His Conquest. Diana Cosby
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since they’d departed the cell. The sheen of sweat on his face betrayed the effort of his each step.
After the brutal beatings he’d endured since his arrival at Breac Castle a fortnight past, she was amazed he could stand, much less walk. Another testament to his strength.
And proof the Scot was dangerous.
Had she erred in freeing him to seek revenge against her brother? Aside from not trusting him, with his injuries, he was going to slow her down. No, Fulke’s loss of his valuable prisoner more than compensated for any challenges ahead.
How long before Fulke realized she was behind Lord Grey’s escape? Caught up in his search for the Scot, surely he wouldn’t think of her, nor would her brother notice if she didn’t appear in the morn to break her fast. She’d told her maid that she felt ill, to inform Fulke that she would remain in her chamber to rest, which would buy her more time.
Time enough to be a league away from him and his despicable edicts before morning.
Lord Grey urged her forward. “Go.”
Followed by the Scot, Linet stepped inside the secret tunnel.
The earl closed the door behind him with a soft thud. Candlelight flickered into a steady pulse; his gaze never wavered from hers. Neither did she miss how his body trembled from his effort.
Disgust filled her at Fulke’s cold-hearted abuse. “Can you make it out?”
A breath of a smile touched the earl’s mouth, but there was nothing warm or friendly in his expression. “Aye, with or without your help.”
Anger sliced her. “After all that I have risked, you think I would abandon you?”
Black brows drew into a harsh frown. “Exactly what have you risked, my lady?”
“My life to free you.”
His grip tightened on her hand. “Why? Or should I ask, for whom?”
She angled her jaw. Though an intimidating man, he’d soon learn she was not a woman swayed by threats. “My reasons are my own. Rest assured, I do not plot against you. All I wish to gain is my escape from Breac Castle and to reach my mother’s clan in the Highlands.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she shook her head. “I will not tell you anything else. If you wish to ask more questions, you will but waste time we can ill afford.”
The Scot watched her as if a hawk appraising its prey. Then, his grip loosened. “Time will reveal if indeed you speak the truth.” His somber words reverberated in the fractured darkness.
A shiver stole through her. He was a man who achieved his goals, regardless of the means. But was he a man who gave with his heart for that which he believed?
A man like her father?
Linet stared at the strong lines of his face framed by the flicker of candlelight and shadows, at the curve of his lips still pressed into a hard line, and at the anger that never quite left his eyes.
Even facing the certainty of a sentence of death, Lord Grey had held his own. He was strong. Powerful. Defiant.
A rebel until the end.
However dangerous his presence, she couldn’t help respecting his self-reliance, his confidence honed from years of facing, and more important, overcoming adversity in his fight to win Scotland’s freedom.
And God help her, neither could she forget her body’s response to his touch, or the utter devastation of his kiss. No, she refused to think of either. Once she escaped Breac Castle, her life would be guided by her own hand. Not by men, like her brother, who held and wielded power for their own gain. Or by this Scot, who possessed the ability to stir her soul.
A distant shout rang out.
Lord Grey jerked her into his arms and clamped a hand over her mouth. Candlelight wavered at the quick movement. Another shout had him glancing toward the door.
The clunk of men’s boots on stone sounded with a muted echo. Footsteps pounded opposite the door, then faded.
He spun her around, glared at her with a ragged curse. “You lied!”
She shook her head. “They have only discovered you have escaped. They will not expect you to know of this tunnel.”
“No?” Candlelight glinted off the dagger he’d taken from her in the cell. He pressed the honed blade against her throat. “If you value your life, my lady, you had best pray they do not.”
The rebel secured the dagger in his belt, snatched the candle, and turned toward the dirt pathway. With the guards’ echoed shouts filling the dungeon beyond, he hauled her into the darkness.
Chapter 2
Adrenaline pumping, Seathan dragged in another gulp of the stale air permeating the tunnel as he hauled his captive alongside. He ignored the pounding in his head and how at times his vision blurred. With each step, the muted din of guards scouring the dungeon for him faded.
Candlelight illuminated the aged pathway cluttered with cobwebs and trickles of moisture edged with growth. He pushed forward. Naught mattered but achieving his goal.
Revenge.
By God, he would have it.
Images of Dauid’s stoic silence as he’d stood beside Lord Tearlach, the memory of the other Scottish rebels being dragged from the secret meeting, savaged his mind. Like blasted sheep led to a slaughter.
Thank God his brothers, Alexander and Duncan, had split off from him the day before the attack and had ridden with William Wallace to meet with Robert Wishart, the Bishop of Glasgow. If not killed in the slaughter, they, too, would have been tortured for rebel information and sentenced to hang.
Disgust rolled through Seathan as he thought of the Parliament held by King Edward at Berwick the summer past. He’d ordered prominent Scottish landowners, burgesses, and churchmen to swear fealty to him, then sign and affix their seals as proof. The Ragman Roll was naught but parchment scrawled with names of those without the backbone to fight for their country’s freedom or those who signed under duress.
Numerous nobles embroiled within the rebel cause had signed without intending to support the English crown, including Bishop Wishart of Glasgow and Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick. Then, there were those like himself and William Wallace, who refused to sign, consequence be damned.
Rumors of King Edward’s gloating that day as he’d watched each Scot sign the parchment fueled Seathan’s anger. As if to rub salt in a festering wound, before he’d headed south to England, the king had installed the Earl of Surrey as governor of Scotland and Hugh Cressingham as treasurer.
Confident he’d quashed the last of the rebels’ resistance, King Edward had ridden home to deal with the turmoil wrought by Flanders.
The English bastard believed he’d conquered Scotland, destroyed its people’s will to fight. He’d ridden from Scottish soil, leaving them naught more than pawns to be ordered about.
But he was wrong.
The Scots would never cease in their battle to reclaim their freedom.
The woman at his side gave a weary sigh.
Seathan glanced toward her, and a new thought came to mind. “You said you wished to go to the Highlands to be with your mother’s clan?”
In the flicker of candlelight, wary eyes met his. “Yes.”
“You are English.”
She hesitated. “Half. My father was.”
“Was?”
“He is dead.”
Suspicion flared at her claim, but her grief-stricken expression proclaimed her words true. “I am sorry.” She shrugged, but he saw the emotion she tried to shield from his view. He understood all too well the pain of losing a parent, and of the responsibilities