by Diana Cosby
The soft tap of approaching steps drew her gaze to the doorway.
A tall, dignified man entered. He walked toward her, his heraldic surcoat spun of royal blue silk and embroidered with gold fleur-de-lis. His straight brown hair scraped the edge of his shoulders, hard angles outlining his square jaw. Hazel eyes met hers, softening in relief.
Did she know this man? From the confidence in which he entered her chamber, ’twould appear so. But she had no memory of him.
“Sire,” he said as he bowed to her father. He faced Marie, a tender smile touching his lips. “It is good to see you awake.” Disquiet shadowed his gaze as he glanced toward the king, then back to her. “And we are thankful for your safe return.”
“Marie, may I introduce to you Gaston de Croix, Duke of Vocette, your betrothed.”
Betrothed! Marie clutched the bed linen, unable to shake her disquiet at this meeting. “We have met before?” Her heart pounded as she awaited his confirmation.
“Non,” Gaston replied as he lifted her hand. He pressed a kiss on her knuckles. “ ’Tis my pleasure, my lady.”
Heat stroked her face because she wasn’t sure what to say, and was even more confused by how her pulse raced. Why would meeting her betrothed cause her such distress? She must have been aware of her upcoming marriage.
“I am sorry,” Marie said, fighting for calm, “I am having difficulty remembering.”
“Understandable after your ordeal,” the duke said.
Ordeal. He meant her kidnapping, an event of which she had no memory. “As we are affianced, please, use my given name, Marie.”
He nodded. “Please do me the honor of calling me Gaston.”
“Of course.” Why did thinking of him in a familiar light leave her on edge?
Her father’s gaze shifted to the duke. “You have taken care of the task we discussed?”
“Oui, Sire.” His jaw tightened with anger. “He will be dealt with this day.”
A chill swept through Marie at the coldness of her betrothed’s words. She glanced at her father. “Who will be dealt with?”
The king’s mouth thinned into a hard line. “We have caught one of the Scots involved in your abduction. Before I am through, he will name all who are involved.”
“An action they shall regret,” Gaston stated.
A shiver slid through Marie. Though she’d never witnessed the methods her father’s guards used to extract confessions, she’d heard of the rack, flogging, and other techniques employed to loosen an unwilling tongue.
A sense of urgency filled her, but the grogginess coating her mind smothered her ability to find the reason. “Father, I . . .” Why couldn’t she recall the past weeks? And when she did, would she wish otherwise?
The king leaned closer. “What is it?”
A low pounding built in her head as she struggled to remember. “It has something to do with the Scot.”
“I should not have spoken of your capture,” her father said. “I have upset you when you need to keep calm and rest.”
“Non, I . . .” She pushed herself into a sitting position. “There is something important that I must tell you, it is only that . . .” Her mind blurred.
“Marie, I must add my agreement to your father’s,” the duke added. “You are still weak.”
King Philip waved his hand in a subtle gesture, and a thin, somber man stepped into view. “See that she is given herbs to help her sleep.”
The man bowed. “Oui, Your Majesty.”
She recognized her father’s personal physician. “I would rather not—”
“You are to rest,” her father stated. “We shall discuss this later.”
Her betrothed again raised her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss on her knuckles. “I shall return to visit after we sup.” With a formal bow, he departed, his stride sure, that of a man confident in his abilities. A man who took care of what was his.
Coldness crept through her at the thought of the latter. Why? She should be pleased at his protectiveness, a trait so like her father’s.
“My lady.” Her father’s physician held out a cup of water warmed over the fire and sprinkled with herbs; steam drifted upward in wispy tendrils.
Exhausted, she accepted the healing brew. After a sip to ensure it was not too hot, she gulped the liquid in three swallows and then returned the cup to the side table.
Her father nodded his satisfaction and dismissed the physician.
Alone, the king knelt beside her bed, his brow wrinkled with worry. “I will return once I am informed you have awakened.” He pressed a kiss on her cheek and then exited the chamber.
A lethargic warmth slid through her. Marie embraced the numbness, sinking into the luxurious comfort of her bed. As she gave in to blissful sleep, a nagging that she’d forgotten something of great importance persisted.
Beyond Colyne’s dank cell, the distant calls of prisoners echoed with macabre finality. Outside, rain continued to batter the castle.
Sprawled on the floor, he struggled against the blackened void of pain that threatened to suck him back under. How long had he lost consciousness this time? Somewhere between when they’d dragged him back to his cell and now, the red-orange rays of sunrise had become smothered by the angry churn of gray.
A chill cut through his body, then another. He scanned his surroundings, the stench almost making him sick. Except, after the last several hours of being tortured to gain a confession, he couldna scrape up the energy to move, much less retch.
He awaited the echo of steps announcing the guards’ arrival. They would return again and again, until he admitted his part in Marie’s abduction.
Even if ’twas a lie.
Colyne gritted his teeth as another spasm of pain tore through his body. His vision hazed, but he forced himself to remain awake.
A sword’s wrath; why was he even bothering? He should let go, succumb to the dark void. At least then he wouldna feel. Or remember these last few days of misery.
Since the king believed him one of the Scottish rebels who had taken part in his daughter’s abduction, he would never be able to see Marie again or tell her that he loved her.
Regret dragged his grief deeper as he thought of her battling a fever as the guards had hauled him from the inn. He stared at the gray walls marred by aged blood and the rust of forgotten chains.
Steps thudded past his cell. A short distance away, they paused.
Muted voices.
The creak of a door opening.
A curt order.
A man’s plea to spare his life reverberated through the dungeon.
Colyne fought to quell his fear, the feeling of inevitability. How many times since his incarceration had he heard the same, or the din of the crowd outside as they cheered for the executioner to swing his ax? He swallowed hard. ’Twas a fate he could envision all too well.
Footsteps again sounded. This time they halted outside his cell. Keys grated in the lock, a heavy, loud clank.
He braced himself.
The door opened with a shuddered groan. The thud of boots against the stone floor announced he had a visitor. Several, in fact.
“Look at me,” a guard ordered as he shoved his boot into Colyne’s side.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he complied. Instead of the grizzled face of a dungeon guard, a well-dressed man stared down at him. Framed by golden hair the color of sunlight were eyes so filled with hatred, if he’d claimed to be the devil, Colyne would have believed him. Stunned, he recognized the man dressed in a surcoat and a mantle of vermeil—King Philip.
As the monarch studied Colyne, his expression grew more ominous. “Lift him to his feet.” Venom raked his words.
The guards hauled Colyne up.
At the agony raging through his body, he smothered a scream.
Another man with straight, shoulder-length brown hair strode to the king’s side. Caustic hazel eyes bored through him.
Colyne didna recognize the man, but the gold fleurs-de-lis s
ewed on his surcoat, along with his arrogant stance, ended any doubt. Marie’s betrothed. His heart slammed in his chest. The man she would wed.
Colyne wanted to scream that Marie belonged to him. That he loved her. “Sire,” he forced out, trying to make his tongue create the words, aware this was his only chance to explain the misunderstanding.
The king nodded to his guard.
The man’s fist lashed out; Colyne’s head snapped back.
“How dare you abduct my daughter?” King Philip boomed.
The coppery taste of blood filled Colyne’s mouth. By the grace of God! King Philip didna know the truth; Marie must still have a fever, as he’d suspected. Or . . .
God, nay!
His knees buckled and blackness threatened. Colyne struggled for consciousness. She couldna be dead. “I—”
The king again nodded to the guard.
The man’s fist rammed into Colyne’s gut.
On a groan, he doubled over. Before he could catch his breath, Marie’s betrothed grabbed Colyne’s hair and jerked his head up.
“But that was not enough for you, was it?” The duke nodded to a guard.
The man drove his fist into Colyne’s jaw.
Bones crunched. A ringing reverberated in Colyne’s ears and the room began to spin. Needing to explain, he pulled himself back to consciousness.
Barely.
“My physician has informed me that my daughter has lost her innocence,” King Philip charged with lethal menace. He shoved Colyne’s jaw against the stone wall. “She had bruises around her neck, her wrists, and others on her body. You will regret having tied her up and raped her!”
Visions of making love with Marie slid through Colyne’s mind, of her beauty, of her sensual awakening. Nae the brutality her father painted or her betrothed believed. “Nay, we . . .” Colyne fought to explain that she’d acquired the bruises when the Englishmen had seized her on the dock in Glasgow as well as their escape from the ship, but pain crushed his words. We made love, he silently finished.
“Admit the truth,” Marie’s betrothed demanded.
Colyne stared at King Philip, forced his mouth to form words he wished to tell Marie instead. “I love her.”
“You love her?” The king’s indignation boomed through the cell. His nostrils flared. “How dare you twist your depraved actions into self-serving righteousness.”
“Nay.” Colyne’s mind blurred. Somehow, he had to make her father understand. “Marie—”
“Silence! How dare you speak my daughter’s name? You are unworthy to breathe. Now,” he said with deadly authority, “you shall pay for your transgressions!”
Colyne tried to speak, but his tongue, swollen and parched, hindered his labored attempts. “I did nae abduct her,” he managed to force out. “The Duke of . . .” His throat worked as he fought to speak. “The Duke of Renard—”
“Enough of your lies!” the king’s roared.
“Aye,” her betrothed agreed with disgust. “The Duke of Renard warned us the Scot would try to accuse him of such treachery.”
“Ask your daughter,” Colyne rasped as he frantically looked from one man to the other, his fears of the English duke having reached the king’s ear before he’d arrived tragically true.
An ominous smile slanted across King Philip’s face. “I have. Thank God she remembers naught. But you—” His glare pierced Colyne like a dagger rammed into his chest. “You will regret the day you dared touch her.” The king stalked to the open door. At the entry, he glared at Colyne. “At dawn, behead him.”
Like enraged hornets swarming around their hive, the drone of the crowd cut through Marie’s slumber. Groggy, she glanced around.
Her blanket lay rumpled, as if she’d tossed and turned while she’d slept. Nearby, a jug of water sat half full, and her cup lay overturned, further evidence of her disturbed sleep.
A sound blared from the courtyard.
The crowd cheered.
“Papa?”
She remained alone.
With a frown, she rubbed sleep from her eyes, frustrated that she couldn’t rid herself of the sensation that something was wrong.
Another cheer from outside piled onto her disquiet.
Marie turned to the open window, the shutters pulled wide, exposing a pale, cloudless, blue morning sky.
As she’d slept through the night, on one of his visits after the storm had passed, her father must have opened the window.
Cheers rose again.
She shoved her remaining covers aside. Her head swam as she stood.
“Marie, what are you doing out of your bed?”
At her maid’s worried voice, she started. “Felyse.” She fought to conceal her weakened state as her maid entered her chamber, not wishing to worry her further. Over the years they’d become friends. And whenever she’d taken sick, Felyse fussed over her as if she were her own child.
“You should not be out of bed, my lady,” she gently chided. At another distant cheer, the slender woman with her graying hair neatly secured in a braid scowled at the window. Fury blazed in her eyes as she walked over and closed the shutters with a quick snap.
Somber light smothered the room.
“Is it the Scot being executed?” Marie asked.
Her maid stiffened. “Oui.”
Disturbed by the thought, Marie rubbed her arms against the sudden chill. Even with the window closed, she could hear that the increasing shouts had taken on a fevered pitch, the jeers and calls for death seeping into the protected silence. “How many men have they caught?”
“Only the one.”
Somehow, she had known. “I would like to see him when he walks through the crowd.” Mayhap his face would prod her memories.
The maid pursed her lips in displeasure. “It is unwise for you to be up and about, nor would I wish you to endure further distress.”
“For a moment. Please.”
“I should insist you return to bed.” The maid hesitated, as if mulling the wisdom of conceding, and then nodded. “For a short time.” She opened the window and grudgingly stepped aside.
Prickles of tension wove through Marie as she crossed the chamber, her feet sinking into the burgundy woolen rug spread on the cold floor. At the window, she clenched the stone, still cool from the rain.
Below, the crowd spread out before her like a macabre sea to witness a man’s execution.
Sickened by their grotesque fervor, she looked past the throng filling the bailey to where an elevated wooden platform stood. A large hooded man with an axe waited near the center. She searched the crowd for a man being led through by her father’s guards.
Why did thoughts of her abductor cause her such concern?
Her maid touched her forearm. “You are trembling. You must return to your bed.”
“A moment more.”
“Not a whisper longer, my lady.”
Marie’s pulse raced as she scanned the path to the dungeon.
The throng jostled and then shifted back.
Her father’s guards moved forward, others in their wake. Between them, a man stumbled into view.
The prisoner.
Jeers rose from the crowd as he was led past.
At the high-pitched scream for the Scot’s death, Marie leaned out the window in hopes of seeing him better. She still couldn’t make out his face.
Frustrated, she withdrew, halted. Angled on a ledge near the hearth sat the volume of tales of King Arthur her father had gifted her with on her eighth birthday. A book rich with tales of Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.
Like floodwaters as they rushed to engulf all within its path, memories flooded her mind. Her journey across Scotland with Colyne. Their ensuing voyage to France. How they’d made love. And how much she loved him. Tears blurred her eyes.
Mon Dieu, how could she have forgotten him?
She started to shake.
Felyse caught her by the shoulders. “I should not have condoned your getting up. You need to r
est, not worry about a man who is better off dead.”
The writ! She was mistaken. The man below couldn’t be Colyne. Once he’d shown the guards the document from Robert Bruce, they would have immediately escorted him to her father, who would have read the Guardian of Scotland’s warning of the English Duke of Renard’s treachery.
Except her father had not mentioned the writ. And his references to the Scot had been filled with disgust. “On with you now. ’Tis rest you need, not staying up and tiring yourself further.”
Foreboding filled Marie. “Tell me the man’s name!”
The older woman scowled. “ ’Tis the Earl of Strathcliff.”
It couldn’t be! “What about the writ?” At her maid’s blank stare, she understood. Her father hadn’t seen it. Had Colyne lost it when he’d swum with her to shore? “There has been a mistake. The Earl of Strathcliff did not abduct me; he saved my life.”
Her maid cast a frantic glance toward the window.
Mon Dieu! On shaky limbs, Marie pulled free and ran to the door. At the entry, she caught a guard’s shoulder. “Find the king. He must stop the execution.”
“Oui, my lady.” Steps echoed as the guard rushed to do her bidding.
A cheer echoed from below. Then a chant for death rose from the crowd.
Panic swept her. Colyne must be nearing the platform. If she waited for her father’s intervention, it might be too late!
Ignoring her body’s protests, Marie bolted down the corridor. And prayed she wouldn’t be too late.
Chapter 19
The guard shoved Colyne. “Move along.”
Weakened from days of torture, Colyne stumbled. He righted himself. Barely.
“Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!” the onlookers chanted as they parted before him like an angry sea.
An overripe apple slammed the side of his face, the foul juice smearing his cheek. A clump of mud splattered against his chest.
On trembling legs, Colyne wove forward.
“Move back,” a king’s man bellowed.
Instead, spewing curses and threats, the crowd surged forward. Hands tore at Colyne’s clothes, his hair, stripping him of whatever they could yank loose. Beneath the assault, he collapsed to his knees.
