His Woman

by Cosby, Diana

  That fact made little sense.

  Hysteria welled up in her throat. God in heaven. If William Wallace was her father, she could never allow such proof to fall into Frasyer’s hands. Frasyer would indeed use it for his own selfish gain and harm a nation, not to mention the men she loved.

  “Isabel,” Frasyer commanded, “hand over the Bible. Now!”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “You have made your decision, Isabel. Now,” he seethed, “you will watch as your lover dies.”

  “No!” she gasped.

  Frasyer raised a dismissive brow, then backed behind the wall of his men. “Kill him.”

  Guards rushed them.

  Isabel screamed.

  Seasoned by numerous battles, Duncan fended off the first aggressor’s blow with ease, then rounded to catch the second man’s blade.

  Isabel jumped clear of danger as honed steel screamed with each meeting of their swords, engulfing the hut with a cacophony of angry scrapes.

  To give him more power in his swing, the leather-faced man to his left had widened his arc.

  “Duncan!” Isabel yelled.

  At her warning, he ducked and spun, slicing through the knight’s shoulder. The man screamed and caught his arm where blood spurted from a bone-exposing wound.

  “Behind me, Isabel,” Duncan yelled, thankful when she shot behind him.

  The knight to his left attacked.

  Duncan met his parry. Their blades locked, their arms trembling from the demand for strength. Duncan broke the hold, but with each attack, he was forced toward the corner of the room.

  Isabel shifted away from him toward the right.

  “What are you doing?” Duncan yelled, “I told you to stay behind me!”

  The knight on Duncan’s right caught her action. The guard rushed toward her as she crouched near the fire.

  “Behind you!” Duncan yelled.

  She turned, a wooden bowl filled with hot coals fisted in her hand. Isabel threw the glowing embers into the guard’s face.

  The knight screamed as he stumbled back. The stench of burning flesh permeated the air as the warrior dropped to his knees and curled into a writhing ball.

  Exploiting his aggressor’s distraction, Duncan drove his blade in the knight’s side, then jerked it out. Blood coated Duncan’s blade, and the warrior fell, an anguished gurgle on his lips.

  “Get behind me!” Duncan ordered Isabel as he regained his defensive position against the next opponent.

  Footsteps padded on the dirt as she complied.

  The warrior charged as Frasyer’s orders boomed to his other knights.

  Muscles burned as Duncan fended off his next attacker, his prior injuries and making love draining him of much needed energy.

  “Fire!” Isabel yelled.

  He spared a glance toward where she pointed.

  Flames raced up the side of the wood. The embers she’d thrown moments before had ignited the bedding. Smoke curled and danced in a vicious stream, quickly engulfing the entire wall of the hut.

  Another knight charged.

  Duncan angled his sword to shield the blow, but a clever maneuver by the knight caught Duncan’s left shoulder. Pain seared his arm. He gritted his teeth and grunted as he thrust his blade forward.

  The seasoned fighter evaded his every lethal swing.

  A sword’s wrath!

  Smoke billowed within the room as the stench of sweat, wood, and fear built with each second. To his right, Isabel coughed.

  “We must escape!” she rasped.

  “We will. Hold on, Isabel!” He shot a glance toward Frasyer between slashes, noting the earl inching toward the exit as visibility dimmed. Then four more knights entered.

  “Seize Isabel before the damn hut burns down,” Frasyer boomed.

  The men took in the growing blaze and for a moment hesitated, then charged.

  The clash of steel and grunts of men saturated the hovel.

  Duncan maneuvered his blade, fury backing his each thrust, every damaging blow, but by sheer number, the guards managed to separate him and Isabel.

  A scream tore from her, a combination of fear and rage, as she kicked at the guards as they ripped her from Duncan’s protective circle. Amber eyes blazed as she jammed her elbow into the closest man’s neck.

  She gasped for breath as another man caught her.

  Duncan severed half the man’s arm who was holding her, again buying her freedom. Sweat poured down his face as he dragged in a deep breath, the air blistering his lungs with heat.

  A blur shot to his left.

  “Duncan!” Isabel called as two more knights caught her and started hauling her toward the door.

  “Isabel!” Pain sliced into Duncan’s leg. He glanced down. A gash slid along his right thigh, a thin line of red curdled to the surface. He ignored it as he battled his way toward where Isabel was being dragged across the room.

  Framed within the doorway, Duncan caught Frasyer watching the event with morbid glee. The bastard wanted to watch him die.

  Wood groaned. The building shuddered.

  “Out!” Frasyer ordered, backing outside. “Everyone out. The roof is caving in!”

  Guards rushed for the exit.

  “Duncan!” Isabel’s scream pierced the roar of the flames as guards bolted from the hut.

  Abandoned, Duncan scanned his surroundings. Flames engulfed the dried reeds and grass. Caught within the rising smoke, embers broke off and streamed into several visible breaks in the roof to spiral up into the sky. Another shudder rippled through the hut. As if in slow motion, he watched the center beam tremble, then begin to fall.

  He started to bolt. Before he could step forward, the beam, smothered with blazing thatch, dropped to create a fiery wall, closing off his only route of escape.

  Frasyer’s laughter echoed through the pungent cloud, fragments of his face cradled in the flames as he stood safe outside.

  “Come,” Frasyer shouted to his men. “Let him burn in Hades as he deserves.”

  “Duncan!” The pounding of hoofbeats smothered Isabel’s scream. The rumble of men and horses slowly faded.

  He was alone.

  Left for dead.

  Intense heat poured over him.

  His blood pounded wild. He had to somehow escape and save Isabel.

  Dropping to the earthen floor, he sucked in air charred by smoke, scraping his throat raw with his every breath.

  He searched the flaming debris for a break in the wall, a path he could use to crawl to the door.

  Cinders from the beams supporting the roof swirled to the floor, others clung to the walls like demons to ignite a second later.

  Another beam directly above him shuddered. The entire hut was going to collapse!

  Duncan rolled over and pressed his body against the length of the unlit wall as its charred support began to crumble.

  Wood groaned, sagged, then crashed downward.

  He closed his eyes and braced himself for the fiery impact.

  Heat blasted him as if billowed by a smithy. A thud. The grating of wood. The crackle and pop of burning wood roared in his ears.

  Heart pounding, Duncan opened his eyes. Instead of the oak beam falling to the floor, the end nearest him had wedged halfway down the wall, which now bowed out. Soon, the entire hut would collapse.

  Another pop. Sparks rained down.

  He shielded his face with his garb as he turned away, beating out the embers settling on his clothes in an incessant mist. Each spark burned a hole in his garment, little pinpricks of heat searing his skin.

  Yet another shudder rippled through the fire-immersed building. The last of the thatched room stumbled downward, floating batches of flaming straw in the air like the wings of a mythical beast. If possible, the intensity of the heat increased.

  Desperate, Duncan jammed his sword into the wedge between the wood of the walls.

  Nothing gave.

  Heat, raw and blistering, scraped his face. The stench
of smoldering hair screamed up his nostrils. He clawed a handful of dirt and scrubbed it on his head and prayed it would be enough.

  The horrors of the painful death he faced tore through him, threatening his calm, shattering his thoughts as he fought to think of a way to escape.

  An unexpected rush of cool air caught his attention. Duncan glanced over. On the opposite side of the building, with the shifting of the beam above, the corner of the hut had fractured. Now, a slit cut up the wall big enough to climb through.

  Duncan scraped the earthen floor to smother flames before him as he inched forward. Smoke thickened, clogging his throat until he was forced to wrap a cloth over his mouth before he continued. Coughing, he pushed forward.

  It was simple.

  If he quit, he died.

  He reached the corner. Exhausted, charred patches marring his garb and scarring his exposed skin, Duncan shoved himself up. His hands screamed as he caught the smoking edge.

  The building started to tremble.

  He glanced back. The wall to the entry door buckled, then started falling toward him.

  Duncan dove toward the opening.

  Chapter 20

  A wave of heat exploded over his face as Duncan’s back slammed against the snow. Heart pounding, he rolled away from the fire-engulfed hut. Wind-tossed cinders stabbed his exposed skin. He scooped snow into his hands, rubbing it onto his face, hands, and clothes, extinguishing the pinpricks of heat.

  For a long moment he lay there, his body shaking, his breaths coming fast. On unsteady legs, he pushed to his feet and stared at the scarred remains of the crofter’s hut.

  Blazing wood slammed to the earth. The beam propped against the interior wall sagged beneath the onslaught, then speared through the side wall to pile atop the already roaring stack.

  He sucked in a cold breath. Another moment and he would have been burned alive.

  Panic welled in his throat as he looked toward where Frasyer and his men had rode off. Isabel! He refused to believe Frasyer would harm her. If the earl had meant to kill her, he would have left her behind with Duncan to die.

  Instead, he’d ridden off preening of yet another personal victory. Yet Frasyer had erred in the most basic of ways. He’d not ensured his foe was dead.

  A mistake, one that would cost the bastard his life.

  Hours later, wind rich with the scent of pine churned around Duncan with a lazy spiral. Golden rays reflected off crystallized snow in subtle warning of the approaching night.

  Exhausted, determined, Duncan blew out a deep breath and forged ahead. Purpose kept him going, dulling the sting of the nicks from his clash with Frasyer’s men and the burns to his face and the back of his hands.

  He’d trailed Frasyer throughout the day, but on foot, he was quickly falling behind. He scoured the hoof-hewn, windswept path ahead. If he didn’t catch up with Frasyer soon, with the drifts slowly filling in the tracks, he would lose the trail.

  Duncan quickened his pace, ignoring the protests of his body.

  A hawk soared overhead, its screech echoing in the wind. He took in the predator, a powerful mixture of strength and grace.

  He scanned the pristine woodland ahead. He needed reinforcements. As if that was an option. On foot, it would take days to reach anyone who could aid him. Not that he hadn’t considered the overwhelming odds he faced should he catch Frasyer.

  Muted voices in the distance had him looking northwest. Along the hillside, shadows of movement flickered through the thick wash of fir.

  With stealth honed from years of war, Duncan crossed a nearby fallen log and hid behind several boulders covered with snow. As he’d followed the trail broken by Frasyer and his knights, he doubted the men would notice his tracks.

  How many were in company? He hadn’t counted earlier when Frasyer had stormed the crofter’s hut. Likely, the earl had more reinforcements outside.

  The soft thud of hooves on snow increased. A slap of leather melded with a jangle of spurs.

  Frasyer’s men were coming this way.

  Hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword, Duncan flattened himself against the cold stone.

  The scent of sweat and leather tainted the air.

  He held his breath. Waited for them to pass. At least the men were traveling north, opposite the direction he needed to take.

  Tense seconds slid by.

  “Are you sure you saw a movement over here,” a deep voice asked. “I see no sign of anyone.”

  “They could still be around, well hidden,” another man replied, his voice unmistakably English. “They may have pulled back when they caught sight of us.”

  “Aye,” a third man agreed. “If the English bastards are out there, we will find them.”

  Relief swept Duncan as he stood. A pace away, knights upon their steeds were slowly passing. “Seathan!”

  Surprise creased his oldest brother’s face as he turned in his saddle. He halted his mount. “Duncan! Christ’s blood.” Seathan’s obsidian gaze scoured him from head to toe. “You are wounded.”

  Duncan stepped onto the trail. “A wee scratch or two.”

  “Wee scratch,” his other brother Alexander challenged as he halted his mount beside Seathan. “You have burns on your clothes, face, and the back of your hands.”

  Duncan shrugged. “Which will heal.”

  “You are alive, thank God for that.” Lord Monceaux’s brow scrunched into a frown as he scanned the nearby trees.

  “It is not myself that I am worried about,” Duncan said. “Frasyer has Isabel.”

  Somber faces stared at him at the news.

  Hardness encased Seathan’s face. “We will find her. Here.” He handed Duncan his water pouch. “Take a drink. After, tell us everything.”

  Water cooled his throat in a long slide. Duncan secured the leather pouch and handed it to his oldest brother. Then he explained his finding Isabel at Frasyer’s, their journeying to Griffin’s to deliver the Bible, omitting the fact that he and Isabel had made love.

  “He has both Isabel and the Bible?” Seathan asked, dread coating his words.

  “Aye, he has the Bible,” Duncan replied, “but it holds naught proof of Lord Caelin’s innocence.”

  At his words, Griffin stiffened within his saddle.

  Duncan held the baron’s gaze. “You know.” It wasn’t a question.

  Griffin nodded. “Yes.”

  “Know?” Alexander demanded.

  Seathan shot a questioning look from Griffin to Duncan. “By God, we will both be knowing the rest.”

  With the sun setting and refusing to waste time, in brief, Duncan explained.

  “By God’s steed,” Seathan said as he shook his head in disbelief.

  “Aye,” Alexander agreed.

  “You can understand why the truth of Isabel’s birthright was kept secret,” Griffin said.

  “I can, but it does not make the learning of the fact easier to hear,” Seathan said, shooting Duncan an understanding look.

  With his emotions in turmoil, Duncan withheld his comments on the topic. “We will discuss Isabel and her heritage later. First, we must catch them.”

  Seathan blew out a harsh breath. “And will.” He shouted an order to his men.

  Duncan accepted a spare mount brought to him by one of Seathan’s knights and swung up into the saddle.

  Seathan kicked his steed forward in Frasyer’s wake. Duncan, as the others, followed suit.

  “If Frasyer knows about the documents within the Bible that hold proof of her blood tie to Wallace,” Griffin asked as he cantered next to Duncan, “why did he not deliver them to King Edward?”

  “Seems he wanted to deliver both proof of her heritage and Isabel to the king at the same time,” Duncan replied.

  “The bugger would,” Alexander spat, the jostle of leather and hooves upon the snow a steady backdrop. “He cares naught but for himself.”

  “Do you think he has reached King Edward by now?” Seathan asked.

  Duncan scanne
d the horizon, his breaths misting before him. “Nay. With the heavy snow, even on horseback, it will take him another day, mayhap two. He rides with a sizable contingent of knights. Though we have but fifteen men, we hold the element of surprise.”

  Alexander shot him a grim smile. “Aye, and Frasyer believes you are dead.”

  “There is that,” Duncan agreed. “He will not be expecting me.”

  “Or the rest of us,” Seathan said. “You made a good distance from the hut considering your injuries.”

  Duncan shrugged. “I have suffered worse.”

  Alexander grunted in acknowledgment.

  Duncan looked at Griffin. “How fares Lord Caelin?”

  “He is well,” the baron replied, “but I regret to say he is still within my dungeon.”

  “Circumstance forced you to place him there,” Duncan said, aware that as King Edward’s Scottish adviser, Griffin could do naught that would raise suspicion.

  “I have spoken with King Edward in regards to Frasyer’s claims that Lord Caelin is supporting the rebels,” Griffin said.

  “And?” Duncan asked.

  “I advised him that after speaking with my sources, I found no evidence to prove Frasyer’s charge against Lord Caelin to any degree regarding the rebels.”

  “But King Edward is far from convinced?” Duncan asked.

  Griffin nodded. “Frasyer sent a missive to the king stating that he had evidence, concrete proof of Lord Caelin being a traitor.”

  “He was talking about the documents within the Bible,” Duncan said.

  “Aye,” Seathan agreed.

  Alexander nodded. “We cannot allow Frasyer to reach King Edward.”

  “Or for the English king to gain Isabel,” Duncan added.

  “If we do not stop Frasyer,” Griffin explained, “once King Edward learns the truth, nothing I can say will save Lord Caelin’s life.”

  Or Griffin’s, Duncan silently added. Griffin had risked his reputation to try and save Lord Caelin. If the truth were exposed, with King Edward’s hatred toward Wallace and those who sheltered him, he would order Griffin’s death as well. God help them then.

  “If we are to catch Frasyer,” Duncan said, “we need to ride faster. Nightfall will soon be upon us.”