Chapter One
England--Spring 1473
"Stop staring at me."
Liam Cameron cocked one brow in response to his cousin
Sigimor's growled command. "I was but awaiting your plan
to get us out of this mess."
Sigimor grunted and rested his head against the damp
stone wall he was chained to. He suspected Liam knew
there was no plan. He, his younger brother Tait, his
brother-in-law Nanty MacEnroy, and his cousins Liam,
Marcus, and David were chained in a dungeon set deep in
the bowels of an English lord's keep. They needed more
than a plan to get out of this bind. They needed a
miracle. Sigimor did not think he had done much lately to
deserve one of those.
That was the last time he would try to do a good deed,
he decided, then grimaced. It had not been charity that
had brought him to Drumwich, but a debt. He owed Lord
Peter Gerard his life and, when the man had requested his
aid, there had been no choice but to give it.
Unfortunately, the request had come too late and the
trouble Peter had written of had taken his life only two
days before Sigimor had led his men through the thick
gates of Drumwich. It was swiftly made clear that Peter's
cousin Harold felt no compulsion to honor any pledges made
by his now dead kinsman. Sigimor wondered if it could be
considered ironic that he would die in the house of the
man who had once saved his life.
"Ye dinnae have a plan , do ye?"
"Nay, Liam, I dinnae," replied Sigimor. "If I had
kenned that Peter might die ere we got here, I would have
made some plan to deal with that complication, but I ne'er
once considered that possibility."
"Jesu,." muttered Nanty. "If I must die in this cursed
country, I would prefer it to be in battle instead of
being hanged like some thieving Armstrong or Graham."
"Doesnae your Gilly claim a few Armstrongs as her
kinsmen? Sigimor asked.
"Oh. Aye. Forgot about them. The Armstrongs of
Aigballa. Cormac, the laird, wed Gilly's cousin Elspeth."
"Are they reivers?"
"Nay. Weel, nay all of them. Why?"
"If some miracle befalls us and we escape this trap, we
may have need of a few allies on the journey home."
"Sigimor, we are in cursed England, in a dungeon in a
cursed English laird's weel fortified castle, chained to
this thrice-cursed wall, and condemned to hang in two
days. I dinnae think we need worry much on what we may or
may not need on the journey home. There isnae going to be
one. Not unless that bastard Harold decides to send our
corpses back to our kinsmen for the burying."
"I can see that we best nay turn to ye to lift our
spirits." He ignored Nanty's soft cursing. "I wonder why
there isnae any guard set out to watch o'er us."
"Mayhap because we are chained to the wall?" drawled
Liam.
"I could, mayhap, with my monly strength, pull the
chains from the wall," murmured Sigimor.
"Ha! These walls have to be ten feet thick."
"Eight feet six inches to be precise," said a crisp
female voice.
Sigimor stared at the tiny woman standing outside the
thick iron bars of his prison. He wondered why he had
neither seen nor heard her approach. The word mine ripped
through his mind startling him into almost gaping at her.
The woman standing there was nothing like any woman he had
ever desired in all of his two-and-thirty years. She was
also English.
If that was not a big enough flaw, she was delicately
made. She had to be a good foot or more shorter than his
six-feet-four-inch height and slender. He liked his women
tall and buxom, considered it a necessity for a man of his
size. Her hair was dark, probably black. He preferred
light hair upon his women. His body, however, seemed
suddenly oblivious to his
habitual preferences. It had grown taut with interest.
Being chained to a wall had obviously disordered his mind.
"And the spikes holding the chains to the wall were
driven in to a depth of three feet seven inches," she
added.
"Ye obviously havenae come here to cheer us," drawled
Sigimor.
"I am not sure there is anything one could say to bring
cheer to six men chained to a wall awaiting a hanging.
Certainly not to six Highlanders chained to the walls of
an English dungeon."
"There is some truth in that. Who are ye?"
"I am Lady Jolene Gerard."
If she thought standing straighter as she introduced
herself would make her look more imposing, she was sadly
mistaken, Sigimor mused. "Peter's sister or his wife?"
"His sister. Peter was murdered by Harold. You came
too late to help him."
Although there was no accusation behind her words,
Sigimore felt the sting of guilt. "I left Dubheidland the
morning after I received Peter's message."
"I know. I fear Harold guessed that Peter had summoned
help. Harold had kept all routes to our kinsmen tightly
watched so Peter sent for you. I am still not certain how
Harold discovered what Peter had done."
"Have ye proof that Harold murdered Peter?"
Jolene sighed and slowly shook her head. "I fear not.
There is no doubt in my mind, however. Harold wanted
Drumwich and now he holds it. Peter was hale and hearty
and now he is dead. He died screaming from the pain in
his belly. Harold claims the fish was spoiled. Two
others died as well."
"Ah. Tis possible."
"True. Such tragedies are not so very rare. Yet, ere
that spoiled fish was buried, two of Harold's dogs ate
some. They did not die, did not even grow a little ill.
Of course, Harold does not know that I say that. The dogs
snatched some of the fish from Peter's plate when his
sudden illness drew Harold's attention. I say it because
I had to push the dogs aside to reach Peter."
"Who died besides Peter?"
"The two men most loyal to Peter. The cook presented
the fish as a special treat for the three men as it was
their favorite dish. It was claimed that not enough fish
was caught to prepare the dish for everyone. They were
also served the last of the best wine. I believe that is
where the poison was, or most of it, but I can find no
trace of it. Not upon the ewer it was served from or the
tankards it was poured into. I did not get hold of them
fast enough and they were scrubbed clean."
"Did ye question the cook?" asked Liam.
"He has disappeared," she replied.
Sigimor cursed and shook his head even as he hastily
introduced his men. "Then I fear Harold will go
unpunished. Ye have no proof of his guilt and I am nay in
a position to help ye find any. It might be wise if ye
find somewhere else to live now that Harold is the laird
here."
"But, he is not the lord of Drumwich. Not yet. There
is one small impediment left."
"What small impediment?"
"Peter's son."
"Legitimate?"
"Of course. Reynard is nearly three years of age now.
His mother died at his birthing I fear."
"If ye are sure that Harold killed your brother, ye had
best get that wee lad out of his reach," said Liam.
Sigimor noticed that Jolene only looked at Liam for a
brief moment before fixing her gaze upon him again. Liam
might not be at his best, being dirty and a little
bruised, but Sigmor was surprised that the little English
lady seemed to note Liam's highly praised beauty, accept
it, and then dismiss it. That rarely happened and Sigimor
found himself intrigued.
"I have hidden Reynard away," she said.
"And Harold hasnae tried to pull the truth from ye?"
Sigimor asked.
"Nay. I am very certain he would like to try, but I
have hidden myself away as well. Harold does not know all
the secrets of Drumwich."
"Clever lass, but that can only work for a wee while,
aye? Liam is right. Ye need to get yourself and the
bairn away from here."
Jolene stared at the big man Peter had hoped could save
them. That the Highlander would honor an old debt enough
to ride into England itself was a strong indication that
he was a man of honor, one who could be trusted to hold to
his word. It was certainly promising that not one of the
men had yet asked anything of her despite their own dire
circumstances, but were quick to tell her to get herself
and Peter's son and heir out of Harold's deadly reach.
They were also big, strong men who, if set free, would
certainly hie themselves right back to the Highlands.
Harold would not find it easy to follow them there.
It did trouble her a little that she could not seem to
stop looking at the big man named Sigimor. Most women
would be breathlessly intrigued by the one called Liam.
Despite the dirt and bruises, she had easily recognized
Liam's beauty, a manly beauty actually enhanced by the
flickering light of the torches set into the walls. Yet,
she had looked, accepted the allure of the man, and
immediately turned her gaze back to Sigimor. At three and
twenty she felt she should be well past the age to suffer
some foolish
infatuation for a man, be she feared that might well be
what ailed her now. The fact that she could not see the
man all that clearly made her fascination with him all the
stranger.
She inwardly shook herself. There was only one thing
she should be thinking about and that was the need to get
Reynard to safety. For three days and nights she had
heard Harold ranting as he had Drumwich searched and its
people questioned. Last night Harold's interrogations had
turned brutal, filling the halls with the piercing cries
of those he tortured. Soon one of the very few who knew
the secrets of Drumwich would break and tell Harold how to
find her and Reynard. Pain could loosen the tongue of even
the most loyal. It was imperative that she take the boy
far away and, since she had no way to reach any of the
rest of her family, these men were her only hope.
"Aye, I must get myself and the boy away from here, far
away, to a place where Harold will find it dangerously
difficult to hunt us down, if not impossible," she said
and could tell by the way Sigimor stared at her that he
was beginning to understand why she was there.
Sigimor's whole body tensed, hope surging through him.
She said she was in hiding, yet she stood there within
plain sight apparently unconcerned about being
discovered. There was also something in the way she spoke
of taking the boy to a place far away, a place Harold
would have great difficulty getting to, combined with the
intent way she was staring at him, that made Sigimor
almost certain she intended to enlist his aid. He noticed
that his companions had all grown as tense as he was,
their gazes fixed firmly upon Lady Jolene. He was not the
only one whose hopes had suddenly been raised.
"There are nay many places in England where ye could go
that Harold couldnae follow," Sigimor said.
"Nay, there are very few indeed. None, in truth. Trying
to reach my kinsmen has already cost one man his life.
That route is closed to me, as it was to Peter, so I must
needs find another."
"Lass, it isnae kind to tease a mon chained to a wall
and awaiting a hanging." He caught his breath when she
grinned for it added a beauty to her faintly triangular
face that was dangerously alluring.
"Mayhap I was but trying to get you to make an offer ere
I was forced to make a request. If you offer what I seek,
I can ponder it, quickly, and accept, telling myself all
manner of comforting reasons for doing so. If I must ask,
then I am openly accepting defeat, bluntly admitting that
I cannot do this alone. Tis a bitter draught to swallow."
"Swallow it."
"Sigimor!" Liam glared at his cousin, then smiled
sweetly at Lady Jolene. "M'lady, if ye free us from this
dark place, I give ye my solemn oath that we will aid ye
in keeping the bairn alive and free in any and all ways we
can."
"Tis a most generous offer, sir." Jolene said, then
looked back at Sigimor, "but does your lord give you the
right to make such an oath? Does he plan to honor your
oath and share in it?"
Sigimor grunted, ignored the glares of his men for a
full minute, then nodded. "Aye, he does. We will take
the lad."
"And me."
"Why should we take ye as weel? Ye are no threat to
Harold's place as laird of this keep." Sigimore had fully
expected her to insist upon coming with them, but he
wanted to hear her reasons for doing so.
"Oh, but I am a threat to Harold," she said in a soft,
cold voice, "and he knows it well. If not for Reynard, I
would stay here and make him pay most dearly for Peter's
death. Howbeit, I swore to Peter that I would guard
Reynard with my very life. Since I have had the raising
of the boy since his mother's death upon childbed, there
was no need to ask such an oath, but I swore it anyway."
And there was the reason to take her with them, Sigimor
mused. She may not have birthed the child, but she was
Reynard's mother in her heart and mind, and , most
probably, in the child's as well. It also told him the
best way in which he could control her, although all his
instincts whispered that that would not be easy to do.
None of that mattered, however. He had been unable to
save Peter, but he was now offered the chance to save
Peter's sister and his son. Even better, in doing so, he
could save the men he had dragged into this deadly mire.
"Then set us free, lass," Sigimor said, "and we will
share in the burden of that oath."
Her hands trembling faintly from the strength of the
relief which swept through her, Jolene began to try to
find which of the many keys she held would fit the lock to
the door of the cell. Hope was a heady thing, she mused.
For a brief moment she had actually felt very close to
swooning and she silently thanked God she had not shamed
herself by doing such a weak thing before these men.
"Ye dinnae ken which key to use?" Sigimor felt an even
mixture of annoyance and amusement as he watched her
struggle with the keys.
"Why should I?" she muttered. "I have ne'er locked
anyone in these cells."
"Didnae ye ask the one ye got them from which key ye
ought to use?"
"Nay. He was asleep."
"I see. Weel, best pray some other guard doesnae decide
to wander down here whilst ye fumble about."
"There will be no guards wandering down here. They are
asleep."
"All of them?"
"I do hope so."
"The men at arms, too?" She nodded. "Is everyone at
Drumwich asleep?"
"Near to. I did leave a few awake, ones who might be
eager to flee Drumwich once the chance to do so was given
to them." She cried out in triumph as she unlocked the
door, opened it, then grinned at Sigimor.
Sigimor simply cocked one brow and softly rattled the
chains still binding him to the wall. The cross look she
gave him as she hurried over to his side, the large ring
of keys she held clinking loudly, almost made him smile.
He sighed long and loudly when she started to test each
key all over again on the lock of his chains and he heard
her mutter something he strongly suspected was a curse.
His amusement faded quickly when she stood very close to
him. Despite her delicate build, his body was stirred by
the soft, clean scent of her. He fixed his gaze upon her
small hands, her slim wrists, and her long, slender
fingers, trying to impress upon his mind that she was
frail. His body continued to ignore that truth. It also
ignored the fact that her hair, hanging down her slim back
in a thick braid reaching past her slender hips, was black
or nearly so, a color he had never favored. Just as
blithely it ignored the fact that the top of her head
barely reached his breastbone. Everything about her was
wrong for a man of his size and inclinations, but his body
heartily disagreed with his mind. It was a riddle he was
sure he not ould ever solve.
"Are ye verra certain Harold's men are asleep?" he
asked in an attempt to fix his mind upon the problems at
hand and ignore the soft curve of her long, elegantly
slender neck.
"Aye. I kicked a few just to be sure." She found it
more difficult than it ought to be to concentrate upon
finding the right key and ignore the big man she stood so
close to.
"Just how did ye do it?"
"I put a potion into the ale and wine set out to drink
with the evening meal. I also had two of the maids carry
a physicked water to the other men the moment the ones who
sat down in the great hall to dine began to drink. Near
all of them began to fall asleep at the same time."
"Near all? What happened to the ones who didnae begin to
fall asleep?"
"A sound knock upon the head was swiftly delivered.
There!"
She smiled at him as she released him from his chains,
only to scowl when he snatched the key from her hand. "I
am capable of using a key."
"When ye can find it," he drawled as he quickly freed
the others. "How long do ye think your potion will hold
Harold and his men?"
"Til dawn or a little later," she replied, thinking that
six big men chained were a lot less intimidating that six
big men unchained, standing and staring at her.
"How long do we have until dawn?"
"Two hours at the most."
Sigimor put his hands on his hips and frowned at
her. "Why did ye wait so long to come and free us?"
"I had to lock a few doors, tend to a few wounds
inflicted by Harold, and help those who had kindly helped
me to escape from Drumwich. Then I had to collect some
supplies to take with us and gather up the things Harold's
men took away from you. And, considering that I, a small
woman, put every fighting man at Drumwich to sleep with
the aid of but two maids, I believer your implied
criticism is uncalled for."
"It wasnae implied."
"Sigimor," snapped Liam, before smiling at Jolene, "Ye
did weel, lass."
"Thank you, kind sir," Jolene responded, returning his
smile.
Subtly, but firmly, Sigimor nudged Liam away from
Jolene. He might not understand what drew him to this
tiny, thin Englishwoman, but, until he cured himself of
the affliction, he did not want any other fool trading
smiles with her. Especially not Liam who already had half
the women in Scotland swooning at his feet.
"How do ye plan to get us all out of here?" he asked
her.
"We could march right out the front gates, if you
wish ," Jolene replied. "I had thought we would leave as
quietly and secretly as possible. If there are no obvious
signs of our leavetaking, it may be a while ere your
escape is discovered."
"Somehow I think Harold will find a castle full of men
still asleep or just rousing immediately suspicious."
"Ah, of course. You are right. And, I suppose the
missing horses and what I have done in the stables will
also alert them."
It sounded as if she was gagging on those words, Sigimor
thought with an inner grin. "Lead on then. I want to put
as much distance as possible between us and Harold ere he
awakens."
As she started out of the cell, the men falling into
step behind her, Jolene said, "Aye. The sooner we reach
Scotland, the sooner we will rid ourselves of Harold."
Sigimore doubted it would be that easy, but did not say
so as he followed her along a dark, narrow passage heading
away from the cells. Harold had already committed murder
to steal Drumwich. Lady Jolene clearly feared for her
life and her nephew's. If the screams in the night were
anything to judge by, Harold was using brutal methods to
try and find her and the boy. A man like that would not
stop chasing her down simply because she had crossed the
border into a country that was not particularly fond of
Englishmen. Sigimor felt sure of that. Harold would mean
trouble for them for quite a while yet. As he watched the
gentle sway of her slim hips, Sigimor inwardly cursed.
Harold would not be the only trouble he found in the days
ahead.