by Darci Hannah
“If I were a betting man, I’d bet my life on it.” We both grinned like schoolchildren at the possibility, for although we each had our reasons for wanting to throttle my profane brother to within an inch of his scheming life, we could not deny that we desperately wanted him to live. “The wee sly devil,” Gabriel remarked placidly, yet even I could see the glowing admiration behind his eyes. “He gave himself up to Hume, and if he’s still alive, Hume will keep him that way, at least until he goes to trial—unless, of course, Julius has felt inclined to waggle his raffish tongue. He’s the ability, you know, to make Hume regret ever knowing him. Let’s just pray, for his sake, that he’s alive but blissfully unconscious.”
“I shall pray for that very thing,” I whispered fervently, and kissed him. It was meant to be a happy little peck on the cheek, but in reality it was something quite different.
“Dear God,” Gabriel said at last, trying to catch his breath. On his face was a look of pure and radiant joy. I knew how he felt, and I was slightly relieved to know that only a part of it this time was my fault. The voices coming from across the lake brought us back to our predicament in a hurry, and we looked out in time to see Kilwylie’s men leaving the screen of pines. No doubt they had taken a keen interest in the telltale nest of pine needles. “We need to stop these lads before they become a real nuisance. Stay here a moment,” Gabriel said, and began backing out from under the squat juniper on elbows and belly. I grabbed his arm to stop him.
“There are twenty men, Gabriel! Twenty armed men hot on our tail says we’re going to run, and run fast. I’m coming with you!” I gave him a stern, no-nonsense look. His grin grew broader. It was infuriating and irresistible; it made me want to slap him and kiss him at once.
“Only twenty, Isabeau. I’ve faced worse than that before.”
“Dear God,” I uttered, moving from the bush with him. “You can’t seriously be considering fighting them?” His softly smiling silence revealed the depths of his guilt. “By the heavens, Gabriel, what kind of man are you?”
“The kind of man who knows he can’t outrun twenty men on an overburdened horse.”
The rain started as Kilwylie’s men followed the hound into the ravine between the two hills that would eventually lead them right to where we were. It was in those moments, watching our attackers grow ever closer, that I began to understand why Gabriel had taken offense back in the Chapel of Angels when I had questioned his ability to fight. I thought he was mad to even suggest facing the overinflated squad of assassins that had been sent for us, and would have argued my point if there was any chance of outrunning the hunting party that was bearing down on us with alarming speed. But there wasn’t. Gabriel had waited from our position on the hill, knowing all along what he had in mind to do. I realized this when he placed his helmet on my head and dressed me in his flowing black surcoat. I had insisted he let me help him fight—their presence was largely due to me, after all—and he had been quick to acquiesce. It was refreshing, I thought, to find a man of reason, and I was at once moved by his willingness. He understood that my skill with the bow—which I had demonstrated quite soundly on the battlements of Blythe Hall—was an asset to be used. Yet it was not my deadly accurate aim that he wanted. He wanted my body; he wanted to use me as a decoy. It was an outrage, yet I didn’t even bother to argue. Arguing would be useless, for Gabriel the warrior, as I had observed, was a vastly different animal from Gabriel the tormented monk. The tormented monk could be tempted; the warrior, hardened by years of battling under the hot Mediterranean sun, reigned supreme. Besides, he had only the one bow with him and fifteen arrows in his quiver—all tipped with the slim, armor-piercing iron point. And he would need them all. Resigned to my small part in his battle plan, I vowed to put on a convincing performance; our lives depended on it. Dressed, armed, and ready to go, I sat on Bodrum, straight-backed and oozing manufactured bravado, awaiting the signal.
I watched as Gabriel took up position in a patch of greening woodland that lined the opposite bank of the ravine. He crouched behind a boulder, hidden from the oncoming riders in the deep shadows and wet leaves, yet I could still see his refulgent hair now slightly tarnished by rainwater. This line of sight gave me a modicum of comfort, although my nerves still raged within me. Gabriel had been no longer than a few minutes in his hiding place when the hound, far ahead of the riders, came up through the narrow gap and paused at the top of the trail. Here the land opened up to the windswept grasses and tangled brush that rolled over two hills. The dog put its sensitive nose to the ground, sniffed wildly, and took a few tentative steps toward me. I sat dead still, watching from the meager shelter of two spindly saplings. If the dog saw me, I’d have to kill it, and I loathed nothing more than the thought of killing a dog.
But the dog never saw me. It caught the irresistible scent of a man on foot instead. The floppy-eared head jerked up, looked in the direction of the woods, and bounded through the wet grass heading for Gabriel. It disappeared in the thick foliage and never reemerged. That was my signal.
With a click and a gentle nudge of the heel, I urged the noble gray gelding out from the saplings and over to the bald crest of the hill. And there I sat in the drenching rain, wraithlike and unmoving but for the black cloak that bent like a sail to the wind as it billowed and fluttered behind me. Bodrum, catching the scent of the wet and thundering horses, gave a throaty cry.
All heads turned my way. I stared down on the twenty pairs of eyes that held me like a beacon in the night. Bodrum pranced beneath me as I slowly opened my coat to reveal the third weapon Gabriel had carried: a small crossbow, with only three bolts. I held the loaded weapon skyward, making them believe I was waiting for the right moment to begin my attack. Although the bolt of a properly aimed crossbow could travel a fair distance with accuracy, Gabriel had made me swear that I would not release a single shot until the first rider was a horse length or two away. That way the projectile would penetrate the metal plates of the jack. It was Gabriel’s plan to make sure they never got the chance to be that close in the first place.
In response to Bodrum’s cry a few of the horses stumbled in the small river that had begun to flow with the rains. Concentrating on getting his horse under control, the last rider, unbeknownst to his troop, was taken down by an arrow. The horse, unprepared for the impact of its lifeless rider, slipped on the wet rocks again and came to a dead stop. Then it bucked and, finding its burden lifted, ran back down through the ravine.
That was the first of a storm of arrows that came silent from the brush flying through the rain-sodden air with deadly precision. I sat breathless, marveling at the speed, accuracy, and fluidity of movement coming from the hidden archer, and appreciated it for the art it was. Kilwylie’s men, focused on me and urging their horses to move faster, never knew that their numbers were shrinking with every stride gained.
The attack was swift and deadly. The men toppled like rag dolls the moment the arrows struck, and I saw that they struck deep. My heart was pounding with fear and raw excitement. Every nerve in my body tingled as I aimed the crossbow at the oncoming men. By the time they were nearly level with Gabriel, swiftly closing the gap between us, six riders were left, and every man had his sword out and ready. As the second-to-the-last rider passed Gabriel’s hiding place, he sprang from the woods, loosing his last arrow on the run. Aimed for the rider in the lead, it hit its mark, striking the man in the back and throwing him over the neck of his horse. At the same moment the arrow struck, Gabriel dropped his bow and launched himself at the last rider, who had drawn level with him. The man, catching the human, rain-soaked projectile out of the corner of his eye a second too late, spun around, but not before Gabriel knocked him to the ground, taking his horse in the process. It was at that moment, as the rider in the lead fell from his horse with an arrow in his back, that the rest of the attackers began to understand what was happening.
There was a moment of chaos when they saw that their number had been reduced to four—and a moment
of sheer terror as Gabriel fell on them with his mighty sword, riding one of their own horses. But the chase was still on, because of the four men left one had broken away and was heading straight for me.
If my brother was a master of the art of leading men to mayhem and mischief with his gilded, rapier-sharp tongue and cheap theatrical antics, then Gabriel was a true warrior-god. His movements, like the words that dripped from Julius’s tongue, were lyrical, poetic, and yet so well suited to their task that no one who opposed him was safe from annihilation. I found myself watching him, mesmerized by his skill and agility, when I should have been watching the man who understood who I was. He came at me with sword leveled, his exhausted horse powered by the sheer brutality of the spurs that bloodied the steaming hide. Gabriel, now caught in a three-way brawl, yelled to me, and I understood what he was saying. I waited a heartbeat more and pulled the trigger. The bolt left the crossbow with deadly speed and smashed into the chest of the rider. I watched as his body took the force of the arrow, and then he righted himself and continued to come straight at me. There was no time to reload.
I kicked Bodrum, and the horse jumped out of the way a second before I would have been impaled by the oncoming sword. At the same time Bodrum moved, I swung the empty crossbow and caught the underside of the man’s jaw as he careened past. It was enough to throw him back on his horse’s flanks. The horse stumbled to a halt. The rider, unmoving, lay with his face pointing toward the streaming heavens, the lethal crossbow bolt lodged in his chest. His booted feet had never left the stirrups.
It was over shortly after that. The heavy rain had petered out to a gentle drizzle by the time Gabriel returned to the hilltop, dragging a battered prisoner along with him. He held the man by the scruff of his shirt and was pulling him along from atop the horse he had taken. Our eyes met, and relief washed through him as he saw that I was unharmed. And then, without uttering a word, his gaze traveled to the dead man still prone on the flanks of his resting charger. A tremor passed under the fine skin of Gabriel’s cheeks, and his eyes darkened like the storm clouds overhead. I could tell the thought of what happened frightened him, and I smiled wanly in an attempt to let him know all was well; I was unharmed. But Gabriel, having battled nineteen men himself, chafed visibly to think that this one man had gotten away and that I had been forced to kill him. He pulled his horse before mine and released his prisoner with a shove that brought the man to his knees. Gabriel swiftly dismounted and grabbed him up again, yanking him to his feet and forcing him to look at me. The man’s eyes, a maudlin brown, were shifty and reluctant.
“If you wish to live,” said Gabriel, his voice low and guttural, “you will fall to your knees before the Lady Blythe, kiss her feet, and beg her forgiveness. Were I in her shoes I would flay you alive, slowly, and watch as the flies lay maggots in your flesh. You are a maggot, a worthless piece of filth. You are not fit to lick the muck off my boots, let alone hers. Beg, lad. Get on your knees and beg the lady for your life, for this is why I spared you.” And he released the sole survivor.
Gabriel’s prisoner, a young man scared out of his wits, dropped to his knees, crawled through the muddy grass, and, to my horror, began licking the bottom of my shoes. “Stop that!” I said, looking angrily at Gabriel. I saw a grimly satisfied smile cross his lips and wondered at his purpose for further tormenting Kilwylie’s young henchman. To say that Gabriel was enjoying himself would be exaggerating, yet clearly he found the spectacle pleasing. I was disquieted by it, and called again for the young man to stop licking the dirt off my shoe.
The young man looked up, wiped the dirt from his tongue with the back of his hand, and turned his long, thin face and pleading brown eyes to me. A fine mist of rain covered his flushed skin, beading on his sparse and patchy growth of brown facial hair. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. “Please, m’lady, please spare m’life. ’Tis worth naught to ye, and ’tis worth even less to me, but to me mum ’tis worth the meat on her plate and the grain in our shed. Should ye kill me, me mum and me brothers would starve for certain sure.”
“Humm,” I said, playing along. “Are you the oldest?” He nodded. “Well, we can’t have that, can we? I’ll not be responsible for the starving of your mother and brothers. Sir Gabriel, on the other hand, would think nothing of it, I’m sure.” I cast him a wry glance. “Where he comes from they eat children.”
“I know,” said our prisoner in a tone that was just above a whisper. “And they make whores of their women and slaves of their enemies. I know,” he added pointedly, and his pleading eyes hardened into a look of bold accusation. “It was him we were to kill,” he said, looking me straight in the eye. “The Hospitaller.” He gave a jerk of his head in Gabriel’s direction. “The man what took ye from m’lord Kilwylie—your lord—and forced ye to his will.” There was a particularly unnerving tone in his voice, and an even more unnerving look in his dark eyes. “We all know what he did to ye, m’lady. We all know how he forced himself upon ye. Come away with me now, and I will make it right. I will convince my lord Kilwylie that your good name and virtue has remained intact. Trust me; I will put my life on the line to convince him of it. I know an old crone who specializes in such cases …” This speech—this ramble—was delivered in the convincing but desperate manner of a drowning man offering to save the life of his mate who had already gone under the waves: noble but fretfully unwise. And I was rendered speechless by it—and not the least because I knew for a fact that I had been the one to force the Hospitaller to my will. Filling with shame at the thought, I reddened.
Gabriel, standing behind the man cross-armed and swiftly losing patience, gave a deprecating shake of his head while rolling his eyes heavenward. It was, in a morbid way, comical.
I took a deep breath, fought the urge to succumb to the grim amusement, and berated the young man calmly. “You presumptuous, adolescent henchman, you have it all wrong. And how dare you accuse a man of Sir Gabriel’s caliber with rape. If you wish to live—if you wish your mother and brothers to continue to be fed—then you will listen and learn the truth. Your lord is the monster here, and not Sir Gabriel! Your lord attacked my castle. Sir Gabriel saved me. And,” I said, thinking of the man I shot with a crossbow, “if you weren’t supposed to harm me, perhaps you could tell me why one of your men came at me with a sword?”
Of course there was no answer to this. And I realized too late that Gabriel had known that. The revelation left me cold. “You …,” I began, my face falling, my heart stopping with the bitter truth of it, “you were sent to kill me too.”
The young man kneeling before me, now boldly staring, remained motionless. Heartsick at the thought, I gave a small, derisive laugh. “I’ll bet you don’t even have a starving mother, do you?” Again I was met with bold silence. “You lie very well, but I suppose that’s expected of a maggot. I think,” I said, looking at Gabriel, “that we should send this child of the midden heap back from whence he came.”
“To the earth? To the maggots?” Gabriel replied, smiling darkly.
“No. To the other maggot. The king maggot.”
“Oh? Excellent idea, my heart. I like the way you think!” He gave a broad, effulgent grin. “You’re devious! Clever! You think like your brother. Come along, my wee sniveling maggot,” Gabriel said cheerfully, grabbing the man by the back of the shirt. He yanked him to his feet with surprising force. “The merciful Lady of Blythe has spoken. She’s going to let you live—a courtesy you would not, I’ll wager, have shown to her. Gather your horses and your dead and take them back to your lord with this message: I, sniveling maggot, have failed you. Beat me; brand me; roll me to the gutter. For the Lady Isabeau Blythe lives and is happily ensconced in the protection of Sir Gabriel St. Clair, her lover. The Hospitaller has returned home, and the information he carries will be certain to unleash hell on m’lord’s beaten and festering arse.”
I was not a good steward of the property I had been entrusted with. After the trying events of the morning, which had le
ft us both tired, wet, and hungry, I found myself once again sitting behind the saddle with my arms tightly wrapped around Gabriel’s waist and wanting him more than ever. I was afraid of my overwhelming feelings for him. I was afraid of losing him altogether. But mostly I was afraid because I knew that I loved him beyond all compare, and no one, not Sir George Douglas, not Julius, not even the King of Scotland, could turn me from him now. Forcing me to believe him an angel had been cruel trickery on Julius’s part. Forcing Gabriel to protect me was the low and dirty trick of a vengeful friend, yet there was a remarkable cleverness behind the charade, and I had begun to understand Julius’s purpose when Sir George had sent his twenty men. Twenty men sent to kill a man and a woman. The thought still turned the blood in my veins to ice water.
“When did you realize Kilwylie meant to kill me?” I asked softly.
“When I saw the man you killed break from the pack. He had his sword drawn. Until then I gave Kilwylie the benefit of the doubt. I didn’t actually believe …,” he said, but his voice failed him. He pulled my arms tighter around his trim waist. After a moment of thoughtful silence he began again. “I didn’t believe that he’d actually think of taking the life of a woman as beautiful, gracious, and so very, very precious as you.” I held him even tighter and rested my head against his broad, rain-soaked back.
“We could have taken another horse, you know,” I whispered, closing my eyes and thanking God, and Julius, once more for the gift of him. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained dark and brooding, and we were still in the throes of soaring emotions. We were also trying to find a place to take shelter, and where we could try to make sense of the impending tempest that was building around us.
“We could have,” he replied. “But I’m being selfish. I prefer you holding on to me and not to some strange horse.”
