By Grace Possessed

by Jennifer Blake

  Oh, but yes, the Irish Sea, he had said. He meant to escape to Ireland, and then perchance to Burgundy or some other country beyond Henry’s reach.

  Had anyone witnessed her abduction?

  The king’s men would be hunting down those who fled from the battlefield. Mayhap someone would be coming after Trilborn. They could be gaining on him even now.

  Henry was alive. He must be, if he was the victor. If Henry, then why not Ross?

  Tears forced their way from the corners of Cate’s eyes. She could feel their wetness, but would not move to wipe them away.

  Her mind was far from clear, yet she had not been raped while out of her senses; she ached in many places but not there. That threat from Trilborn had hovered over her so long it seemed the only thing that could have stopped him was fear of being overtaken while in the act. What if that fear sprang from knowing Ross might be somewhere behind them?

  He would come after them, if only because she was his wife. It was a matter of honor, never mind the bad blood between him and his old enemy. If no one had seen them go, Ross might still guess the direction of Trilborn’s flight from simple logic: where else was safety to be found except Ireland? He could be following on their trail even now.

  Delay…she must delay him. Yet what could she do to stay their progress to the coast? Surely something would come to her, if she could only think.

  Trilborn shifted, turning in the saddle as if to look back. Cate’s head throbbed so viciously with the movement that a moan of protest sounded in her throat before she could stop it.

  “’Tis time and more,” Trilborn said, his voice rumbling from behind the visor of his helm that he dropped back in place. “I’d about resolved to leave you behind.”

  She breathed deep to help settle her stomach before she spoke. “Would that you had.”

  “Not bloody likely, not without having you in every way possible.”

  He went on to tell her the many ways that would be. The crude descriptions were as much from the need to cow her as from lust, she thought, as if her helplessness and dread must excite him. It was part and parcel with the way he had struck out at her before.

  “I don’t believe these acts possible,” she said, putting a hand to her head, willing the glassy edge of her vision to clear before lowering it to her belly in a protective gesture. “Not on horseback.”

  “We won’t always be on horseback,” he snapped.

  He was annoyed that she wasn’t shaking with fear. Might that cause him to call a halt, to be certain she had reason to be afraid? It seemed best to curb her wayward tongue.

  Still, wasn’t a halt what was required? She could surely find a reason for it that would not involve rapine.

  What if he used it for that purpose, anyway? Could she endure it? Would he really leave her behind afterward? And if he did, would she be dead or alive?

  The risk was great, but what was the alternative? Once free of England’s shores, Trilborn would make her his doxy, regardless. He would take his pleasure of her in all the degrading and painful ways he had described. She would bear the brunt of his rage, be at the mercy of his fists. She might as well be dead.

  If she succeeded, and if Ross or the king’s men were indeed somewhere behind them, then it was Trilborn who would die. That possibility was worth the sacrifice.

  Quickly, before she could change her mind, she put out her hand to clasp his wrist. “Stop, stop now. I need…I am going to be ill.”

  “Endure it. We’ve no time.”

  She lifted a hand to her mouth, speaking through her fingers. “I promise you, I cannot. If you prefer that I spew all over you…”

  Trilborn snorted in anger, but altered his course toward the nearest trees. Reaching their shade, he walked the destrier a little deeper among them. He dismounted, then dragged her down beside him.

  Cate stumbled, almost fell, with no play-acting whatsoever. Her legs felt like mop rags, and her stomach heaved. Clamping a hand to her mouth, she pushed away from his hold, took a few wobbling steps. With her back to him, she put one hand on the trunk of a large oak and bent forward, quickly thrusting a finger down her throat.

  The effort was almost unnecessary. She was violently sick, gasping and choking, while tears streamed down her face. She heaved again and again, until her stomach was empty. Spent at last, she wiped her mouth with her hand, straightened, and then closed her eyes and leaned back against the tree trunk.

  Something swung against her thigh with that movement. She was so accustomed to that light weight that it was a moment before she recognized the source.

  Her poniard. It was still attached to her girdle, the scabbard hidden among the folds of her gown. Through carelessness, ignorance or similar familiarity, Trilborn had not taken it from her.

  “Come, we must make haste,” he commanded. He reached to put a hand on her arm.

  She shook him off. Staggering a little, she moved away, walking deeper into the woodland.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Where do you suppose?” she demanded over her shoulder. She walked on until a screen of shrubbery stood between them.

  He allowed that defiance, which seemed miraculous until she realized from the sound that he was availing himself of the opportunity, as well. She caught up her skirts and crouched, watching his shape through a screen of leaves as she did what she must. At the same time, she eased her small knife free of its scabbard. She pushed it into her long sleeve, against the underside of her wrist. With that done, she straightened and moved into the open again.

  The urge to run was strong, so strong. Another time, she might have tried it, but not now. Her head felt too large for her body, yet too small to contain the swelling pain inside it. Her vision was so hazy that distant objects wavered, taking on fantastical shapes. A goat on a far hill became a dragon, a rabbit turned into a giant toad and a sapling took on the form of a dark figure on horseback. She blinked, and the sapling wavered, developed two heads. Looking down, she saw she had two right hands, as well. She was seeing double.

  Stepping with slow care, she wandered back toward where the destrier stood, though allowing her footsteps to take her to the open edge of the wood. Trilborn, cursing, strode toward her. He had removed his helm, the better to see to his needs. With it under his arm, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist, dragging her along as he turned back toward his mount.

  “Wait, wait,” she gasped, covering her eyes with her hand as sickness assailed her again. “Shouldn’t we rest a little longer? Your destrier can’t go on forever, carrying both of us.”

  “My worry, not yours.” He shoved her ahead of him. She stumbled and almost fell, would have if he hadn’t dragged her upright, hauling her against him. She could feel the heat of him through her skirts, and the threatening hardness at his groin. He stared down at her mouth, bent his head.

  The smell of him surrounded her, sweaty, randy, with his acrid hint of cloves. A dry heave seized her. Moaning with more art than necessity, she let it convulse her body.

  His oath was savage as he took a fast step back. It was followed by every scurrilous name for a female he could voice. Snatching her arm again, he shoved her toward the destrier.

  She stopped beside the huge stallion, clinging to the saddle leathers with her back to her captor. “I can’t,” she said, hiding her face against the stirrup. “I can’t go on.”

  “You can. You will.”

  “No.” She moved her head from side to side.

  “You prefer to die?” Trilborn demanded. Hard on the words, she heard the slither of metal on metal, the sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard.

  She slid the poniard from her sleeve. Where to strike? His neck? Too easily defended. Between the cuirass that covered his chest and his lower protection? He was wearing a long hauberk that would deflect all but the sharpest point. To merely prick him would invite a retaliation she might not survive.

  Abruptly, she knew. His hand and wrist had been bare when he held her arm j
ust now. In relieving himself, he had removed his glove.

  Had she a chance?

  Did it matter?

  She could never submit to Trilborn. She could never give herself, never be taken by any man other than Ross Dunbar.

  Cate lowered her arm and turned slowly to face her abductor. She kept the small, sharp knife hidden against her thigh, and her gaze focused somewhere beyond his shoulder so he would not see the purpose in her eyes.

  He was scowling at her, though his face changed when it seemed she would obey him. With satisfaction flaring in his eyes, he seated his sword back in its scabbard with a decisive click.

  Cate saw these things on the edge of her vision, but her attention was snagged on something beyond the wood’s edge, across the field. The sapling she had noticed just now was closer, larger. It was moving, shimmering in the slanting sunlight. A horseman, after all. A mounted knight with a nimbus of light around his armor.

  Trilborn must not see, not yet, not yet. She snapped her eyes shut, moistened her lips. Tears blurred her vision as she lifted her lashes again to focus upon the man in front of her.

  “Why?” she asked in hoarse demand. “Why me, why now, when I am married to someone else?”

  “You were meant to be mine from the first. Fine looking, of rank, an accursed Grace of Graydon whom a suitor must court death to claim? What man could resist such a challenge?”

  “Almost any other, I should think.”

  His snort was derisive. “Superstitious fools. You were also an heiress and my purse was empty.”

  “That I can accept,” she said with a twist of her lips, “though I think your interest grew sharper when I was given to Ross.”

  “That was never supposed to happen, damn his eyes. Never!”

  “No, he wasn’t supposed to follow me when I fell behind the hunt, was he? You meant to carry me off then, just as you’re doing now.”

  “You figured that out, did you? Oh, yes, I was to play the lovesick gallant who must have you by any means, offering marriage after your rape. You’d have been grateful in your humiliation.”

  “Ross was caught in the scheme instead, and you hated him for it.”

  “A Dunbar, whoreson border reiver that he is? How could I not? Henry was to award you to me, not him!”

  “So you attempted to remove him by vicious attack, expecting him to come to my aid when you turned your ire in my direction.”

  “Oh, I was ready to lay hands on you, as well, being you were stupid enough to prefer him.”

  “But Ross recovered from his wound.”

  “So he did, devil’s spawn, just as he survived an assassin’s knife and my attack upon him and the king this day.” Survived…

  She had known it must be so. Still the joy that rose inside her at this confirmation was strengthening beyond anything she’d ever felt. Her heart swelled with it, and the image of a knight on horseback, galloping, galloping, was engraved on her mind’s eye, though she would not, dared not, turn her gaze again to the field behind Trilborn.

  “He’s alive,” she whispered.

  Trilborn gave a rough laugh. “No doubt his royal majesty will present him with a barony after this day’s work. More spoils for Dunbar, as he was lucky enough to stop me from dispatching Henry. But he’ll not have you to go with it.”

  Her captor’s eyes burned in his flushed face. The recital of his grievances had roused him again. He was crowding her, easing closer. He reached to seize her arm.

  The poniard was in her hand, its silver metalwork over ebony smooth against her palm. She lashed out without conscious thought, striking across the inside of his wrist.

  He howled. Incredulity leaped into his eyes as he looked at her, though it turned rapidly to murderous rage.

  His helm dropped from his grasp. He clamped his free hand on the wound while bright scarlet droplets squeezed between his fingers.

  Cate did not wait for more. Dodging around him, she staggered into a run. Her head jarred, the pain blinding her more with every pounding step. Her breath came in harsh gasps. Her knees seemed unhinged, and she felt as if she moved through a bowl of custard as she broke from the cover of the trees.

  Behind her, she heard Trilborn cursing, grunting as he hauled himself into the saddle, screaming at his destrier. The enormous beast leaped into a run. Its hooves struck the ground with a hollow drumming. She could feel the earth shuddering beneath them.

  The dark knight across the field veered toward her. He was coming fast, riding low. He reached to draw the sword that rode at his back, whipping it forward so the sunlight followed it in a glittering arc. He was faceless behind his closed helm, though the red dragon of Henry’s guard marked the tabard he wore over his armor. The thunder of his horse’s hooves blended with those behind her to make a dull roar.

  Cate glanced back. Trilborn was gaining on her. His lips were drawn away from his teeth in a snarl. His sword hung from his fist as if dragged down by its weight, and blood made a dark line down the polished steel. As he pounded nearer, he swung it back, swept it up.

  She flung herself to the ground. Steel whistled above her, ripping through her flying veil. And above that sound, soaring in rich and deadly threat through the ringing in her ears, came the Scots yell of the Clan Dunbar.

  The two men came together with a screeching crash like a metal-clad battering ram against a metal-clad gate. The very earth shook with the power of it. Horses whinnied, stumbling under the impact before recovering. Cate rolled away from the tumult. An instant later, armor clanged and rattled as a body thudded to the ground.

  She reared up in time to see Ross leap from his mount to stand above Trilborn, where he lay. Ross put a foot on the downed man’s armored chest, leaned to rest the point of his sword at the hollow of his exposed neck.

  “Strike,” Trilborn croaked, his face twisted in a defiant sneer. “Go on, kill me.”

  20

  Ross had not made his mad ride on Cate’s trail alone. Braesford, who had endured it with him, came trotting up at a deliberate pace designed to support but not interfere. Dismounting, he moved to Ross’s side. They stood gazing down at Trilborn.

  The bastard was having trouble breathing. Ross made no move to help. He didn’t give a tinker’s damn if the man never drew breath again. In fact, he would prefer it.

  For a single instant he had been greatly tempted to accept the dare, driving his blade through Trilborn’s neck, ending his breathing forever. Such satisfaction would have been in it, such justice.

  Chivalry and honor could be damned nuisances.

  “I have him. See to Cate,” Braesford said.

  Ross dreaded going to where she had fallen. His brother-in-law, though concerned, did not seem alarmed, but it was difficult to tell with him; he carried sanguine temperament to unmatched heights. She might be bleeding beyond Ross’s power to stop it, might be maimed, dead. Sword in hand, he turned slowly toward where he had seen his wife fall beneath Trilborn’s sword.

  She was sitting up in the waist-deep grass. She watched him approach, her gaze wide, even as she untangled her veil from her hair.

  “He said you were dead.”

  Her greeting had an undertone of wrathful accusation to his ears, though tears rimmed her eyes. Where was her anger directed? He could not tell.

  “A slight exaggeration.” He stepped closer. A dark bruise spread from her left cheekbone to her temple. Her eye on that side, he saw, was bloodshot and swollen. His voice rattled like gravel in his throat as he said in a different tone, “He hurt you.”

  “He meant to take me to Ireland with him. I was of no mind to go.”

  “Preferring to stay and make certain I’d been killed.”

  Resentment flared in her eyes, along with something that looked like half-blind agony. “Ross…”

  “Later,” he said, and let his sword dangle from his wrist by its fighting cord as he reached to lift her to her feet. Alarm poured like acid along his veins as he saw she could barely stand. Curses roared t
hrough his mind. What had Trilborn done to her?

  He should have killed the bastard while he had the chance.

  Stabbing a glance toward the others, he saw that Braesford had helped his enemy to his feet. His breastplate had been removed, and Braesford was binding a pad of shirting to a nasty cut that pumped arterial blood from his wrist.

  “Touching,” Trilborn called out to where Ross stood holding Cate. “How would you treat a female who cared about you, given you’re so tender toward one who tried to have you killed?”

  Cate inhaled a sharp breath, swayed on her feet. Dismay at the accusation or guilt for a truth revealed? Ross could not tell, wasn’t sure he wanted to know what she felt at this charge Trilborn had hinted at before.

  “That little dagger of hers is a lethal toy, is it not? You found it in your bath after an attack. She tried to bleed me with it. Welladay, I’d have killed you if my sword arm had been in good form.”

  “I didn’t,” Cate whispered. “Well, I did cut his arm, but I had to do that.”

  “She did, else I’d have had her,” Trilborn said lightly. “First she spewed like a fishwife, enough to turn any man’s ardor limp. I do think she’s breeding with your get. A dilemma, I will admit, but you can always shut her away until the babe is born.”

  Ross’s hold on her tightened; he couldn’t help it. Was Trilborn right? She had been through so much. What if she was with child and nigh to losing it?

  “Cate?” he demanded.

  Hot color washed over her features. “I think…mayhap.”

  Rage slammed into him, along with a fierce protective urge that turned his every muscle to stone. Trilborn had been at Braesford Hall, had somehow guessed Cate’s condition. Had he meant to punish her, and him as her Dunbar husband, by seeing to it she miscarried? The threat to his unborn child was blighting, but worse still was the danger to its mother.

  “How do you know where I found the knife?” Ross demanded of Trilborn. “How could you know unless you were told of it by your hireling?”