His Woman. Diana Cosby
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God, please don’t let him die. Not Symon. He was her only hold on sanity in her fractured life. No matter what, she could come to him. Always.
He couldn’t die.
Frasyer caught her shoulders and hauled Isabel to her feet. “Where is Wallace?”
“Damn you!” She shoved against his chest and broke free. Isabel drove her dagger toward Frasyer.
The earl caught her wrist and squeezed. Pain ripped through her arm, and the knife clattered to the floor.
“You are a fool,” the earl seethed.
A few feet away, Symon gasped for his every breath. Sprawled within his left hand lay the delicate embroidery of Wallace’s arms.
“Let me go to him,” she pleaded. “Symon needs me.”
Frasyer’s fingers bit deeper into her flesh. Cruel, determined lines scored his face. “Tell me.”
“Do not,” her father yelled.
Like a wolf sensing its prey, Frasyer’s gaze settled on her father, pinned against the wall by two of his knights. “Mayhap he knows.”
Fresh fear ripped through her veins. Isabel’s entire body trembled. “No!” Frasyer’s brand of questioning would cripple her father. And her brother, her dear brother, who lay dying, she had to protect him as well. “He knows nothing. I swear it.”
Frasyer glanced at Lord Caelin with disdain.
She strained against his hold. “He is no threat to you.”
“No?” Frasyer watched her with a calculating expression. “He had a rendezvous with a known outlaw.”
The bastard. “He met his son!”
“As Earl of Frasyer and magistrate of these lands, I view his presence differently.” He tugged her closer, his mouth curling into a sneer. “Give me what I want or I will charge your father with aiding the rebels and he will hang.”
Stricken, she stared at the man to whom she’d already sold her soul, loathing him more than she’d ever thought possible to loathe another human being.
“He knows nothing,” she whispered. “You know that. All that interests his mind is gambling and drink.” Isabel cringed inwardly at the truth. If it would save him, she would admit anything.
“Is that so?” He leaned closer until their faces were inches apart. “I am not so sure. Lord Caelin is known for his, let us say, questionable associations.”
Her brother’s moans from several feet away, dragged her gaze toward him. She needed to tend to Symon. “Please, do not do this.”
“Whatever happens now is your decision. Will your father live or die?”
“My brother—”
“Too late for him. It is your father’s life that we speak of.”
Fear clawed at her chest. Desperately, she searched for another option to save her father and caught sight of her dagger on the floor. Isabel tore her hand free and dove for her weapon.
With a grunt of disgust, Frasyer planted his boot upon the blade. He stared down at her. “You may not be privy to the rebels’ plans, but I would wager you know where they are hiding.” He reached down and snatched the dagger. “It will take a fortnight to prepare and deliver the charges of your father’s suspicious activity to King Edward’s Scottish adviser, the Baron of Monceaux.” His voice turned silky. “If you have not told me where Wallace’s hideout is by then, your father will be found a traitor against England and hung. After, I will deal with you…in private.”
Isabel opened her mouth to respond, unsure what to say.
“The Bible,” Lord Caelin hissed between rough breaths.
Isabel crawled closer to her father so she could hear him.
Lord Caelin lifted his head nearer to her. “In your mother’s Bible. Search for the answer there.”
At the knowing smile creeping over Frasyer’s lips, she froze. He’d overheard!
The earl gestured toward her father as he spoke to his master-at-arms. “Take him to the Baron of Monceaux at Rothfield Castle. Notify him that Lord Caelin is to be charged with treason against the crown, and I will be sending a writ outlining the details of his offenses posthaste. King Edward will enjoy displaying his head on a pike for all to witness the penance if they dare to betray him.”
“Yes, my lord.” The master-at-arms motioned toward several knights. The men wrestled her father out the door.
“Da!” Isabel started to run after them, but Frasyer caught her.
Without taking his gaze from hers, the earl nodded toward another knight. “Travel to Lord Caelin’s home and retrieve the family Bible. If anyone asks, tell them Isabel wishes to have it for prayers.” He turned toward her with a smug look. “She will be needing each and every one.”
The knight gave a brisk nod and left.
Her trembling legs threatened to buckle. How had everything gone so horribly wrong? She’d come here to see Symon and her father. Now, they were taking her father to England where his sentence of death would be certain. And Symon, dear Symon, her voice of sanity was dying. Pain fisted in her chest as her brother struggled to breathe.
Frasyer jerked her closer. “You know what you have to do to free your father.”
So riveted on the sight of her brother crumpled upon the floor, she barely heard Frasyer’s threat. Her brother was expiring.
“Is—Isabel,” Symon rasped. He coughed, a rough, strangled sound.
Her heart was breaking as she watched her brother fight for each breath, his pale face glistening with sweat.
“Please, help my brother,” she begged.
Frasyer’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me where Wallace is hiding.”
The one thing he wanted was the one thing she couldn’t give him. After Symon had sacrificed his life for Wallace’s cause, she refused to betray him. Or the freedom hundreds of people—their people—had sacrificed their lives for.
Neither could she allow her father to die.
From the depths of her trauma grew a will so fierce, a determination so deep, she almost gasped. The strength, drive to succeed, overwhelmed her. She knew what she must do. While Frasyer attended his estate, she would find a way to slip from her chamber and retrieve the Bible. She prayed the heirloom held proof of her father’s innocence against Frasyer’s charges.
Then Lord Monceaux would make the prudent decision. She wanted to believe that as King Edward’s adviser to the Scots, he would not hang a clansman when incontestable evidence of his innocence existed.
As her only hope, she had to try.
Isabel leveled her gaze on Frasyer. “I will tell you naught.”
Disgust soured his face. “Then rot where you belong.” Frasyer dragged her to her feet and shoved Isabel into a guard’s arms. “Lock her in the dungeon.”
“The dungeon!” Horrified, she fought to break free. She’d expected to be left guarded in her chamber as was common for gentry-held captives, not locked within the vile confines Frasyer had constructed below ground. To her knowledge, no one had ever escaped from there.
At least not alive.
“Frasyer!” Isabel pleaded.
He didn’t turn or stop to listen as he headed outside. The clatter of hooves upon dirt and rock sounded as Frasyer, leading his men, rode past.
“Come.” The guard dragged her toward the door.
Frantic, she glanced toward her brother. “Symon!” She tried to jerk free of the knight’s grip. He