She swallowed the lump in her throat as he pecked a kiss on her lips. “Hurry back. Be careful with your nose. It looks painful. I should have taken better care of you.”
He smiled, grinding his hips against her. “The cold will numb the discomfort. Besides, Suannoch FitzRam, you will be taking care of all my wants and needs for the rest of our lives.”
She blushed when the hard maleness pressed to her mons sent desire skittering up her legs.
He pulled away and mounted his horse. “Go inside.”
She shook her head and stared at the horizon long after he had ridden out of sight.
* * *
Bronson stood trembling by the monolith, still naked, but some sharp-toothed creature had slithered inside his chest and was eating his flesh. A horse had trampled his head.
The naked woman—he was sure it was Grace—still held out her hands in welcome.
He shook his head. “I’m too hot,” he rasped, his throat parched.
“Drink this.”
He sipped liquid, though it wasn’t Grace who had spoken. Broth maybe. How can there be broth out here by the Standing Stones?
Grace opened her arms wider, revealing lovely breasts. Mayhap if he suckled, he might feel better. He groaned, reaching to ease the ache at his groin.
He’d thought he was naked, but he was still clothed.
“At least the bleeding has stopped, thank goodness.”
Who is bleeding?
“I’m not bleeding, I’m burning.”
Grace kept smiling. Why was she smiling when he was being consumed by fire?
“We can sew the wound closed. I’ll get the dwale from Jolly and a few men to help.”
“Jolly. Jolly. Jolly.”
There’s nothing jolly about the pain in my chest. Perhaps my heart is broken.
“Dwale?”
“For the pain, brother.”
Swan? What’s Swan doing at the monolith?
He peeled open one eye. “Swan.”
“Hush, Bronson. You’ve been injured.”
He closed his eye. This was too confusing. He wanted Grace, not Swan. But Grace was disappearing, drawn away by—
He struggled to sit up. “The youth with the dagger! Help her.”
“Lie back, Bronson. You’ll reopen the wound.”
As the fires of hell blazed through his body he stared at the faces surrounding him. Grace wasn’t among them. He lay down and slipped back into oblivion, hoping to find her there.
* * *
Jolly bustled in with the potel of dwale, her face drawn and redder than usual. Swan hoped the strain of the tragedy didn’t prove too much for the elderly cook. She accepted the drug with trembling hands. “I’m nervous with dwale.”
“You needn’t worry about my dwale,” Jolly reassured her, somewhat belligerently. “The recipe is one Countess Carys handed down, God Rest Her Soul. The present Countess Peridotte swears by it—saved her life.”
“I can attest to it,” Lucia confirmed, reaching to take the corked potel from Swan. “We’ve used it at Ellesmere for years. Just the right amount of hemlock. Not enough to be poisonous, but sufficient to induce sleep.”
“He hasn’t fully awakened yet,” Swan protested. “Only mumbled about being too hot.”
“But he sat up, my lady. And he sipped a bit of broth, a sure sign he’ll soon be awake. We should embark on the stitching now.”
The maidservant looked to the doorway as four burly men-at-arms entered, stamping the snow off their feet. “Good. We’ll need them to hold him down if he wakes.”
“I’ve no kitgut for sewing,” Jolly complained. “You ladies used the last weeks ago for strings on the rebec. Tybaut will have to get one of the tenant farmers to slaughter a sheep.”
“A sheep?” Swan asked, wishing she’d paid more attention to such matters. She’d left the healing up to her mother and older sisters. She remembered Jolly’s disapproving look when she’d insisted on having the rebec restrung for Bronson’s arrival.
“Aye,” Jolly replied. “We make kitgut out of a sheep’s intestines, but it takes a while.”
She thrust a handful of embroidery silks at Lucia, then wiped both pudgy hands on her apron. “I’ve waxed these. All I’ve got to offer.”
Swan see-sawed between laughing and screaming hysterically at the prospect of her well-muscled brother stitched up with embroidery silks. She would never ply a needle again.
Jolly stamped her foot. “Saints preserve me. I forgot the oil of roses and honey.”
“What’s that for?” Swan asked.
“For the poor man’s broken head. We’ll need to shave off his hair.”
“Absolutely not,” Swan shouted, closer than ever to hysteria. “It’s bad enough he has to suffer being sewn up with embroidery silk. We are not cutting off his hair.”
Jolly glared, but remained in the solar.
“Me and the lads’ll fetch a trestle table,” one soldier said. “Raise up the pallet from the floor. Make it easier to do the job.”
“Of course,” Swan replied, nervously wringing her hands. Why hadn’t she thought of it? Dread had stolen her wits.
The Tunnel
Seated on his horse atop the rampart ditch surrounding Cullène Hall, Gallien de Montbryce, Third Earl of Ellesmere, now understood the anger and dread that must have knotted his grandfather’s belly when he received word his daughter had been kidnapped by brigands.
Fortunately, Rhoni had been rescued by the man she’d eventually married. Ronan MacLachlainn had beheaded the leader of the villains with one swift stroke of his sword. Gallien fully intended to mete out the same punishment to Godefroy de Cullène. He cursed the day he’d ever agreed to Grace’s marriage, knowing intimately the pain of a catastrophic union.
Ronan had been in time to save Rhoni from the humiliation of rape. Gallien prayed for the same for his precious daughter. If Godefroy had defiled her, he would choose a slower and more painful death for the wretch.
He pushed aside the dire possibility. Only clear thinking and decisive action would save Grace. “We’d have no difficulty overwhelming them if we attack,” he said to Bravecoeur, the captain of his guard mounted beside him. “But that would place my daughter’s life in peril.”
“But if he kills her, he will have no hold over you,” Bravecoeur replied.
Gallien shifted his weight in the saddle, his body tense. “Men such as Godefroy are cut from the same cloth as Eustace. Inflicting pain is what they excel at. If he thinks he cannot persuade me to his cause, he is as likely to kill her for spite.”
“And we must bear in mind—”
Bravecoeur stopped abruptly at the sound of horses approaching. He wheeled his mount, stood up in the stirrups and shaded his eyes. “It’s milord Rodrick and his men.”
Gallien was immensely relieved to see his son. His face was bruised and battered, but fury burned in his eyes. They reached over and clasped arms. “Looks like you had an argument with a wall.”
Rodrick grimaced, touching his nose carefully. “Aye, but I was the lucky one. Bronson lies near death, his chest slashed open.”
Gallien clenched his jaw, bereft that the distant cousin who had impressed him as a man of honor and intelligence should lose his life to one such as Godefroy. “We will avenge him, and Grace.”
Rodrick nodded. “What’s the plan?”
“We were discussing the possibilities,” Bravecoeur replied.
“Grace’s maidservant told me there is a hidden tunnel into the house, but the only detail she recalled was the entry is near a tree that grows every which way.”
“An oak,” Gallien declared. “An oak grows in every way.”
They scanned the surrounding area. Rodrick pointed to a grove of shrubs in a hollow not far from the side of house. “There, in the midst of those bushes.”
Gallien narrowed his eyes. A lone oak, wider around the gnarled trunk than two men could span, dominated the undergrowth, its bare rugged branches reaching to a lar
ge wide-spreading crown, stark against the white sky. “I’d wager it’s been there longer than the house,” he said.
Rodrick dismounted. “I’ll investigate. Lucia believes only the servants are aware of the passage, but it may have been discovered and filled in.”
“I’ll come with you,” Bravecoeur said. “If we stay behind the bushes, we won’t be spotted from the house.”
Gallien was uneasy. “It’s strange they have no guards posted outside as far as I can see.”
Rodrick scanned the area again. “There’s only the one small window on that side in any case, and Tybaut told of a mere handful in the group posing as mummers.”
Men-at-arms came forward to lead their horses back over the rampart. Gallien remained atop the fortification and watched his son and his captain lope across the ridge until they were out of sight of the front of the house. Then they crouched down and disappeared into the ditch.
* * *
Grace tightened the blanket around her shoulders and leaned her ear against the door. She’d heard faint voices before, but now it was strangely quiet. Had Godefroy gone off somewhere? She’d not seen him since they arrived and no one had brought her food or drink.
She scurried away from the door when a loud footfall sounded on the stairs below.
The giant?
Wood scraped against metal, followed by a clunk as what she assumed was a bar was dropped to the floor. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears when the door banged open wide. Godefroy stood on the threshold, the giant at his side. Fear closed her throat.
“Don’t worry, I’m not interested in having you,” Godefroy sneered, his nose in the air. “Titus, however, may be hard to restrain if negotiations don’t go our way. He likes a challenge.”
“Negotiations?” she murmured, keeping her eyes off the giant, hoping she didn’t look as terrified as she felt.
“Your dear Papa is on the rampart.”
Papa!
She stiffened her shoulders. “My father will never negotiate with the likes of you, Godefroy.”
“Then you will die, maman dear.”
He strode forward to grasp her arm.
She flinched away.
He held out his hand. “You can come willingly, or I’ll have Titus carry you like a sack of grain. Your choice.”
“I will go with you, but I won’t take your hand,” she declared.
His sneering smile sickened her, but he gave a mock bow and ushered her through the doorway. “Let’s assure the earl of your presence. You’ll need the blanket. It’s freezing out.”
* * *
The trapdoor wasn’t hard to uncover amid the hawthorn bushes. “The prickly shrubbery has kept even the snow away,” Rodrick rasped.
Bravecoeur snickered, braced his legs, looping his hand under the rough rope handle and pulled hard. It creaked open. He pressed his nostrils closed. “What a stench!”
Rodrick shrugged. “Can’t smell a thing. One advantage of a broken nose.”
They peered into the blackness beyond the two or three worn wooden rungs of a ladder that led into the ground. “Narrow,” the soldier remarked, “but we should squeeze through.”
“Looks well used,” Rodrick remarked. “I hope not by Godefroy.”
Bravecoeur shook his head. “There’d be no reason for the master to sneak in and out of the house.”
Rodrick unbuckled his scabbard and laid it on the ground. “I hate to leave my sword here, but it will be more of a nuisance.” He patted the hilt of the dagger sheathed at his waist.
His companion hesitated a moment, then removed his sword, and followed Rodrick down the ladder.
They were forced to crouch as they walked in complete darkness, flinching and dodging as they were poked and scratched by the occasional tree root. “If this is a route for servants, I doubt the other end will come out in the main part of the house,” Rodrick whispered.
“Right,” his companion grunted, sounding out of breath. “I’ll be happy to reach the other end. I hate tight spaces.”
“Animals probably use this too,” Rodrick replied, not wanting to dwell on thoughts of what might have lived and died in this tunnel.
He came upon the ladder suddenly in the pitch black, glad he’d held his hands out in front of his body. He looked up. Half a dozen steps loomed in the meager chink of light escaping from the edges of a closed trap door.
He climbed slowly, braced his thighs against the ladder, then pushed the door with both hands. It resisted, as though something stood on top of it. Nothing for it but to shove harder and hope whatever it was didn’t tip over with a bang.
It opened further when he put his shoulder to it. He peered through the crack into a tiny buttery, lit by a narrow window. Seeing nothing but a few barrels, he shoved the door open a little further, then scrambled out, amused to see a small cask permanently affixed to the door.
Crouching, he beckoned Bravecoeur who chuckled at the cask lying on its side. “I’d say the servants have gone to a deal of trouble to conceal this,” he said.
They crept to the door. “Let’s hope it’s not locked,” Rodrick whispered.
It opened readily into a small pantry, but they cringed when the hinges creaked loudly. They discovered the pantry led to an empty kitchen. Hearing muffled voices, they walked stealthily through to the other side.
“There’s been no food prepared here this day,” Rodrick said. “Godefroy must have sent the servants away for Yuletide.”
Bravecoeur looked around. “I’d say this kitchen hasn’t been used in a while. The master of the household has been off causing trouble.”
They paused at the entry to the hallway. The sound of voices was coming from outside. Godefroy was shouting. “As you see, my dear earl, your daughter is safe for the moment. Won’t you come inside and together we can formulate a plan to rid our country of Henry Plantagenet?”
“I do not negotiate with men who hold women as hostages.”
Rodrick surmised his father had come closer to the house. The strength in his voice was heartening.
“Are you well, daughter?”
Rodrick glanced quickly at Bravecoeur. “My sister is outside,” he mouthed.
His comrade signaled his understanding.
“I am, mon père,” Grace replied, her voice clear and calm. “However, I have been kept in an attic with no food or water, watched over by this hulking brute.”
Rodrick’s heart pounded with fear and pride for his brave sister. He glanced to the stairs, pointing to himself, then motioned for Bravecoeur to remain below.
He ran swiftly to mount the wooden staircase, panting when he arrived at the open door of a tiny attic. He’d been in the house when Victor died and Grace needed company during the long year of obligatory mourning, but never in this garret.
A wooden bar lay outside the door. He picked it up, testing its weight as he swung it with both hands.
Perfect.
* * *
Grace’s fingers and toes were frozen. She desperately wanted to get back indoors, but her father sat atop his horse mere yards away, man and beast snorting icy breaths.
She hoped he’d understood her message—Godefroy and the giant were the only conspirators in the house as far as she knew, though for a moment she sensed movement behind her.
“I will not parler with you until my daughter is allowed back in the house. Can you not see she is freezing to death?”
Why does Papa want me back inside?
She stared at him, trying to understand the message in his steely gaze.
“Very well,” Godefroy declared, looking nervous. “Titus, take my stepmother back to the attic.”
The giant grasped her arm. Should she fight him, or make a run for it? Her father inclined his head imperceptibly and she suddenly sensed he had a plan. She had to trust him. She allowed Titus to lead her into the house.
He lumbered up the stairs behind her as she tried to make her numbed feet work. Her racing heart calmed as the certainty her twin w
as in the house settled in her bones. She walked to the edge of the pallet bed, turning to glare at Titus as he hovered on the threshold, oblivious to what she’d seen—her smiling brother hidden behind the open door, a length of wood gripped in both hands.
It was up to her to entice the brute into the room. She stuck out her tongue and her breasts. “You’ll never have me, Titus. My father will make sure of it.”
The pouting giant strode into the chamber and shoved her backwards onto the pallet. He grinned, fiddling with the laces of his leggings. The grin left his face when Rodrick cracked him on the back of the head with the bar from the door. He snarled, whirling around. Rodrick swung with both hands. The wood landed squarely on the giant’s bulbous nose. His eyes rolled heavenward and he crashed to the floor, raising a cloud of dust.
Rodrick clenched his jaw as he brought the bar down on the giant’s head again. “One more for good measure.”
Grace leapt up from the pallet and threw her arms around her panting brother. “Is Bronson with you?” she asked.
Nincompoop
When Bravecoeur emerged from the house to stand behind Godefroy, it was evident to Gallien the wretch believed his accomplice had returned.
He smiled inwardly when his son and daughter appeared in the doorway, Rodrick’s arm around his sister’s shoulders. Still Godefroy did not turn to ascertain the identity of whoever stood behind him.
This nincompoop thinks to govern my country.
Godefroy strode toward him as he dismounted. “Excellent, my lord earl. I was confident you would come to see it my way.”
Gallien flexed his fingers, drew back his arm and thrust his fist into the grinning face. Godefroy’s eyes rolled up in his head as he crumpled silently to the ground.
“Where’s the giant?” Gallien asked Rodrick.
“Out cold.”
Forbidden Page 13
