The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  Ailénor’s voice sounded from above, a desperate and pleading cry, followed by Rhiannon’s shrill laughter. Garreth’s whole being went rigid. He could not waste another moment. Somehow he must reach her.

  »«

  Ailénor sucked in her breath as Rhiannon’s nails bit into her arm and the knife pressed into her flesh. The woman continued to rant at her mother in a stinging voice, her words filled with loathing but lacking rationality.

  Ailénor dropped her glance over the edge of the stone steps, ignoring the leap of her pulse, and visually measured the distance. She and Rhiannon still stood high above the ground. If only they descended a few more steps, she might be able to wrench from Rhiannon’s hold and jump free. But with her hands tied behind her, she could not use them to break her fall. Likely, she would only succeed in breaking her neck.

  Ailénor looked to her mother and then her uncle. Rhiannon was not wise to their deception. Somewhere near, her father waited, she was sure of it. She could sense his presence. But not Garreth’s. Anguish tore at her heart afresh. God in heaven, what had become of him?

  Rhiannon forced her down another step. “You stole my rightful place!” she blazed at her mother.

  Suddenly Rhiannon fell silent — too silent — and shifted behind her. Ailénor rapidly scanned the courtyard to see what could be amiss. Her gaze fell on her uncle. His hood had slipped back slightly, enough for the morning’s rising sun to gild the bright golden hair framing his face.

  “What trick is this?” Rhiannon shrieked, hauling Ailénor backward, up several steps. “Who are you? Who? I say.” She raised the knife from Ailénor’s chest to her throat.

  “I am Rurik Atlison. ‘Tis my ship that brought Ailinn here to Cahercommaun.”

  As Ailénor rendered his words to Gaelic, her uncle stepped to her mother’s side.

  “And where is Lyting Atlison?” Rhiannon snapped. “The two of you are obviously kinsmen. Do not lie to me and tell me he is not here. I saw him standing on the shore below.”

  When neither Rurik nor Ailinn immediately replied, Rhiannon scrutinized the courtyard, twisting right and left, holding Ailénor firmly in her grasp.

  “Come forth,” she bellowed, “or the girl dies!”

  Lyting stepped into view, emerging from behind the stone structure that led to the souterrain. He remained there, not joining the others.

  “‘Tis over, Rhiannon,” he called out.

  Ailénor conveyed his words to Rhiannon. She hissed as additional men stepped forward from the shadows of the buildings. Ailénor recognized them to be seamen in service to her uncle. Disappointed, she realized Garreth was not among them.

  “Naught is over!” Rhiannon retorted. “If you wish your daughter to live, you will do as I say.”

  “Varya!” Rhiannon called out. When he did not appear, she shouted all the louder. “Blinne! Send Varya to me.”

  “Varya is dead,” Lyting proclaimed.

  Ailénor had yet to translate his words when her father reached behind the stone structure and brought forth the curved sword of the barbarian. He held it high for Rhiannon to see.

  “Dead.”

  Rhiannon screeched at the sight of the sword, knowing as did Ailénor that Varya would never part with it unless he was truly dead.

  But if he was dead, what of Garreth? Ailénor agonized. And how had the sword come into her father’s possession?

  Rhiannon spewed a string of curses and oaths, then abruptly broke into a keening wail, only to stop again and scourge those below with her tongue.

  Again Lyting spoke, this time Ailinn rendering his words. “There is no one to protect you now, Rhiannon. Varya is dead. You have no guard and are outnumbered. There is no escape. Release Ailénor unharmed, and no harm will befall you.”

  “Harm? Hah!” The words vaulted from Rhiannon’s throat. “Do you think your punishments worry me? What pain can you possibly inflict that I have not already endured? Pain is naught to me. Nor do I fear it.”

  Rhiannon drew Ailénor with her up the last step and onto the wall. “But I will not be denied my revenge. Ailinn must pay. And so must you, Lyting Atlison, for spurning me on the banks of the Dnieper.”

  The tone of Rhiannon’s voice changed again, growing strained, tormented. “I am Rhiannon,” she protested to the heavens. “Princess of the Casil-Eoganachts, daughter of the great ruri ri Mór, once destined to sit at Domnal’s side as Queen of Cashel.”

  Again her mood shifted, her grip tightening on Ailénor as her choler returned. “‘Twas your fault, Ailinn, that I was ruined that day. The Norsemen mistook you for me, sparing you and despoiling me. It should have been you they defiled. I wish it had been you!

  “I have waited for my revenge and I shall have it,” she continued bitterly. “And ‘twill be an even better vengeance than first planned. I can torture you for a time and kill you but once. But both your souls shall writhe in ceaseless agony and die ten thousand times when I take your daughter’s life.”

  “And the moment you do, Rhiannon,” Lyting’s voice sounded, “your life will be forfeit, too.”

  Ailénor dared cast a glance in her father’s direction, moving only her eyes. She beheld him with his bow raised and drawn taut, his arrow anchored on its target with deadly precision.

  Rhiannon gave a derisive laugh as Ailinn related Lyting’s warning. “Surely I shall die. But not by any of your hands. The day is still mine. I’ll not be robbed of my revenge.”

  For a hair’s breadth of a moment, the knife blade slackened at Ailénor’s throat, but at the same time Rhiannon hooked her arm through Ailénor’s and stepped back. Ailénor’s feet jerked from the stone wall, and together they plunged through the air, Rhiannon dragging her down like an anchor, the cliff face blurring before Ailénor’s eyes.

  Pain shot through Ailénor — feet, legs, hip, and shoulder — as something solid broke her fall and she crumpled atop it. A bird flapped away at the invasion, and Rhiannon grunted near her feet.

  Ailénor gasped for breath but otherwise remained motionless, astounded she was still alive. Gazing heavenward to the top of the cliff, she saw they had not fallen as far as she thought.

  Carefully she turned her head. And instantly froze as she realized she lay on a narrow shelf, jutting from the cliff’s face high above the sea. Ailénor pressed back against the cliff, petrified.

  Lying facedown at Ailénor’s feet, Rhiannon raised herself partially, spitting grit out of her mouth. She took her bearings, then drew her gaze toward Ailénor. Slowly she braced herself up on her elbows, bringing into view the knife she still clutched in her hand. Rhiannon smiled a thin serpent’s smile, one of victory.

  You cannot escape me,” she rasped, then coughed, an unpleasant, wheezing sound. “The day . . . is yet mine.”

  With a fevered look, Rhiannon thrust upward, raising the knife and lunging for Ailénor. But as her weight shifted, the shelf crumbled beneath her. Rhiannon clawed for Ailénor but caught only air as she plummeted from sight. Her scream echoed down the cliff. Then ceased altogether.

  Ailénor forgot to breathe. Paralyzed with shock and fear, she remained flattened against the cliff wall, her heart pounding in her chest, certain the remaining shelf would dissolve beneath her any second. She closed her eyes, terrified for what was to come.

  Truly Rhiannon would yet reap her revenge this day.

  »«

  Garreth leapt back as something hurtled past the opening of the cave. Dropping to his knees, he leaned out and looked down. His heart skipped to his throat as he beheld Ailénor and Rhiannon lying on a narrow projection.

  As he watched, Rhiannon rose up, a knife flashing in her hand. But in the same instant, the ledge broke apart. Garreth almost lost his grip on the edge of the cave floor as chunks of the cliff and a figure he knew to be Rhiannon hurtled to the sea.

  But where was Ailénor? He could not catch sight of her. He searched the waters below, then glanced again to the cliff face. His heart jolted once more as he saw her — just b
arely — pressed against the cliff on a tiny lip of stone.

  “Hamar, quickly,” he called.

  Hamar joined him in an instant and glanced down. Just as rapidly, he rose and took hold of the rope, measuring out a liberal length and anchoring it about his waist. “I’ll feed the line to you,” he said hastily as he moved to the wall and gripped the iron rings. “Go! Allez, allez!”

  Garreth took a firm hold of the rope tied about him. Standing with his back to the sea, he leapt backward out of the mouth of the cave and dropped through the air. As the rope went tight, Garreth swung back toward the wall, cushioning the impact with his legs.

  “Allez!” Hamar shouted from above.

  Again Garreth pushed off and felt the rope slacken as Hamar released it from the top. Garreth dropped dozens more feet, jolting to a stop just below Ailénor. She lay on a ledge off to his right, her eyes squeezed tight. Bit by bit, the shelf was disintegrating, its rubble falling like dark, gritty hailstones to the sea below. ‘Twould give way any moment.

  Planting his feet firmly on the face of the cliff, Garreth gripped the rope tight and “ran” across the rock to the left, picking up momentum. When he had gone far enough, he kicked out and swung back to the right. Passing wide of Ailénor, he grasped at the irregularities of the cliff’s surface to slow his speed and pull himself closer to its face. His direction reversed, and he began to skim left. As he came in line with Ailénor, he reached out and seized her about the waist, snatching her from the shelf just as it dissolved.

  Ailénor screamed, her eyes flying open, as they swung through the air and began to spin. Garreth held her locked in his muscled strength as they continued to whirl, using his legs to keep them from slamming against the rock.

  “I’ve got you, love. I’ve got you,” he avowed, panting for breath. “I’ll not let you fall. Not ever, my darling. Trust me.”

  Stunned and disoriented as they hung suspended in air, Ailénor focused on Garreth. Her eyes went wide, then began to spill great tears.

  “Garreth, you’re alive! You’re alive!” She lay her head against his chest and wept for joy.

  As Garreth held tight to Ailénor, Hamar called from above, saying the others had joined him and promising to draw them up in no time. With so many devoted to the effort, Garreth and Ailénor found themselves rising swiftly up the escarpment. Garreth looked skyward and now saw that Lady Ailinn and Lord Lyting watched them from Cahercommaun’ s wall.

  As they verged on the mouth of the cave, a half-dozen hands lay hold to them and pulled them to safety the two strongest proving to belong to Lord Rurik. The men lifted Garreth and Ailénor as one into the passage. Rurik immediately cut the bindings from Ailénor’s hands.

  “Have you any sharp pain anywhere, Ailénor? Have you broken any bones?”

  “Non, Uncle,” she replied in a small, whispery voice.

  “Though I am bruised to the bone and more than a little shaky.”

  “As well you should be. Quiet now.”

  Rurik turned his attention to Garreth and, together with Hamar, helped him unlock his arms from Ailénor. Garreth gritted his teeth at the pain and stiffness his muscles harbored for having been tested so long.

  Easing Ailénor from Garreth’s side, Rurik bid Hamar and Torfi to attend him, then examined his niece’s injuries.

  “Ailénor! Ailénor!” Ailinn’s voice echoed in the passage.

  Ailénor looked up as her parents appeared and rushed to her side.

  Gently Ailinn enfolded her daughter in her arms. “My child. Oh, my child,” she whispered brokenly.

  Lyting stroked Ailénor’s hair and uttered endearments, then, overcome with emotion, slipped his arms protectively around both his ladies.

  After much embracing and shedding of tears, and effusive praise and thankfulness to Garreth for his courageous efforts in saving Ailénor, the party abandoned the souterrain, their joy unbounded.

  Once in the courtyard, Rurik dispersed his crew to seek those dwelling in the hill-fort, then suggested they inspect the various buildings. Ailénor visibly paled.

  “I have no desire to return inside Rhiannon’s lair.” She drew her arms about herself as though chilled.

  “Nor do I,” Garreth added solemnly, then looked to her parents. “I shall accompany Ailénor outside the walls and wait with her by the outermost gate.” A smile touched his lips. “We would welcome the rest.”

  Lyting nodded his understanding, then turned to Ailinn. “Do you wish to join them while I assist the others?”

  “Non.” Her eyes darkened with her thoughts. “Long ago, certain belongings of my mother disappeared. I always suspected Rhiannon to have taken them. Mayhap we shall find them here, among those things she brought from Clonmel. I should like to look for them.”

  As the couples parted, and Garreth escorted Ailénor toward the gate, Ailinn’s gaze lingered after them with motherly interest.

  She had not missed the warmth that appeared in her daughter’s eyes each time she looked on Garreth. Now, as the two passed through the gate, she observed Garreth lifting his hand to Ailénor’s waist. ‘Twas not an impersonal gesture bred by good manners, but a protective, possessive one. The corners of Ailinn’s mouth drew upward in a meditative smile.

  “Elskan mín, do you come?”

  Ailinn glanced to Lyting and found him holding out his hand to her.

  “Mais oui.” She joined him at once and, taking his hand, entered Rhiannon’s hall.

  Outside the hill-fort, Ailénor and Garreth settled down in the shade of its wall. As they waited, Ailénor grew quiet, somber. Slipping an arm about her, Garreth drew her against him.

  “Does something trouble you, my heart?”

  A single tear slid over her cheek. “Oh, Garreth, I thought you were dead. I thought Varya .”

  “Shhh, now,” Garreth soothed, dropping a kiss to her head. “‘Tis a long, unpleasant tale that can wait for a later time.” Garreth glanced down at his ruined clothes, covered with peat, then at Ailénor’s. “Ah, my heart. Look what I have done to your gown.”

  Ailénor likewise glanced at her sullied clothes, the front darkened with the peat.

  “A small price for so gallant a rescue.” She smiled up at him and fingered away a tear. “At least, since ‘tis already soiled, you will have no worry holding me.” Her gaze dropped to his lips. “And I feel greatly in need of being held . . . and kissed . . . just now.”

  Garreth’s heart warmed with love. “Let it never be said I denied my lady.”

  As his mouth moved over hers and tasted her sweetness, Ailénor’s arms stole upward around his neck.

  »«

  While Rurik and the crewmen spoke with the servants, informing them they were now free, Lyting and Ailinn explored Rhiannon’s chambers. The search yielded naught of the brooches and rings Ailinn sought, but she was content to have looked for them and know she did not leave them behind.

  As Lyting collected his weapons, Ailinn paused at the portal in the hall. Finding her deep in thought, he placed an arm around her shoulder.

  “Elskan mín?”

  Ailinn continued to gaze into the courtyard and smiled softly. “I have a feeling Ailénor and Garreth care for one another in a special way.”

  “A special way?”

  She brought her eyes to his. “‘Tis not surprising, my love. They were drawn to one another from the first, when they met in Rouen, and they’ve spent considerable time since. ‘Tis natural their feelings should blossom.”

  “Blossom?” Lyting’s brow deepened.

  Ailinn gave a light laugh and, raising on tiptoe, kissed Lyting’s cheek. “Blossom,” she repeated with certainty.

  Lyting slung his bow and quiver of arrows to his back, then caught up the barbarian’s sword from where it rested, propped against the framework of the door.

  “Garreth should have this,” he said pensively, changing the subject.

  “He might not want the reminder.” Ailinn gave a shudder at the wicked-looking blade.r />
  “Still, I should offer it.”

  “Why don’t you ask him then? They are outside the gate. I’ll see if Rurik and the men are ready to leave. I shall also convey our thoughts concerning the wealth of Rhiannon’s possessions — that they should be distributed among the poor souls forced to serve her. I am certain the others will agree ‘tis the compassionate thing to do.”

  Lyting traversed the courtyard and passed through the triple gates. As he emerged from the last, his feet took root. Garreth and Ailénor were consumed in a passionate kiss — she lying partially atop Garreth, he with his hand resting intimately upon her backside. Garreth caressed her, but rather than shrinking from the familiarity, Ailénor pressed against him with a moan of pleasure.

  A Norse oath vaulted from Lyting’s throat, his bellow sending the two scrambling apart.

  Ailénor flushed furiously. “Papa! I . . . we . . .”

  The guilty looks they both wore told Lyting all he needed or wanted to know. Ailénor was no longer a virgin, and the man before him was the one who had made it so!

  Furious at the discovery and already taxed beyond his limits this day, Lyting shouted back terse orders to the crewmen who were just now emerging from the gate. Surprise lit their faces, but they obeyed his commands, unsheathing their blades and hastening to surround Garreth.

  Rurik and Ailinn hurried to join them, shocked to see the events unfolding. But Lyting would brook no interference in the matter, his paternal sensibilities outraged.

  “Broðir, take Ailénor and her mother with you to Valsemé. Await my arrival there. I shall take the ship we found grounded on the shore below and Lars and Geir to help man it. I shall also take Garreth. ‘Twould seem Ailénor fared little better among the Saxons than the Irish.”

  Raising the barbarian’s sword, Lyting signaled the men to conduct Garreth toward the cliff path and lead him down to the sea. He then turned on his heel, his jaw set like granite.