by Stone, Lyn
She had brought all this on the people of Byelough, on Alan and his family, on Christiana and herself.
Honor knew she could not place all the blame on her father’s head for what had happened. If she had played the dutiful child, none would have been wounded this day. No one would be in danger now but herself.
If only she had done what she ought.
Alan did not return to the solar. Honor needed time alone tonight, he reasoned. Seeing her father had upset her terribly and he did not know what he could say to alter that.
Hume had beaten and misused her over the years. For that alone, Alan wanted to kill him. He might do it yet.
“A bit like holding a wolf by the throat, having Hume within the keep,” he said to his father.
“Better here than out there, don’t you think?”
“Aye, but it was a mad thing you and Melior did, Da. You could have been captured. And if I refused to trade his daughter for my father, he might have killed you.”
His father laughed and shook his head. “If you refused to trade? You mean when you refused. You’d never have exchanged her for me, nor would I have expected it.”
Alan lay down next to the fire and curled his plaid around him. “Go to bed, Da. We’ll tend to Hume come the morning.”
“You will sleep here in the hall? What of Honor? You would leave her all alone in there after what has just happened?” He pointed toward the solar door. “What will she think?”
“You tend to your wife, old man. I’ll tend to mine.” With that, he closed his eyes and dismissed his father.
Before he slept, the thought occurred to him that Honor still might try something foolish. What if she attempted to see her father? Suppose she got some notion of going out to Hume’s men to prevent another attack in the morning. He didn’t think she would. But just the same, he got up and repositioned himself across the threshold of the solar.
Just before dawn, Alan rose and went to fetch Hume from the storeroom. He hauled the man upright and dragged him through the kitchens, up the stairs and back into the hall. There he deposited him in one of the two chairs.
Alan sat on the corner of the nearest table, swinging one leg and observing while his prisoner gathered his wits. Here was one Scot gone soft, Alan thought. Too much of the good life. That needed fixing.
“Where is my daughter?” Hume demanded.
“’Tis naught to you. I’d say ye’ve greater worries at the moment.”
Hume glared at him and remained silent.
“We’re going to speak with yer men at first light,” Alan said conversationally. “And ye will order them back to France.”
“Ha! And leave me no chance of rescue? I am no madman!”
“A matter of opinion, that, and ‘tis certainly not my own,” Alan said. “Yer actions thus far make me think ye’re quite daft. Who but an addle-pate would spend so much effort draggin’ an unwilling daughter—a wellmarried one, ta boot—back to a home she fled in terror?”
“The ungrateful minx betrayed me!” Hume shouted.
Alan backhanded him across the face, splitting his lip. “Have a care, Hume. I hold yer life in these hands.”
“You dare not kill me. My men will take this place apart stone by stone, burn what’s left and spit you over the coals.”
“I canna fer the life of me think why they would do that, Hume. Knowin’ as they do there’ll be none to reward ’em for it,” Alan replied. “For ye see, I’ll be slitting your throat before that ram of yers makes another dent in my gates. Instead of burning oil, yer own life’s blood will be pourin’ over their heads as I hold ye by the heels. I’ll do it, Hume, make no mistake. I never lie.”
Hume grunted in disgust. “Then why would you cozen a lass who does so with every breath? She lied to me, at long last pretending to agree to the match, and so to the man I betrothed her to! She likely lied to Tavish Ellerby as well. Otherwise, he’d not have wed her without my consent. Do you trust a woman with such a false tongue in her head? Why the devil would you want her?”
Alan cocked one brow and pretended to give that thought. “Why the devil would you?”
“I told you! I have plans for her. The comte de Trouville still expects to wed her and I—”
“That he’ll not do. And she canna wed him, for she is wed to me.”
“Numbwit! She will be a widow ere I leave this place!”
Alan smiled. “Ah, but she’ll be an orphan first.”
Hume said nothing further, and refused to meet Alan’s eyes. He shifted in his chair as though to make himself more comfortable.
A prickling on the back of Alan’s neck told him someone approached from behind. When he turned, he saw Honor’s pale face. He reached out and took her hand. “Go back to bed, Honor.”
She shook her head, her eyes trained on her father.
“So, here is the faithless cat come to gloat, eh?” Hume growled. Blood dripped from his split lip. “Are you happy now?”
Honor stared at him and then at Alan. “You hit him?”
“Aye, I did,” Alan admitted. “Apparently no’ hard enough for his mouth still works.” He smiled at her and caressed the back of her hand with his thumb. “Why don’t ye go see to the babe?”
Her hand jerked from his and flew to her mouth as she moaned. “Oh, no!”
“Babe?” Hume croaked. “You have a babe? Whose babe?”
“Mine,” Alan answered smoothly. “We have a daughter.” He thought he saw a brief flash of wistfulness in the older man’s eyes. Surely a trick of the firelight, but mayhaps not. It wouldn’t hurt to know just how soft Hume was inside that hard shell of his.
Alan continued, “She is a lovely wee bairn, much like her mother. Ye have a fine granddaughter, Hume. Would ye like to see her?”
“No! Never!” Honor cried and dashed from the hall to the alcove where Kit slept with Nan.
Hume’s eyes followed her, a look on his face that Alan found unreadable.
“’Tis time. We’ll go out and await yer men,” Alan said. “I advise ye to do exactly as I say, else this’ll be the last sunrise ye see.”
Honor watched from behind the curtain as Alan and her father left the hall. A few moments later, Adam descended the stair and followed. The men who passed the night on pallets along the perimeter of the hall must have gone out earlier. The one man seriously wounded still slept.
Her fear gave way to curiosity. What would Alan do once her father’s men arrived? A bigger question, what would her father do? Would he demand they attack despite the risk to himself? It would be just like him to do such a thing. She had to know.
Striding across the hall with determination, Honor let herself out and hurried down the steps and across the bailey. She stopped at the foot of the wall-walk steps and waited.
The creaking of wheels upon which the battering ram rode broke the silence just as the sun shot its first rays into the gray-pink dawn.
“Halt there!” Alan shouted loudly in French. The creaking stopped. Someone below roared her father’s name.
“We hold your lord. He has orders for you,” Alan’s voice boomed out in the stillness.
Honor stepped back so that she could see what was happening on the parapet. Alan held her father with a long blade against his throat. Father Dennis stood close, ostensibly ready to shrive the corpse.
Again Alan spoke, this time in English, “Tell them, Hume, or I’ll kill you here and now!”
Never had Honor heard so chilling a tone. Not at his worst, had her father sounded so threatening as did her husband. Here was a man she did not know at all. Vicious, cold and deadly. Frightening. Had she truly wished him this way?
His sudden language switch made Honor aware of something. The words he had spoken to her father’s men were not the broken phrases of a man speaking a strange tongue. Alan had lied to her. His French had sounded perfect.
“Go...go home! Leave,” her father called out.
“Not without our pay, my lord. We have no gold to buy ou
r passage back.”
Father Dennis stepped up to the wall and dropped a sack that clinked when it hit the ground outside.
“Take it and go,” Alan demanded, again in their language.
Honor heard the buzzing of heated conversation outside the walls. Then a deep voice questioned, “What of our lord Hume? Will you allow him to leave with us?”
After a whispered conversation with the priest, he answered, “He stays!”
“Do we have your word you will not harm him?” the voice boomed.
Hesitation, a brief consultation, and then, “You have my word that he will die if you are not gone by noon. Once he is dead, you may take him.”
The voice demanded assurance. “If we do leave, will you release him later?”
Alan remained silent, his knife steady beneath her father’s chin. Honor wished she could see over the wall. Were they going as Alan had ordered?
Alan’s father quit the wall-walk first. When he saw her standing there, he took her arm and led her across the bailey and back to the hall. “They are riding away,” he muttered as they walked.
Honor said the first thing on her mind. “He speaks French.”
Adam turned to her in surprise. “Who, Alan? Of course he speaks French. Latin and Gaelic, as well. Even picked up a bit of Italian from our minstrel. Always liked English best, though. Our Saxon blood, I suppose.” His chest swelled with pride.
Honor pressed her lips together to hold in a curse. Lord Adam opened the door for her and they entered the hall. Honor kept walking, head down, deep in thought. When she did speak, she tried to sound unconcerned. “All that accomplished by age seven? Remarkable. I would wager he had no problem at all with his letters, either.”
“None at all! Could write and read, though we had no books about to give him much practice. Taught him myself.”
“I see,” she said. “Would you excuse me, my lord?”
“Da. Why don’t you call me Da as Alan does. Unless you call your own father that... oh, sorry. For a moment I forgot... well, never mind.”
“You can talk about him, for heaven’s sake. He is still my father. And the names I have called him would burn your ears.” With that, she left him, entered her solar and slammed the door behind her.
Her anger knew no limits in that moment. Alan had played her like a fish on a string! Her own lies held no candle to his! She knew now who had written that letter ordering her to marry him.
Devilish beggar probably never knew Tavish well at all. Likely tricked Tavish into signing that paper and then filled in the rest in a shaky hand to disguise his own writing. Lord, could she trust no man in this world?
All his prattle about never lying and how honesty meant everything to him! That was but smoke to cover his own foul tricks. And to think how he had preyed on her sympathy. How her own guilt had eaten away at her because he was so damned honest!
Well, at least he dare not take her to task for the things she had done when his own dealings were so much worse. She had only lied to escape a dreaded marriage. He had lied for the sake of greed, pure and simple. He had wanted Byelough Keep, and had taken it by guile.
And now he had her in the bargain. He would soon wish he had found someone other than Tavish Ellerby to swindle, she vowed to herself. He had yet to guess what lengths she would go to in order to look-after her own interests.
Alan of Strode was due a rude awakening.
Chapter Thirteen
Alan escorted Hume back to the keep. No one spoke as they entered the hall.
Lady Janet sat before the fire holding young Richard, who was wrapped tightly in a blanket. Hume slowed his step to regard the woman and child with open curiosity. He must have marked the child’s age and decided it was too old to be Honor’s, for he looked disappointed.
Alan delivered a push that sent the man on to the kitchen and into his storeroom prison.
“I’ll not bind you again, but you will remain here,” Alan said, ushering him inside. He withdrew his dagger and sliced the ropes from Hume’s wrists.
The man bristled as he rubbed at the red welts on his arms. “I will not abide this, Strode. Surely even you know that nobles are allowed freedom within the walls so long as they give assurance they’ll not attempt escape. Will you not accept my word?”
“I’d not accept a crust of bread from ye were I starving to death,” Alan replied. “Think on how yer daughter must have felt when ye locked her away. With rats fer company and the walls closing in.” He gazed steadily at the man and raised one brow. “She must ha’ dreaded each beating ye threatened as well.”
Hume drew himself up and threw out his chest. “You would not dare beat me!”
Alan smiled his most evil smile.
“B-but that is unconscionable!” he sputtered, “To put lash to a defenseless man is—”
“Not quite so wicked as thrashing a wee defenseless lass, is it now? Dwell on yer cruelty to her, Hume. Regret it to yer last day.”
With that admonition, Alan slammed the door and bolted it. He grinned at the stream of foul curses clearly audible through the sturdy oak panel.
For the moment, he had dealt with Hume. He had purposefully given the man the wrong idea about his fate just to make him worry. No lies exactly, but close enough. Alan felt no guilt over that, surprisingly.
He did wonder just what he really would do with she man. If he turned him out, Hume would only gather his forces and strike again, this time harder and with full knowledge of the secret entrance and the sparsity of fighting men within Byelough.
If he did kill or even beat Hume, there could be repercussions. As he understood it, Hume provided information on the workings of the French court for the Bruce. Alan doubted King Rob would appreciate the loss of Hume’s services.
The only thing Alan could think to do was detain him until Bruce returned from England and could settle matters. Alan and Honor had wed under Bruce’s direction, after all. Surely on orders from the King of Scotland, Hume would hie back to France and leave them be. He was still a Scot, after all, and subject to obey his sovereign.
For the rest of the day, Alan trained his triumphant troops, saw to the remaining stores and planned how he would go about rebuilding the village.
He delayed the confrontation with Honor because he feared hearing what she might demand with regard to Hume. Would she want his execution? Unfortunately no law he had ever heard about supported such a punishment. Though it should, the mistreatment of a daughter held no dire consequences at all.
The thought that Honor truly might wish Hume’s death gave Alan pause. How could such a soul as she—so gentle in all other respects—desire the death of her own father?
He had once hated his own sire for destroying a sevenyear-old’s trust, but loved him nonetheless, simply because he had given him life.
Honor wanted retribution for her hurts, but Alan doubted she could bear the guilt that ensued once she saw it carried out. Whatever Hume had done to her, he was the only father she had. What a coil, this love-hate thing for an errant parent.
Alan counted himself more decisive than most, but he could think of no ready solution to his own contrary wishes, let alone those he feared Honor entertained.
Honor remained in her solar all day, pacing angrily and rehearsing the diatribe she planned to inflict on her husband for his venality: She tried and discarded numerous alternatives.
Her first thought—an outright attack on his person with a blunt weapon—certainly would not work. Neither would railing and gnashing of teeth. He would likely laugh at either tactic. Weeping and instilling guilt held possibilities. Tears undid him. Unless that reaction was merely a pretense of compassion.
The only thing concerning Alan of Strode that she held as a certain truth was his desire for her. Men could not pretend about that. But denying him her body would prove a less than useless endeavor. He could simply take her and have done with it.
Suddenly Honor knew what she would do. Her response and affection increa
sed his pleasure. No doubt of that. She would withhold both. He would find a cold bed this night and every other, a stiff and unyielding bedmate who offered only scorn for his efforts. Her anger surely would douse any desirous feelings on her part.
The decision boosted her spirits and gave her at least a small sense of control over her life. If there was anything she hated, it was the idea that a man—any man—could assume full power over her. How could she have forgotten that, even for a moment? Her weapons against it might be few and paltry, but use them she would and right diligently.
She would let him know she knew of his deception. If he understood French so well, then she would give him something to understand. Nothing would she hold back. He would not be able to reprimand her for her accusations and insults to him without admitting he knew the language. And that alone would prove the truth of his perfidy. The liar. She wished she knew how to curse in Latin, for that would give her twice the pleasure.
What did she have to lose? Alan had already done what she wanted. He had trained her men to defend the keep, few though they were. Thanks to his making Ian Gray Christiana’s godfather, Honor no longer stood in danger of abduction by that cousin of his. And Alan had rendered her father harmless.
Her only other worry, the comte de Trouville, did not even know her whereabouts. Honor was certain her father had not involved him in any way or the comte would be here now, exacting his revenge.
When she thought on things in that respect, her machinations had proved quite successful thus far. She had what she wanted. Safety.
She could deal with the small problem of deceiving a husband who had deceived her first. At least he did not resort to cruelty. Even as she thought that, the picture of Alan holding a knife to her father’s throat, his voice filled with deadly venomous threats, set her quaking. And Alan had struck him as well, she remembered. While he was bound.
She shook off the qualms and took a steadying breath. Alan would never strike her. He would never lock her away. Her heart beat faster. But had he not threatened to do just that when he thought she might leave the keep and surrender herself?
