His Conquest

by Diana Cosby

  “Which way?” he demanded.

  “Toward the stairs.”

  He looked past the unmoving guards and the steps leading to the keep, to the remainder of the dungeon beyond. Then he pinned her with a skeptical glare. “There is naught but the dungeon’s end.”

  “The passageway is known to but a few.”

  “A few?”

  “There is no time for debate.”

  “Or treachery.” The lass held his harsh glare. She had brawn, he’d give her that. Seathan nodded. “Lead the way.”

  She tried to pull her hand free.

  He held tight.

  “Release me.”

  “Not until we are safe.”

  Frustration flashed on her face. “I am helping you escape.”

  “Aye, for reasons you withhold.”

  She shot him a cold look, then turned and started forward.

  The cool breeze melded with the stench of the dungeon, providing a hint of fresh air. But to him it was heaven, cutting through the nausea threatening his every breath. He pushed forward. Adrenaline kept him upright as did his thoughts of revenge.

  They kept to the shadows as they moved along the corridor. Errant flickers of torchlight cut through the murky gray, periodically illuminated by another slash of lightning.

  They moved past unconscious guards slumped in the narrowed hall, the men’s breathing even, their bodies tangled in haphazard positions. The lass had claimed she’d drugged them. In this, she’d told the truth. Still, a nagging doubt of her intentions persisted. Why did the lass flee the castle in the dark of the night?

  Several paces farther she stopped. “Here.”

  Sweat covered his body as he braced his legs to steady himself. He scanned the wall. Illuminated by a torch set within a sconce, each crafted stone lay wedged into place with expertise, not a crack or any fault to suggest an entry.

  “I see no door.”

  At Lord Grey’s gruff claim, Linet laid her hand upon a nondescript stone about waist high. With a slight push, the hidden stone panel swung inward.

  Stale air rushed out. The candle she’d left burning inside sputtered in a mad dance. Then the flame steadied and embraced the opening within its soft glow.

  A muffled rumble of thunder echoed as she glanced at the earl, whose gaze lay fixed on her with suspicion. As if she expected anything different? Since he’d first seen her, he’d watched her with nothing but predatory doubt.

  Except for when he’d kissed her. A subtle edge of arousal had darkened his gaze, an element as basic as the need for air.

  Memories of his heated look poured through her, an urgent pull that demanded a response. His dark taste, a sheer male essence that overrode every other thought.

  Unnerved, she willed his effect on her away. Lord Grey was too dangerous a man to relax her guard. God forbid if he learned it was her brother who had imprisoned him, tortured him, then sentenced him to hang.

  She needed to keep her wits. Though he was weakened from his beatings, his eyes smoldered with intelligence, that of a warrior trained to notice the smallest detail, a man who wielded his mind as deftly as his sword.

  She should have anticipated his asking her name. Shaken, she’d given the rebel her real one. Thank God he hadn’t recognized it.

  That she attributed to his deteriorated condition. Though a seasoned fighter, several times she’d caught him weaving since they’d departed the cell. The sheen of sweat on his face betrayed the effort of his each step.

  After the brutal beatings he’d endured since his arrival at Breac Castle a fortnight past, she was amazed he could stand, much less walk. Another testament to his strength.

  And proof the Scot was dangerous.

  Had she erred in freeing him to seek revenge against her brother? Aside from not trusting him, with his injuries, he was going to slow her down. No, Fulke’s loss of his valuable prisoner more than compensated for any challenges ahead.

  How long before Fulke realized she was behind Lord Grey’s escape? Caught up in his search for the Scot, surely he wouldn’t think of her, nor would her brother notice if she didn’t appear in the morn to break her fast. She’d told her maid that she felt ill, to inform Fulke that she would remain in her chamber to rest, which would buy her more time.

  Time enough to be a league away from him and his despicable edicts before morning.

  Lord Grey urged her forward. “Go.”

  Followed by the Scot, Linet stepped inside the secret tunnel.

  The earl closed the door behind him with a soft thud. Candlelight flickered into a steady pulse; his gaze never wavered from hers. Neither did she miss how his body trembled from his effort.

  Disgust filled her at Fulke’s cold-hearted abuse. “Can you make it out?”

  A breath of a smile touched the earl’s mouth, but there was nothing warm or friendly in his expression. “Aye, with or without your help.”

  Anger sliced her. “After all that I have risked, you think I would abandon you?”

  Black brows drew into a harsh frown. “Exactly what have you risked, my lady?”

  “My life to free you.”

  His grip tightened on her hand. “Why? Or should I ask, for whom?”

  She angled her jaw. Though an intimidating man, he’d soon learn she was not a woman swayed by threats. “My reasons are my own. Rest assured, I do not plot against you. All I wish to gain is my escape from Breac Castle and to reach my mother’s clan in the Highlands.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she shook her head. “I will not tell you anything else. If you wish to ask more questions, you will but waste time we can ill afford.”

  The Scot watched her as if a hawk appraising its prey. Then, his grip loosened. “Time will reveal if indeed you speak the truth.” His somber words reverberated in the fractured darkness.

  A shiver stole through her. He was a man who achieved his goals, regardless of the means. But was he a man who gave with his heart for that which he believed?

  A man like her father?

  Linet stared at the strong lines of his face framed by the flicker of candlelight and shadows, at the curve of his lips still pressed into a hard line, and at the anger that never quite left his eyes.

  Even facing the certainty of a sentence of death, Lord Grey had held his own. He was strong. Powerful. Defiant.

  A rebel until the end.

  However dangerous his presence, she couldn’t help respecting his self-reliance, his confidence honed from years of facing, and more important, overcoming adversity in his fight to win Scotland’s freedom.

  And God help her, neither could she forget her body’s response to his touch, or the utter devastation of his kiss. No, she refused to think of either. Once she escaped Breac Castle, her life would be guided by her own hand. Not by men, like her brother, who held and wielded power for their own gain. Or by this Scot, who possessed the ability to stir her soul.

  A distant shout rang out.

  Lord Grey jerked her into his arms and clamped a hand over her mouth. Candlelight wavered at the quick movement. Another shout had him glancing toward the door.

  The clunk of men’s boots on stone sounded with a muted echo. Footsteps pounded opposite the door, then faded.

  He spun her around, glared at her with a ragged curse. “You lied!”

  She shook her head. “They have only discovered you have escaped. They will not expect you to know of this tunnel.”

  “No?” Candlelight glinted off the dagger he’d taken from her in the cell. He pressed the honed blade against her throat. “If you value your life, my lady, you had best pray they do not.”

  The rebel secured the dagger in his belt, snatched the candle, and turned toward the dirt pathway. With the guards’ echoed shouts filling the dungeon beyond, he hauled her into the darkness.

  Chapter 2

  Adrenaline pumping, Seathan dragged in another gulp of the stale air permeating the tunnel as he hauled his captive alongside. He ignored the pounding in his head and how at times his
vision blurred. With each step, the muted din of guards scouring the dungeon for him faded.

  Candlelight illuminated the aged pathway cluttered with cobwebs and trickles of moisture edged with growth. He pushed forward. Naught mattered but achieving his goal.

  Revenge.

  By God, he would have it.

  Images of Dauid’s stoic silence as he’d stood beside Lord Tearlach, the memory of the other Scottish rebels being dragged from the secret meeting, savaged his mind. Like blasted sheep led to a slaughter.

  Thank God his brothers, Alexander and Duncan, had split off from him the day before the attack and had ridden with William Wallace to meet with Robert Wishart, the Bishop of Glasgow. If not killed in the slaughter, they, too, would have been tortured for rebel information and sentenced to hang.

  Disgust rolled through Seathan as he thought of the Parliament held by King Edward at Berwick the summer past. He’d ordered prominent Scottish landowners, burgesses, and churchmen to swear fealty to him, then sign and affix their seals as proof. The Ragman Roll was naught but parchment scrawled with names of those without the backbone to fight for their country’s freedom or those who signed under duress.

  Numerous nobles embroiled within the rebel cause had signed without intending to support the English crown, including Bishop Wishart of Glasgow and Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick. Then, there were those like himself and William Wallace, who refused to sign, consequence be damned.

  Rumors of King Edward’s gloating that day as he’d watched each Scot sign the parchment fueled Seathan’s anger. As if to rub salt in a festering wound, before he’d headed south to England, the king had installed the Earl of Surrey as governor of Scotland and Hugh Cressingham as treasurer.

  Confident he’d quashed the last of the rebels’ resistance, King Edward had ridden home to deal with the turmoil wrought by Flanders.

  The English bastard believed he’d conquered Scotland, destroyed its people’s will to fight. He’d ridden from Scottish soil, leaving them naught more than pawns to be ordered about.

  But he was wrong.

  The Scots would never cease in their battle to reclaim their freedom.

  The woman at his side gave a weary sigh.

  Seathan glanced toward her, and a new thought came to mind. “You said you wished to go to the Highlands to be with your mother’s clan?”

  In the flicker of candlelight, wary eyes met his. “Yes.”

  “You are English.”

  She hesitated. “Half. My father was.”

  “Was?”

  “He is dead.”

  Suspicion flared at her claim, but her grief-stricken expression proclaimed her words true. “I am sorry.” She shrugged, but he saw the emotion she tried to shield from his view. He understood all too well the pain of losing a parent, and of the responsibilities arising from such a loss. “Your mother?”

  “Dead as well.”

  “How?” he asked, his heart softening a degree.

  “It matters not.”

  From the coolness of her reply, it did, but to disclose the reason to him would splinter the tough exterior she carefully built. A facade he, too, had forged out of sheer necessity. Any similarities between their lives, however, ended there. The challenges he’d faced were far from the pampered existence this noblewoman had enjoyed.

  Her fingers curled within his palm. Seathan tried to ignore the softness of her flesh, how the velvet of her skin pressed against the roughness of his calloused hand, and how too easily he could imagine her fingers upon his body in a silken caress. Though she’d kissed like a siren, he’d tasted her innocence.

  Who was this noblewoman? More important, what had prompted her to free him?

  Or rather, who?

  Though she was cloaked in a cape of worsted wool, her serviceable garb hid neither her refined quality of speech, nor her regal bearing.

  Unease crept through him. Even as he’d accused her of having a part in Lord Tearlach’s twisted game, mayhap to free him for the thrill of the chase, his charge made no sense. Not that he’d put such past the Sassenach, whose amusement at Seathan’s capture had eroded to fury when he’d refused to divulge any information under torture about William Wallace or the rebels’ plans.

  Which had led to Tearlach’s order for Seathan to hang at first light.

  If the viscount wasn’t behind her actions, then who? Her request for an escort to the Highlands rang sour. A noblewoman needing protection would not seek out a man beaten to the point of near collapse. She had chosen him for a distinct purpose.

  “Linet?”

  “Yes?”

  “Naught, I but wanted to know if indeed that is your real name.”

  Red streaked her cheeks. “Proof I am not lying to you?” She shook her head. “Worry not. I expect nothing more from you than your vow given to escort me to the Highlands.” She faced forward and continued walking at his side.

  If only it were so simple to believe her. Lives of thousands lay at stake. He would be a fool to accept words easily given. No, he’d watch her, listen for her to stumble and expose her true motive.

  As he walked, a chill shook his body, then another. He forced himself to continue, each step punishing muscles long abused. He released her hand. The last thing he wished to do was reveal his deteriorating condition to her, but he needed to prepare for the worst. If possible, to make a plan before he passed out.

  “Once we are safely away from Breac Castle,” Seathan said, “we must hide.”

  Linet studied him a long moment. “Your injuries are slowing you down. For that I am sorry. How much longer do you think you can continue?”

  The sincerity of her words caught him off guard, but he needed not her sympathy. “Nay doubt my ability to travel if need be.”

  “I never doubt men like you.”

  Unsure whether she paid him a compliment, he ignored her claim. Her opinion mattered little. After he delivered her to the Highlands, he would never see her again.

  The candle sputtered.

  “Halt.” Seathan shot her a warning look, shielded the candle with his free hand. The flame trembled, then grew. The wavering light barely illuminated a foot before them. Though he didn’t want her to see his weakening, his need to ensure she didn’t bolt swayed his decision.

  He reached for her.

  She stepped out of range. Within the cast of yellowed light, outrage sparked in her gaze. “You believe holding me is necessary?”

  “Aye.” Her defiance intrigued him. He stepped forward, caught her hand. “I will take no chances until the castle walls are far behind us.” Then, when it came to her, he would still use caution. Though truth rang in her words, questions about her motive sat ill within his mind.

  On a frustrated sigh, she relaxed her hand within his. “There are several dangerous twists ahead. They must be taken with care.”

  He raised the candle. “Lead the way.”

  An order given, Linet mused, by a man comfortable with taking the lead regardless of the task. But in this, they shared the same goal—to escape. She started forward, and Lord Grey kept pace at her side.

  A rat scurried before them, then disappeared into the darkness. They skirted shards of pottery strewn around the next bend.

  “Breac Castle is a Scottish stronghold. Or was,” Lord Grey said.

  “So I was informed,” she replied, well aware the Scot but probed for information. Linet neglected to add that the transfer had occurred twelve years past, when King Edward had seized Breac Castle and bestowed it upon her father for his staunch support of the crown.

  Except a year later, with the death of Queen Margaret, the Maid of Norway, who was pledged to marry King Edward’s heir, Edward of Cavernarvon, division had cut through Scotland.

  She remembered her father’s disgust for those of unworthy lineage who had come forward claiming ’twas their birthright to gain the throne. Then, how her father had placed himself within the English king’s eye by backing Robert Bruce, lord of Annandale, in his b
id to claim the Scottish throne.

  Linet was proud of her father’s stand, for supporting what he believed was just. The past few years had exposed King Edward’s true ambition, not to ensure that Scotland gained a king, but to become its sovereign.

  After the capture and sack of Berwick, the Battle of Dunbar, then King John’s submission to King Edward, the English ruler had achieved his goal.

  Her father believed in a fair hand, something the English sovereign seemed to overlook.

  Sadness swept her as she remembered the people slaughtered for King Edward’s self-serving goal. Thank God her father and mother had not lived to see the town of Berwick razed, including every man, woman, and child. And once the massacre had ended, English knights had torched the tragic heap.

  The senseless slaughter still burned in her heart. How could any man lust for power enough to take a life, especially that of an innocent child? She might forgive many things, but never that.

  King Edward had dared claim the sack of Berwick a victory, but in her heart, he had delivered much more than war against the Scots.

  But desecration.

  Had her father suspected King Edward’s dark plans to conquer Scotland? If so, it made sense that he’d kept his belief a secret.

  A secret he’d never shared with Fulke—a son who held in esteem the English king and his caustic methods of gaining power, a son who shared the English king’s trait of greed. Characteristics she despised.

  She slid a covert glance toward Lord Grey—a rebel who opposed King Edward’s carnage, a Scot who dared risked all for his beliefs.

  Though dangerous, this man possessed the qualities she’d admired in her father. But neither his qualities nor his similarities to the man she’d looked up to changed the hard fact.

  In the Scot’s mind, she was the enemy.

  How he viewed her mattered little. Once she arrived at her mother’s village in the Highlands, she would be free to live the life she chose.

  Linet’s heart ached as she took in the sturdy walls of stone offering a path to escape. She would miss Breac Castle, the memories made over the years, the laughter shared.

  But not her brother.