With care, she slowly unsheathed it. The rasp of steel against leather sounded unnaturally loud.
“What are you doing?” Giles’s demand came as a whisper. “The guards will hear.”
“Then stop drawing their attention.” Elin worked the blade until it slid down her sleeve and into the palm of her hand. “Can you unlock the door?”
“Lady, I believe ’tis time for you to confess.” Giles bounded to his feet. “Guards!”
Fie, but he should have given her more time.
“Guards! Le Farouche’s wife wishes to confess. Bring the keys.”
Elin slid the tip of her narrow blade into the lock. The constraint of the chains hampered her, but she managed to turn the knife just right. The lock clicked and the iron bindings released.
She caught them in her gown. The voluminous fabric muffled the clink of the chains. She’d finally found a use for such frippery. She slipped out of the garment and laid the chains upon the stone floor with no more than a whisper.
Boots sounded down the aisle. Elin crouched in the corner nearest the door where shadows hid, and gripped the dagger with all her strength.
“Confess?” A guard scoffed, staring at the gown, barely discernible in the darkness. “She lies on the ground like the dead. Look, she does not seem to breathe. Mayhap she poisoned herself.”
“Mayhap she feigns illness.” Giles urged the guards inside the cell.
The first approached her gown, thinking it was her, and drew his sword. “Fie! She—”
“Silence, men.” Elin wrapped her arm around Giles and pressed the blade to his exposed neck. “Throw down your swords or he is the first to die.”
“Easy, lady.” One guard raised his sword, daring to approach.
Did he think he could disarm her? Elin backed out of the cell, temper flaring. “Giles, look how little that vile guard values your life.”
“Pray, Silas. Do as she bids.” Giles feigned distress. “Have no fear, she’ll not get past the inner door. I am stronger than she.”
“Toss down your sword!” Elin commanded.
The guards reluctantly obeyed. Steel struck stone and their weapons skidded into the aisle.
“Now the keys.”
The guard with the key ring tossed it to her. “You’ll not get past the next door.” His warning rang with a deadly note.
“We shall see.” She caught the keys with her free hand and slammed the door. The lock caught, and she snatched the smallest sword from the floor. Armed with confidence and a fake hostage, she led the way to the exit, where no doubt more trouble awaited.
The sun blazed like flame upon the barren sand. Nightmares drew him back from the light and into the dark dreams. Of Rees’s laughter as Malcolm was torn from the top of the stone fence, unable to follow Edward to freedom. Of the sting of a sword across his back. Of the mention of an English knight who’d paid for the slow, tortured death of Malcolm le Farouche.
“He drifts in and out of consciousness,” a distant voice murmured. “He’ll not survive both the poison and the fever.”
Wood scraped against stone. “I owe my life to him, healer. Do what you must, but keep him from dying.”
“Yes, sire.”
Malcolm fought fire and darkness. He opened his eyes to see the ceiling above. Edward stood at his side. Worry marked the king’s face, making him look old—far too old. Where was Elin? Malcolm tried to ease his head from the pillow to look for her, but pain battered his skull and he could not. “Edward, where is my wife? I want her beside me.”
But the healer was at his side, her face harsh. “Can you move your hand?”
“Fie, I cannot feel it.” In truth, he could not move at all. Every breath was a battle fought and won. His body felt afire. “I want a favor, Edward.”
“No deathbed promises, Malcolm. I’ll not allow you to die.”
Some things not even Edward could command. “Do not force Elin to marry Caradoc. She voiced a preference for Justus, although I think Giles would be a better match.”
Anger distorted the king’s face. “Has the vile strumpet already sought another man’s bed?”
“Your word, Edward. She is not what either of us thought.”
“I will do my best, ’tis all I can promise.”
A step scraped over the rushes. The old woman returned and offered a gold chalice. “Herbed wine, my lord. ’Twill ease your suffering.”
“I have had enough herbs.” He did not think he could stomach more.
Then a loud crash rang through the chamber. Cries of alarm echoed in the corridor. Malcolm tried to see what was amiss. It sounded like a fight. The door swung open and his fingers ached for his sword, but he could not move. A man and woman stumbled into the room, and the edge of a blade flashed in the candlelight. Malcolm knew he was the only knight in the chamber. He could not locate his sword.
“Back away from him.” Elin saw at once the old woman and the king at Malcolm’s side. “I said move away.” She lifted the sword menacingly against Giles’s throat.
“Malcolm,” Edward said, as he unsheathed a sword. “It looks as if your wife has arrived.”
Elin shook with fear, and yet she’d come this far. How pale Malcolm looked, but his eyes were open and watching her. And pleading. Did he think she would harm Giles?
“Woman, you test me.” Ian’s voice sounded in the corridor behind, and he burst through the door, sword raised. His rage flashed in his dark eyes and stirred terror in her heart.
But she pressed the dagger to Giles’s neck. “Come closer, and his death will be on your conscience.”
Hatred glittered in Ian’s eyes. His mouth twisted with distaste. “Giles, at your move, I will stop her. I’ll not let her harm you, too.”
Ian’s tirade did not concern her. That sour scent in the air did. It was pungent and cloying. Elin gave Giles a convincing shove toward the bed. “Healer, what do you give him?”
“Wine herbed with bartwart and—”
“You lie!” Rage drove Elin. She released Giles and raced at the woman holding the poison in hand. “You would kill him? In front of the king?”
A sword shot out, and Edward stood between her and Malcolm’s bed, blocking her way. She heard Ian and Justus and half the king’s army charge in with drawn swords. Giles stood at her back, her only ally. She watched in horror as the healer lifted the goblet to Malcolm’s lips.
“Do not drink that!” Fear left her trembling like a newly opened leaf, but she charged. “Out of my way, Edward.”
His sword blocked hers handily. “Dare you to defy your king?”
She looked up into eyes filled with great anger. Every inch of her froze. What should she do? This was the king, and yet she would challenge Goliath himself to protect Malcolm.
“That and more to save
my husband.” She thrust and he parried. “Order your healer to hold. ’Tis all I ask.”
The king’s rage grew, distorting his face and driving his sword. “Throw down your weapon.”
She dodged his mighty thrust and slid her sword to his throat. He froze, and her hand holding the weapon trembled. Fear crawled down her spine, but she dared to meet Edward’s gaze. “You misjudge me, king. I—”
“Elin, lower the sword.” Malcolm’s hand gripped hers.
She gazed up into his gray face and into eyes too dilated, and saw what the toxins and fever had done. He was weak as a kitten, yet still he climbed from his bed. Poison marked the whites of his eyes and the tint of his lips.
“I will tend my husband, and not even your precious king will stop me.” Tears blurred her vision and she caught Malcolm’s elbow. His skin flamed and he shook with weakness.
“Arrest her, men.” Edward’s fury battered the walls.
Elin swallowed and knew she had sealed her own death. “If Malcolm dies, you can do with me what you wish. Until then, do not intervene.”
Justus and Hugh lowered Malcolm to the bed. He was too weak to do more than moan.
“Do not stop her, Ian.” Giles took up his blade. “You will have to slay me to reach her.”
The challenge between the best knights in the realm drew all gazes, but Elin turned her back and knelt at Malcolm’s side. He shook with a pain so great she knew he was burning up from within. ’Twas how the poison worked. “Justus, I need water. Cold and clear. Have them send for it.”
“Do you know what you did?” the knight hissed, dropping to his knees. “You threatened the king’s life.”
“Nay, I only threatened the king. I cannot kill anyone, only frighten them a bit.” Tears wet her cheeks, and she could not hold back her sobs. “Don’t you see? I am too late. I did not fight soon enough. He is such a big man that the poison did not completely work. The healer has given him a second dose.”
She laid her head on Malcolm’s chest and cried. How could she bear to let him go?
Malcolm’s hand found her head and ruffled her hair, just once, but ’twas enough to remind her. He was not dead yet.
When she looked up, she saw Justus and Hugh had taken up their swords and stood beside Giles, protecting her from the knights and the king.
The thin light from a waning moon was not brave enough to illuminate the man who stood at the edge of the gardens, where no one passed so late at night.
“Tell me the news,” he demanded of the second man, who emerged from the hedges.
The shadows gleamed darkly upon his armor. “Le Farouche still lives. The woman escaped from the dungeon using Giles FitzHugh as her hostage, though no one knew he aided her. She held a dagger at his throat and walked through the courtyard and into the king’s apartments without challenge. All were afraid to move for fear of harming the respected FitzHugh’s oldest son.”
“I saw the healer being taken by guard from the castle.” Now it all made sense. “I could not follow for fear of becoming a suspect.”
“The woman pulled a sword on the king, but did not stop the healer from her work. That woman.” The knight spat with disgust. “Who knew Malcolm would need two doses of poison to kill him?”
“’Tis the same berry Elin used to sicken the king’s knights when her father was arrested. I’m well pleased she is still under suspicion, although I had hoped for her death. ’Twould be justice for all the trouble she’s caused me.”
“Many have not forgotten how often she’s fought you off with her blade.” The knight dared to smirk.
“Mind your tongue, soldier, else the good le Farouche will know who betrays him to his enemies.” He could threaten, too. “Few knights have the coin to hire more mercenaries than the king.”
“As a loyal knight, long have I honored our good king. And always will. For the rest of his life.”
“Which will not be long. I’ll have the throne without fear of revenge from le Farouche. And you, trustworthy knight, will have the title and wealth you deserve.” ’Twas a pleasing thought. Caradoc drew his cloak against the cool air and continued on his pleasant stroll beneath the stars.
His condition worsened. Malcolm no longer drifted between sleeping and waking, but remained caught in a nightmare. The poison refused to release him.
“Elin? How does Malcolm fare?” Giles set a pile of clean cloths and a bucket of water at her side. “He looks more flushed.”
“The poison is working hand-in-hand with the fever.” She wrung the cold water from the cloth and laid it across his brow. “He is burning up. I’ve done all I know to do.”
“Will he die?”
Grief struck hard in her chest. “All I can do now is comfort him.” How helpless she felt. How angry at herself for failing Malcolm. Behind the strength he showed to the world, he was but a man hungry for love and tenderness.
And what he gave to her when they made love wasn’t just the pleasure of his body. She’d never known that a man’s touch could heal and not bruise, ennoble, not belittle. That joining with him could make her more, make her better, make her new.
“He is strong.” Giles handed her another cloth. “Mayhap he will live. He’s survived horrors you cannot imagine, without a reason to. Now he has your love.”
“Love? Nay.” Elin bathed her husband’s fevered brow, holding back those warm and tender feelings she was given to lately. “I suppose Malcolm does have some fine attributes I admire.”
“They said he would love no other after Lily.”
“Lily? Should I take up my sword and go find her?”
“Nay, though if she lived I would not stop you. She loved him desperately. And betrayed him to Rees when Malcolm could not return her love.”
That explained Malcolm’s tendency toward distrust. “Did he spurn her?”
“Nay. ’Twas after he returned from the Outremer, before the Great One was banished for good. Rees dared to step foot on English soil to avenge the wound Malcolm gave him during his battle for escape. Lily led him into Malcolm’s chamber while he slept, but Malcolm awoke.”
“And he knew the woman he loved had betrayed him.”
“Aye. He’ll not speak of it to this day.” Giles lit a fresh candle with the old one’s dying flame. “He depends upon you. Do not fail him.”
“I would die first.”
Malcolm’s fevered body twisted and writhed, his agony increasing.
“I am losing him.” She took his hand, for there was naught more she could do. His fingers within hers were slack and as hot as a desert sun.
Giles, Justus and Hugh all fell to praying, and Edward stepped into the ring of candlelight. A priest slipped into the room, the Holy Book in hand, the movement of his robes a whisper against the rasp of Malcolm’s struggled breathing.
A pain as great as a thousand wounds battered Elin. She was not a sentimental female, but tears filled her eyes and sluiced down her cheeks, and she cared not who saw them.
She buried her face in Malcolm’s chest and cried for all the times she had failed him.
Chapter Thirteen
He heard her tears, keen with sorrow. ’Twas Elin, and not a dream. He felt a thirst so great his tongue tasted like sand. Savage spears of heat and pain pierced him like a thousand daggers. It was darkness that called him, but Elin who drew him.
He could hardly feel her through the pain and fever, but she was against his chest, over his heart, her tears hot like liquid gold against his skin.
He placed his hand on her head and wound his fingers in her fiery curls. For some reason, she cried harder. Her hand grasped his as if she alone had dragged him from death’s dark hold. Remembering how she’d taken a sword to Edward, he believed she had.
He woke to savage spears of heat piercing his abdomen. He opened his eyes and the light burned. He endured the pain, searching the room for her.
Dawn gilded her as she worked over the table, mixing herbs with careful precision. Peach light drew a fiery l
uster to her curls of gold and warmed the ivory beauty of her complexion. How she drew his heart.
As if she felt his admiring gaze, her fingers stilled at her work. She smiled at him with such brightness that it made the sun look feeble. “Look who’s awake. The slugabed, the lazy laggard.”
“Aye. ’Tis disgraceful.”
She knelt at his side and pressed a chalice to his lips. Cool water sluiced over his parched tongue and wet the sand in his throat. “Edward will be here in but a few moments. There is much I need to say before I go.”
His head pounded, but looking at her soothed some of the pain. “’Tis a crime to hold a sword to the king’s throat.”
“I know what I did.” Elin dabbed his chin with a cloth. “Can you believe for once I did not act rashly?”
“That was not a rash act?”
“Nay. I thought it well through.” Her smile dimmed, but her touch lingered against his rough jaw, infinitely gentle.
He savored that touch, drinking it in. ’Twas a wondrous thing, that affection. “You make me a weakling, dove. I have suffered more wounds than I can count. Not one of them has festered. I could miss a summer’s worth of sleep and not fall ill, become puny.”
“Aye, and now true love has rendered you weak and delicate.” Her touch burnished the curve of his shoulder, another cherished caress.
“Elin, ’tis a serious flaw when a knight has a weakness.” He laid his hand against her cheek, cupping the side of her face. “A woman can leave a warrior vulnerable. Like a knight without armor or shield.”
She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. A single tear rolled down her face. “I’ll not betray you, Malcolm. You can sleep at my side and know I would lift my dagger to defend you, not slay you.”
“I know.”
She sank to his chest, holding him sweetly. He knew she meant what she said, and now he wanted to believe it could be different. That he would not wake to find a dagger at his back one night or his enemy in the room. That he would not know the sting of yet another betrayal.
“For nights there have been words upon my tongue.” She sniffed, this warrior woman with a weakness of her own. “But now that you are awake, I cannot speak. I am far too cowardly to admit the truth.”
