by Aileen Adams
What was he doing?
Had he gone daft?
He was Quinn Murray, and he was going to find a way to get himself and his woman away from the estate and out of France.
She needed him. He’d seen all he needed to see from the Marquis to know the abuse Ysmaine would suffer every day of her marriage to that wretched excuse for a man.
He would do free her, or he would die trying.
“Ysmaine, there must be a way to free me from this cell,” he whispered, straining that his mouth might be as close to her ear as possible. “Ye must find a way to get the keys.”
“How would I do that?”
“You must find a way, lass. I know how smart ye are. Ye always manage to think of something.”
“Yes, and look where it got us so far,” she snorted.
She was losing hope. He had to get through to her, and quickly. “Ysmaine, free me from this cell, and I will get us out of this horrid place. Ye have my word, lass, and I never go back on my word.”
This stirred her. She turned to look at him. “Do you mean it? What about the debt? You know I’ll never be able to claim my inheritance after this. You will have nothing.”
“Nothing, lass?” he whispered. “I do not agree with ye.” He would have everything, if she would have him for her own. And they would find a way, together.
A look of deep calm and resolve came over her then. She stood up as straight as she could—he remembered all too well the cramping of his muscles after the blow from the guard—and nodded. “I will do whatever I can.”
Two guards approached, taking Ysmaine by the arms. “Do not hurt the lass, or frighten her too badly,” he warned. “She’s been known to swoon, and when she does, there is no waking her. I had to nearly drown her in a cold stream to revive her.”
Would that she understood the message he tried to send. Perhaps if she pretended to swoon, she might catch one of the men off-guard and take advantage of it.
She looked back over her shoulder as they all but dragged her away and nodded in agreement. She understood. He knew she would, the clever thing.
All she had to do was go through with it, then.
29
“You’re not to be left alone now,” one of the two guards snarled as they dragged her through the courtyard and into the keep. “Orders from the Marquis.”
“What do you plan to do with me?” she whimpered, working herself into a frenzy as Quinn had suggested she do.
It was the most likely plan, really. If she convinced one of them that she’d fainted, she might be able to disarm them or hit them with something. Anything to stun them into giving her time to steal the key to the door.
Both of them wore a ring of keys on their belts. Which key would unlock the cell? She would not know until she tried.
But she did have to try.
“We plan to watch over your chambers,” the other guard growled. “What do you think?”
“I only wish to have privacy.” She began to sob. “Please, please, I cannot stand this. You’re hurting me! Do not hold me so tightly!”
“Calm yourself, girl.”
“Yes,” the other muttered. “I have no patience for crying women.”
She cried harder than ever, allowing herself to release every bit of fatigue and heartache and desperation for both herself and Quinn. She wept until it hurt.
“Quiet!” The threw her into the bedchamber, sending her sprawling against the bed. She slid to the floor, weeping all the while.
She watched them through parted fingers, hands over her face.
“I do not wish to do this,” one of them said to the other, shaking his head. “Watching a weeping, emotional woman. This is not what we are paid to do.”
“I agree,” the other sneered with a glance toward her. “But I suppose I can take the first watch.”
“You won’t stay in here with me, will you?” she nearly screamed. “I do not need you to watch me! Leave me alone, please!”
Both guards sighed heavily before one of them left, looking rather pleased with himself. The other leaned against the door, arms crossed.
He wore the same red tunic all of the guards wore and carried the same sword with the d’Orsay crest engraved on the blade. A ring of at least a dozen keys hung beside the sword.
How would she reach them?
“You must stop this,” he said. “I will not listen to this for much longer.”
“I cannot breathe,” she gasped, one hand over her chest. “I can’t—I can’t…”
She fell back against the bed, eyes closed, head rolling to the side.
A heavy sigh. “Wake up. Stop being foolish.”
It took all of her resolve to remain still.
“I said, wake up.” He came to her, nudging her knee. “Wake up!”
He leaned down. She could smell his breath and feel the heat from him as he drew closer. What was he going to do? How would she react?
His hands closed over her shoulders and gave her a brisk shake. Her teeth clattered together, but she managed not to react.
The guard swore under his breath before sliding one arm under her knees and lifting her onto the bed. “More trouble than you’re worth,” he muttered, swearing again. He bent over her to place his fingers to her throat, likely checking to confirm she had a pulse.
While he did this, she slid her hand across the bed until the cold, hard hilt of the sword told her she’d found what she sought. Once she was certain she had it in a firm grip, she raised one knee as hard as she could, making contact with the guard’s head.
He cried out, falling back with one hand to his ear. “What are you on about?” he demanded, then his eyes widened when he found the tip of a sword touching his throat.
The sword she had slid from his belt when he backed away.
“Give me the keys,” she snarled, both hands employed in holding the sword steady. She remembered how difficult it had been to threaten Quinn with it, heavy as it was.
“What is this?” he asked, his back to the wall. Only his eyes moved, darting back and forth as he searched for a way to escape.
“I said, give me the keys,” she repeated, pressing forward with the sword until a trickle of blood ran over the man’s skin.
“You will not get away with this,” he warned, even as his hand strayed to his belt.
“Hurry,” she grunted. “I would hate to kill you.”
“You would not dare.”
“Do you truly wish to test me when I hold a sword against your throat?” A terribly heavy sword which strained the strength of her arms. Only the thought of the consequences which would result if she failed kept it raised. There was no room for failure or weakness now.
He tossed the keys onto the bed, behind her, likely in the hopes that she would lunge for them and leave him free to overpower her. She disappointed him by remaining in place, eyes fixed on him.
What was there to do with the man? The second guard would be back for him, meaning there would be little time to escape before her absence was known.
Her thoughts strayed to the early days of her acquaintance with Quinn, when he’d bound her hands together. Might she manage that with this man? No, because she would need both hands to bind him, meaning there would be no way to threaten him with the sword.
She had not thought this through far enough. What time was there?
Oh, Quinn, what shall I do now?
The guard made the decision for her.
He threw his weight forward, likely of the impression that she would balk and cringe away, lowering the sword enough for him to take it from her.
He had underestimated her determination.
She watched, horrified, as the tip of the sword pierced his throat and continued to go through as he moved forward. The metal simply disappeared. How was it possible? How was a man so fragile, when he appeared so strong and solid?
It all happened in less than a second, the sharp blade going through the man’s throat until it hit bone. Blood fl
owed freely from around the sword, running down his chest, soaking the tunic.
And still, they stared at one another. Ysmaine in horror, the guard in surprise. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead of words, blood poured out.
He dropped to his knees before falling sideways to the floor, still alive but with no chance of survival. She did not dare pull the sword from the wound, knowing how his blood would spurt everywhere and likely cover her.
She had seen a friend of her father’s, a member of Clan Fraser, wheeled to her home in the back of a cart after a fight with a rival clansman. The dirk which had skewered his throat had still been embedded deep.
When Connor Fraser had removed it in hopes of stopping the bleeding, there had been no hope. Such bleeding would not be stopped. The man had died in moments.
She would not remove the sword, and the guard had not the strength to do it on his own, not with his lifeforce spilling out all around him.
“I did not mean for that to happen,” she whispered, releasing the sword and backing away. “I did not. I would not have killed you. I am sorry. Please, forgive me.”
He stared at her from the floor, his eyes losing focus. Soon, he was still. Dead.
“Oh, no.” She covered her face, shaking, knowing there was no going back from murder. She’d killed a man, and that man worked for the Marquis. He would see to it that she was punished or hold the unfortunate event over her head for the rest of her days.
If the promise of her grandfather’s fortune was not enough to convince her to be his wife, the promise of prison and hanging would be.
No! That cannot happen!
She roused herself, more determined than ever to escape.
Would that she might drag the body away, hide it as she and Quinn had done in the woods. The man was far too heavy for her to manage on her own, and there would still be blood on the floor and a trail following to where she’d hidden him.
She might clean it, but that would take too much time. The second guard could return by then.
There was no choice but to leave him where he’d fallen and pray no one came to check on them for quite a while.
She tied Quinn’s purse around her waist and picked up the keys, then opened the door as quietly as she had the first time she’d left the bedchamber.
There was even less light thanks to the dying torches lining the walls, and less movement in the house. It was only a matter of holding the purse close to her body and keeping the keys still while she ran, taking every pain to remain silent.
Her feet were light as she ran, skimming the stone floors of the keep and over the earthen floor of the courtyard. The sky was full of clouds by then, an increasing wind bringing the smell of rain. Rain might help shield their escape, she thought as she slid along the wall until reaching the door to the dungeon.
When a gust of wind blew through, shaking the carts left in the courtyard and causing the horses to whinny in the nearby stables, she opened the squeaking door and hoped the surrounding noise masked the sound.
There was no time to light a torch, and the light might have given her away. She had strained to memorize the route from the door to Quinn’s cell when the guards dragged her from it, Geoffrey had taken a longer route, likely in order to confuse her and discourage a repeat visit.
There were few torches burning down there, but the faint light was enough for her to watch her step, at least. Anything to avoid the puddles and broken patches of floor which might have caused her to turn an ankle.
Right… left… left again… Her heart pounded sickeningly, her head spun. Only fear and panic kept her moving. If she stopped to think she might remember how she’d ended a man’s life and that memory would end her. She would not be able to go on.
“Quinn?” she whispered as she reached what she thought was the stretch of tunnel containing his cell. “Quinn? Are you here?”
What if the Marquis had moved him after she left? What if he was somewhere even worse? What if he was already dead? Cold terror touched her heart, making her shiver until her teeth chattered. “Quinn?”
“Here, lass!” He shook the door in question, and she held the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry of relief.
She opened the little window in the door, and there he was. “I have the keys.”
“I knew ye could do it, lass,” he beamed. “Hurry, now. We haven’t much time.”
He did not know the entirety of it, did he?
They certainly did not have much time. A cry of panic would go up in the house the moment her guard was discovered.
There was no time to think of that as her fingers fumbled with the keys, her hands shaking so badly it was a struggle just to guide the metal into the lock.
“Breathe, Ysmaine,” Quinn whispered. “Just breathe and move carefully.”
“I am not a horse,” she warned, her eyes never leaving the lock.
“What’s that?”
“I’ve heard you use that tone with the horses when they were startled. I am not a horse.”
He chuckled. “Even now, ye want to argue with me.”
On the seventh try, the key slid home and turned the lock. The door swung open, the moment it did, Quinn swept her up into his arms and pressed his mouth to hers in a deep, passionate kiss which took her breath away with its suddenness and the feeling it stirred to life throughout her body.
Her first kiss.
She curled her fingers in his hair, holding his head close for a dizzying moment before it was all over, and he released her.
Would that it could have taken place somewhere nicer, under less dire circumstances.
“Now, what shall we do?” she asked, taking him by the hand so she might lead him out the way she’d come in.
“We’ll have to take a horse from the stables and ride like the devil himself were after us,” Quinn whispered. To her eternal surprise, she heard laughter in his voice.
“I killed a guard,” she said, only to alert him to the truth of the danger they were in. To her even greater surprise, there was no emotion behind her confession. Perhaps that would come later, when they were safe.
“Och, lass,” he murmured, briefly squeezing her hand. “I’m sorry to hear it. We shall need to make haste, then.”
They reached the courtyard, with Quinn shielding Ysmaine behind his body as they dashed into the stables. “You’re as likely as any,” he muttered to one of the sleek young geldings in the stalls, chestnut brown and prancing proudly as he led it out.
“Can ye ride bareback, lass?” he asked. “There’s no time for a saddle.”
“I’ll do whatever I need to do,” she promised, watching him leap onto the horse’s back before he pulled her up to ride behind him. It was a strange sensation, nothing between her and the horse, his muscles flexing and shifting beneath her as Quinn used handfuls of the mane to guide it.
This would be the most dangerous moment of all, and she knew it.
“Hold onto me, lass,” Quinn whispered. “Do not let go. Do not look back. Hold onto the horse and hold onto me. That is all ye need do. Understood?”
“I understand.” She closed her eyes, the side of her face against his back as she clasped her hands at his stomach. It would be easier not to watch.
He drew a deep breath before kicking the gelding’s sides.
They bolted from the stable, hooves flying over the ground, with Ysmaine fighting to hold steady with her legs. All she heard was the pounding of hooves and the pounding of her heart as they rode from the castle, and that was as she preferred it.
She did not wish to hear anything from the castle.
Would that she might forget the terrible place existed.
30
There was no moon to see by. Hardly any light at all.
Perhaps this would work in their favor, providing cover as they fled.
“Yah! Yah!” he cried out, urging the horse to greater speed though it was already running full-out, dust flying in great clouds every time hoof struck grou
nd. And still, he rode harder, his only concern getting Ysmaine to safety.
Just as he’d told her not to look back, he could not afford to look over his shoulder to see whether the guards pursued them. Speed was the thing, and the element of surprise, both of which they had. He need only ride the horse to the village.
And then what?
He would have to put a plan together when that time came.
They had reached the woods when the rain began to fall, yet he could not bring himself to slow the horse. He could only hope its instincts along with his own would be enough to keep them from disaster.
“We seem to have a problem with rain!” Ysmaine shouted, and he realized she was laughing in the midst of the ride of their lives.
He could not have loved her more for it.
He thought he heard pounding behind them, as though a dozen or more horses were on the approach, but that might have been the pounding of blood rushing through his ears.
He glanced back only once—he had to, needed to know what they were up against—and spotted several pinpoints of light in the distance. Guards with torches.
They were no longer on the estate, but that did not mean Quinn could slow. The guards would not stop simply because they’d crossed the border. The Marquis would not allow them to stop.
Quinn wiped the rain from his eyes with one arm, blinking hard, wishing the storm might have held off until they had reached safety, then again, it could slow the guards, which would make it a blessing even if riding at top speed through deepening mud, half-blind, was hardly ideal.
“Did we make it?” Ysmaine called out.
“I would not stop to find out!” he laughed. Perhaps they had, though not for lack of effort on the part of the guards. Ysmaine had killed one of them, and if the rough treatment he’d received was any hint as to how they regarded those who’d killed one of their own, they would not easily allow for her escape.
Even in the midst of the frantic worry which drove him to ride ever harder, ever faster, he wondered what had driven her to kill. How had it come about? Had the guard threatened her? Or worse?
He turned back again, but a bend in the road made it impossible to see far enough behind them. There was no telling whether the guards had closed the distance between them.
