Chapter 15
Moss had overgrown the secret exit door to the castle, and Isabail almost missed it.
“Here,” she said, pointing to the dark brown wooden door. Rot had blackened the door in several spots, and it blended into the rock with great effectiveness.
“No one has come through,” Magnus said. “I can enter, but I prefer you wait in the woods for me, not here on the cliffs.”
Isabail had no argument about that. She was uncomfortable on the ledge, especially in the dark, with the wind tugging at her skirts.
She inched her way back toward the trees, with Magnus following immediately behind her.
When they reached the end of the sloping path, he lifted her up the remaining two feet to the plateau.
As she paused to regain her balance, the door burst open and three soldiers stepped out onto the ledge, swords aloft.
“Run,” Magnus urged her, as he drew his weapon and joined her on the plateau. Added height and a sturdy footing were clear advantages.
Isabail ran into the trees, but did not go far.
Outrunning an armed soldier wasn’t a future she could foresee, and leaving Magnus behind seemed not only unfair, but unwise.
She hid behind the broad trunk of a Scots pine and with one hand to her madly thumping heart, watched her hired warrior battle for his—and quite possibly her—life.
Fortunately, he quickly improved his odds. He kicked his first opponent in the head and sent him catapulting over the ledge. Less fortunately, the other two learned from their compatriot’s mistake and advanced with a flurry of sword strokes that eliminated the opportunity for a kick.
Isabail sent a little prayer skyward.
She needn’t have bothered—as it turned out, Magnus was a skilled swordsman.
Although she had no knowledge of swordplay and could not have named a single move he made, it was apparent that her warrior was smooth, fast, and effective.
He made fighting two opponents simultaneously seem easy.
Twice he broke through the flurry of steel to strike a blow that resulted in blood.
His opponents were weakening, and Isabail began to believe that he would triumph.
But then two more soldiers rushed onto the ledge, and Magnus was forced to give up ground.
One of the new soldiers leapt up to the plateau and began to engage Magnus at an equal level.
Four against one did not seem like a remotely fair battle.
Especially when the other three soldiers leapt up as well.
She had to do something. But what? Short of screaming for aid, she couldn’t imagine what that something might be. She glanced around. Fling a stick or a rock?
Spying several fallen tree branches beneath a nearby elm, she weighed her options. Too light and it would be no more distracting than a gnat, too heavy and she wouldn’t be able to toss it more than a foot. Picking up a stick, she hefted it. This one seemed about right.
Staying low, Isabail moved to the very edge of the trees, close enough to reach the nearest soldier. Then, stepping out from behind the tree, she took aim and pitched the stick with all her might.
It hit Magnus squarely on the back of the head.
Isabail gave a sharp shriek of regret and shrank back behind the tree.
To her immense relief, Magnus powered on without pause. He took down one of his opponents. A sharp jab to the leg, and the fellow was down. Magnus battled on, but took a slice on the arm in the ensuing melee. Blood darkened his lèine and dripped down to his fingers.
Fear was a sour taste in Isabail’s mouth.
She had a dreadful feeling she knew how this was going to end.
She hugged the tree trunk with white-knuckled intent.
Her gaze was locked so tightly on Magnus’s brave attempt to triumph that she almost missed the flash of movement over by the cliff.
A flaxen-haired man tossed a lean, dark-haired lad upon the plateau, then leapt up behind him and began dragging the lad to the trees.
Daniel!
Isabail was loath to leave Magnus, but she had to see where Daniel was taking Jamie.
She sent another quick prayer skyward for Magnus, then darted through the trees in the direction she’d seen the fugitive pair disappear.
Running as fast as her skirts would allow, she rounded a clutch of fir saplings and came face-to-face with the man who had attempted to kill her.
* * *
The dungeons of Tayteath were dark and dank. Water dripped from the ceilings and black mold crept up the walls, signs that the rooms were very infrequently used. Aiden paused at the bottom of the stairs and listened.
De Lourdes was down here somewhere.
His hand tightened on his sword. Although he would dearly love to kill the bastard for what he’d done to Isabail, his intent was to take him alive .
. . and to save young Jamie. Preferably with the same sword strike.
He had no notion how skilled a duelist Daniel de Lourdes might be, and frankly, it mattered not.
He’d spent eight years of his life with the MacDonalds on the Isle of Skye, a wild and beautiful land matched only by the ferocity of its warriors.
He had fought all manner of opponents while fostered there. He could handle one weasel.
The rough scrape of leather boots on stone gave him a direction to travel, and Aiden jogged down the corridor toward the very back of the dungeon.
What did de Lourdes hope to accomplish down here? Was he hiding, hoping to escape the castle after Aiden’s men had come and gone? It seemed the sort of craven act a man who stabbed women and used lads as shields would do.
Peering into the dimness of the dungeon, Aiden spotted a wooden door standing open. The scent of burning pitch hung in the air, but there were no torches in view.
He approached the door cautiously. It opened into a narrow corridor, the confines of which were even darker than the dungeon. But here the smell of torch was thicker. This was the direction his rat had fled.
Ducking his head beneath the lintel, he stepped into the corridor.
Blinded by darkness, he was forced to travel slowly, but he made his way with as much haste as he could manage.
The corridor turned several corners, the last of which gave him sight—another door, this one swinging open with the breeze, the light of a full moon pouring in through the portal.
Aiden ran to the exit and out onto a ledge on the cliffs.
The clash of metal on metal broke through the howl of the coastal wind—the familiar sound of swords engaging in combat. He dashed toward the noise, not entirely certain what would meet his eyes.
What he found was a solitary man surrounded by three soldiers, doing battle like he’d been born into it.
And as the moon shone upon that grim warrior’s face, Aiden was swamped with a gut-deep feeling that was equal parts pride, shock, and euphoria.
The man wielding his sword on the plateau above him was none other than his long-missing and presumed-dead cousin, Wulf.
Aiden vaulted up the two-foot step to the plateau and attacked the soldiers from behind.
* * *
Isabail stared at Daniel in the bright moonlight, frozen in place.
Daniel paled. “Isabail? How is it possible? I ran you through.”
Her eyes went to Jamie, who looked frightened, but otherwise unharmed.
Relieved, she returned her attention to Daniel.
A cold trickle of sweat ran down her back.
Standing this close to him, seeing the sword in his hand, she almost lost her nerve.
Every detail of the sword sliding into her—all the pain and all the blood—was vivid in her mind.
The desire to turn and run was so intense, her knees trembled.
But she stood her ground. For Jamie.
And as the seconds passed, the pallor of Daniel’s face and the tremble in his hand sank in. By God. He wondered if she were truly here. . . . He wondered if he was seeing a ghost. Given how he’d left her, lying in a widening pool of blood, she could completely understand his state of mind.
Drawing on an inner strength she had not known she possessed until recently, Isabail took a firm step forward. “You deserve to be punished for what you did to me.”
Daniel retreated, waving his sword in front of him. “Stay away.”
“You deserve to be punished for what you did to John,” she said, taking another step forward.
“Stay away, I say.”
“You deserve to be punished for all your sins, Daniel de Lourdes.”
He closed his eyes. “You aren’t really here. You are dead. You can’t punish anyone.”
Isabail signaled to Jamie. Run, she mouthed.
The lad did not need further prompting. He yanked his arm free of Daniel’s grasp and took off through the trees.
Daniel’s eyes snapped open. He stared at Isabail, examining her face in thorough detail. “Why would a specter free a living boy?” he said, firming his grip on the sword and circling around her. “There is no reason, unless you are not a ghost at all.”
He frowned. “But I most certainly pierced you with my blade. How could you be standing?”
Isabail could think of nothing to add that might not lead him to conclude that she was real flesh and blood. The last thing she wanted was to have him run her through a second time. Ana was half a day away. Surviving another stabbing was unlikely. So, she simply repeated her original statement.
“You deserve to be punished for what you did to me.”
He stared at her hard. Then he glanced up at the full moon. “Nay, you’re just the moon addling my wits,” he said, lowering his sword. “Nothing but a brief fit of lunacy.” A sad smile touched his lips. “Guilt, perhaps, over what befell my beloved John.”
His shoulders straightened and the wild look left his eyes. “But I have a new lover now and a higher purpose that must be met. Such pangs of guilt are not to be tolerated. Adieu, sweet specter.”
He bowed to Isabail, then spun on his heel.
With no one else about, Isabail knew only one way to prevent his escape.