His Woman (Zebra Historical Romance)

by Diana J. Cosby

  Duncan released her as if burned. Isabel stumbled, then recovered.

  "Why are you dressed like a priest? Or"—Isabel angled her chin—"has Frasyer sent you?"

  "Frasyer? Nay. I came to help you escape."

  She studied him as if trying to decide if he was telling the truth.

  "Why?"

  His anger shoved up a notch. "Look around you, lass. You want to stay in this filth?"

  She shook her head and slowly exhaled, drawing his attention to how her dress hung on her slender frame. The bastard was starving her. What other brutalities had Frasyer inflicted upon her?

  "You should not be here," she said. "You are putting your life in danger."

  He gave an indignant snort. "And you would be worrying about me?"

  "Please leave."

  He ignored her frantic warning. It didn't make sense. Unless... Duncan caught her wrists. "Is this a trap you helped Frasyer set up?"

  Outrage spilled across her face. Isabel tried to yank her hands free. "I would never do such a thing."

  "Like you would not break your betrothal with me to go to Frasyer's bed?" Be damned! He hadn't meant to ask. He had no desire to relive the bitter betrayal of that time, but the words had already slipped from his mouth.

  Isabel stiffened. "I would not see you harmed."

  Oddly, he found himself believing her. In the scarred light, Duncan scanned the dismal cell. Except for a wooden bed piled with aged straw and a moth-eaten woollen blanket along with a

  half-empty bowl with contents he didn't wish to fathom, the chamber lay bare.

  "I see Frasyer bestows his mistress with only the best of lodgings."

  A blush scalded her cheeks, but she didn't turn away. "Why have you come?"

  He released her. "Because Symon asked."

  At the mention of her brother, her face lost any trace of color. Then, like the first rose of spring, her expression bloomed with hope.

  "Symon?" A smile quivered on her lips. She stepped forward. "He is alive? Thank Mary, I thought he had died." She laid her hand on his forearm. "Where is he? I must—"

  "Isabel." At his rough tone, her hand fell away. A dull pounding built in his head. He'd not wanted to tell Isabel like this, with her hopes soaring and her looking at him with such tender belief.

  "Duncan?" Amber eyes watched him with fragile hope. At his silence, she clenched her hands into trembling fists. "Where is Symon?"

  There would be no easy way to tell her. He handed her the embroidery. "He is dead."

  "Dead?" Isabel's breath strangled in her throat as she clutched the delicate fabric. She'd allowed herself to hope, to believe the impossible. The cell blurred around her.

  Symon.

  Her brother, mentor, friend.

  Dead.

  Somewhere in the blackness, hands, strong and firm, caught her shoulders and brought her up against something warm. Something solid.

  "I am sorry."

  Duncan's whisper echoed in her mind. She'd foolishly allowed herself to believe the impossible—that her brother lived. All she wanted now was to cling to Duncan and allow him to protect her from this heartbreaking reality. To pretend the past three years had not happened. To imagine Symon healthy and happy, and Duncan's arms around her a common occurrence, not a gesture of borrowed support.

  A yell from the courtyard startled her back to reality.

  "We need to leave before the guards make their rounds," Duncan said.

  Numb, she allowed him to lead her to the door.

  Steps echoed from the stairs.

  With a curse, Duncan released her. He peered out the door. "Someone is coming. Stay here. I will return once they have left." For a second, he looked as if he wanted to say more, then he climbed from the cell. As he secured and then barred the door, blackness encased her. The soft echo of his footsteps faded.

  Isabel sagged against the cold stone, wrapped her arms around her trembling body as she clutched the embroidery she'd given Symon, and tried to accept this twist of fate.

  Duncan was here.

  How she'd prayed for him to rescue her. Within that empty, forbidden world of her cell, she'd replayed the scene in her mind a thousand times. His smiling face framed by sun-bleached hair, the hair of a wayward faerie she'd always teased, laughing as his arrogant locks fell onto his shoulders in the haphazard tumble she so adored.

  She would cry with joy as he swept her into his arms and claimed her mouth with possessive fierceness, that of the man who loved her, that of the man who could find it in his heart to forgive, and that of the man who understood she'd had no choice but to become Frasyer's mistress.

  The rattle of keys down the corridor shattered her thoughts like pottery upon stone. They were naught but foolish dreams.

  Symon would not rise from the grave.

  And Duncan would never forgive her for becoming Frasyer's mistress as he believed. As much as she wanted to explain the circumstances leading to her role as Frasyer's mistress, she must not forget Frasyer's threat to kill Duncan if she ever told him of her and Frasyer's bargain.

  She could only imagine Duncan's anger if he learned the truth. There was no telling what he would do. His knowing would only make a horrible situation worse.

  Aye, now Duncan was here. Not by choice, but due to his loyalty to Symon.

  Symon. Oh, God. She squeezed the embroidery tight within her palm. Tears burned her throat. Never again would she find comfort in her brother's arms. In his strength. In his compassion. Or in the sage advice of a brother who'd suffered his own personal misery when he'd learned of her decision to become Frasyer's mistress.

  By agreeing to Frasyer's demand, she'd thought to protect her father and to save their home. Never had she imagined her choice would one day play a role in ending Symon's life.

  But it had.

  She shouldn't have gone to visit him that day, but she had wanted to give Symon her embroidered gift.

  Now he lay dead.

  A sob racked her body. Then another. As tears rolled down her cheeks, she turned to stare through the window where the cold gray of the night stole toward blackness.

  She had to get out of here. To push past the pain, to remember that more than her brother's life was at stake. Her father depended on her.

  Somehow, she must find the Bible.

  Steps outside had her whirling to face the door. She shoved the embroidery into her pocket as the slide of a wooden bar clattered through the dungeon. Guards' voices murmured in the dank corridor.

  A scuffle.

  Terse voices shouted in argument.

  Duncan! Isabel ran to the door. She pressed her ear against the cold wood and strained to hear.

  Moments later, the voices stilled. Boots scraped to a stop outside her cell.

  She stumbled back.

  Wood grated as the bar to her door was lifted, then opened with a vicious shove. Yellowed torchlight raced through the blackness and one of the guards stepped into view.

  "Here." He held out a half loaf of hard bread and a wedge of cheese.

  She forced herself to step forward and accept the fare as if nothing was amiss. They hadn't seen Duncan. Another prisoner must have offered resistance.

  "Move back," the guard ordered.

  In silence, Isabel complied.

  He jerked the door shut.

  Darkness, cold and ugly, closed in around her. A cool breeze crawled over her skin. Outside, not even a star welcomed the oncoming night.

  A shiver rippled through her as she laid the unappetizing food aside, her hunger having long since fled. She tracked the guards' movements by the slam of doors as they went from cell to cell to deliver the evening fare.

  At last, except for the whistle of the wind and the moans of prisoners lost in their own misery, a morbid silence claimed the dungeon.

  Like that of a living tomb.

  Where was Duncan? With each passing second that he didn't return, her fear grew. She'd lost Symon. Her father's life was in jeopardy. She couldn
't lose him as well. "Where are you, Duncan?"

  Seconds crawled past.

  The passage of time building her fear with destructive intent.

  When Isabel thought she'd go mad, the bar grated. She whirled as the door scraped open. Framed within the entry by the flicker of distant torchlight, Duncan appeared as if he were a defiant god challenging the world.

  And as unreachable.

  After a cautious glance into the corridor, he jumped down and shut the door. Darkness consumed them. "Isabel?"

  The fear she'd harbored at his safe return vanished, the concern in his voice further weakening her resolve to remain aloof. She ran to him, and his arms wrapped around her without hesitation. His familiar touch unfurled an ache deep inside, a longing for Duncan that would never fade.

  "Thank God you are safe. You were gone so long. I thought the guards might have caught you," she admitted, amazed she sounded so composed when she felt anything but.

  He released her. "As if it would matter?"

  "Yes," she breathed, wanting only to tell him how much. Or how she still loved him. And always would.

  He gave a snort of disbelief. "Worry not, lass. I will help you escape. I have given my vow. I, unlike others, keep my word."

  She flinched, grateful for the dark. Yet, she deserved his anger. But she couldn't change the past, nor, it seemed, the future. To explain the truth would not only expose her father's shame, but if Frasyer ever learned that Duncan knew her reason for leaving him, as he'd vowed on that fated day three years ago, he would use every bit of his power to hunt Duncan down and kill him. A vow she knew however ill achieved, Frasyer would keep.

  "Believe what you will." She took a step back, too aware of him, of how her need for him had grown to a dangerous level.

  "Aye, I will." His voice was grim. "Come."

  Isabel followed him toward the door. If this was only about her, she might risk braving Frasyer's wrath. Now, her father, as well as the fate of the rebels, depended on her, too.

  Once she'd retrieved her mother's Bible, she would bring it to Lord Monceaux, King Edward's Scottish adviser. A fair man her father had stated on many an occasion. Now she would entrust the English lord with the greatest of tests.

  That of her father's life.

  What would she do if the Bible wasn't in Frasyer's chamber? When she found the Bible, how would she deliver it to England? Stealing a horse was a crime punishable by hanging, but lack of time demanded desperation.

  Not that it would change her fate. Once her father was freed, Frasyer still held documentation that would ruin her father. Frasyer would use this information to continue blackmailing her to remain as his mistress. Whether she lived within his chambers or his dungeon, the latter to prove his complete control over her, he would never allow Isabel her freedom.

  Duncan opened the door and glanced back. Torchlight spilled over Isabel. Her wide, expressive eyes, haunted by the loss of her brother, watched him. For one weak moment, he was tempted to hold her and promise he would protect her always, but he quelled the urge.

  He gestured her forward. "Let us be gone." His tone was deliberately rough.

  When she continued to stare at him, vulnerable and lost, he caught her hand. He silently cursed himself at the jolt of awareness that swept through him from a mere touch. A heat that betrayed logic. He didn't need to feel any connection with her or of how right it still felt to be in her presence.

  Outside her cell, he led her to a dimly lit corner beneath the stairs subtly shielding a door to yet another chamber. From the lack of grating at the door, the cell beyond was designed to deprive prisoners of light. God knew what other atrocities to deliver pain lay within.

  "Why are we stopping here?" she asked, clearly confused.

  He retrieved the bag of clothes he'd hidden behind a barrel of water. "Put these on."

  She opened the sack, removed the garments and glanced up at him with surprise. "Garb for a page?"

  "You are needing a disguise. I doubt they will be allowing you to pass through the castle otherwise." He pointed to the darkened corner beneath the stairs where he'd hidden while the guards had made their rounds. "Change over there."

  After a brief hesitation, she slipped into the blackened nook.

  The rustle of her gown assured him she was stripping at a fast pace. As he waited, an errant gust of wind sent the torch in a wild jig. For a second, he caught a backlit view of the tempting curve of her bared breasts.

  Duncan gritted his teeth and turned away, but he could all too easily envision her naked and stepping into the light. Her straight, whisky-coloured hair cascading to frame full, taut breasts. How the flat stomach all but invited his gaze lower.

  He wasn't sure which was worse, the emotional torment she had put him through, or the knowledge that his body still welcomed the sweet torture of her physically.

  "Hurry up," he hissed.

  "I am ready." She stepped into the light, her willowy body now hidden within the folds of a page's clothes and her hair concealed beneath the hood of the cloak.

  "That should hide you well enough." He silently cursed the vision of her naked etched in his mind.

  Isabel frowned. "What if they do not believe I am a lad?"

  "For both our sakes, you had best pray they do." He drew up his own hood. What more could he say? Surely she knew the risks if they were caught. After living under Frasyer's roof and spending time in his dungeon, she should have become well acquainted with his cruelty. "This way."

  At the landing, he was pleased to find the guard and the serving wench he'd passed earlier thoroughly immersed in their carnal act.

  He motioned Isabel past the lovers. When she caught sight of their coupling, she lowered her gaze. Duncan frowned. With her role as mistress, he would have believed any innocence long past.

  They approached the door to the great hall and Duncan paused. "Stay with me," he ordered under his breath. "Whatever happens, do not look around."

  They'd barely entered the bottom floor of the keep when two guards heading toward the dungeon passed them. He increased his stride, the hard set of the men's faces prodding his unease.

  With Isabel at his side, they crossed the large room. Appearing too tired to bother with comings and goings, the servants cleaning the trencher tables never looked up.

  Once Duncan and Isabel had climbed the tower steps to where they were hidden from view, she halted. "Why are we going up?"

  A faint smile curved his lips. Why indeed. He opened his mouth to inform her of their foul escape route when a shout arose from below.

  "It is Lady Isabel," a man yelled. "She has escaped."

  "Search the keep," another man's voice boomed.

  Duncan grabbed her hand and started up the steps. "Run!"

  Instead, she yanked her hand free. "You go. Escape while you can."

  He whirled on her. Was she mad? Had Symon been wrong? Did she want to stay with Frasyer? "Blast it, lass. We have no time for this foolishness."

  Isabel touched the embroidery shoved within her pocket. "No. I am not leaving."

  Chapter 3

  Duncan glared at Isabel, furious she'd argue about leaving. "It is not a debate." He caught her arm.

  "Duncan—"

  Ignoring her protests, he hauled her behind him as he hurried up the stairs. After a few tense moments, the abating pounding of footsteps below assured him they were safe for now. With their lord's fury driving them, the knights would search the lower floor. Then they would work upward.

  Until Frasyer's men found Isabel, no space would be left unchecked.

  They reached the latrine he'd used to enter the castle, and Duncan opened the door. A blast of fouled air greeted them. He started inside, but with her free hand, Isabel caught hold of the entry wall.

  "Stop, Duncan."

  He rounded on her. "If you have not noticed, the guards are scouring the castle for you!"

  Amber eyes darkened with regret. "I cannot leave. You have fulfilled your obligation
to Symon. Go," she added when he opened his mouth to speak.

  He gritted his teeth. Aye, he should leave her behind without a care. If she were caught and hauled to the dungeon, 'twas her decision.

  Shouts of men boomed in the turret.

  Her face paled. "They are coming up. Hurry." She twisted her hand free and backed into the corridor. "If I am caught, I will swear to them I escaped alone. They will not suspect your help. Go. You will be safe."

  Why was she acting like this? Almost as if she cared about him? "I promised Symon I would see you safe."

  "And you have done that."

  "I do not remember giving you a choice." Duncan grabbed her hand and jerked her inside the latrine. She struggled to break free as he shut and barred the door.

  "We will be caught if we stay here!"

  He shot her a hard look. "Once you are away from Moncreiffe Castle, if you are foolish enough to return to the rat-infested haven of Frasyer's dungeons, it is your choice." Duncan started toward the round stone opening he'd crawled up earlier.

  Isabel fought to break from his grip with his every step. "I told you, I cannot leave!"

  He hauled her to him. "What is so blasted important that you would stay here at the risk of your life?"

  "I—"

  "Check the upper floors," a guard shouted nearby.

  Duncan leaned toward her with menace. "Answer me!"

  Isabel scraped her teeth across her lower lip as she glanced at the door. Muted yells of men searching the keep echoed in the distance. Panic churned in her eyes as she faced him.

  "My mother's Bible."

  Of all the answers he'd expected, none were even close. "You will have to think of a better reason than that."

  "I must take it with me."

  Desperation battered her tone, but he refused to be swayed. "Procure yourself another Bible, or rather, if you are foolish enough to return, ask Frasyer to commission a scribe to pen you another copy. Regardless of the phenomenal cost, I am sure your lover will gratefully gift you with another." Hurt flashed in her eyes at his harsh words, but how did she think he'd feel at her breaking their betrothal a week before they were to wed to become Frasyer's mistress? He, at least, had loved her.