Ashblane's Lady. Sophia James
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He shook his head in disquiet. She was a hostage, that was all. A valuable means of vengeance and retribution when expediency demanded he find a way to exact conditions from the rampant greed of her brother.
A convenient pawn. A woman whose very name was synonymous with treason and immorality.
The Black Widow of Heathwater.
With an angry swipe at the ale beside him he upended the bottle and felt the pain in his arm numb. She would be gone before the week’s end. He swore it. And Ashblane would stay safe.
She had hardly got back to her cell when the man named Quinlan came down the stairs.
‘Unshackle her,’ he called to the guard and waited as this was done.
Maddy tensed—she had seen the anger in the Laird of Ullyot’s eyes. Had he rethought his plan and sent his minion to kill her? Panic made her struggle and pull back.
‘Where are you taking me?’ Deciding indignation was the best way to push her advantage further, she stood.
‘To a room without rats.’ His reply was measured, and the humour in his words struck her as odd. She struggled to make sense of it all.
‘Why?’
‘Our Laird wants you fit to travel north in the morning.’
The significance of this reply hit her with a blinding euphoria. They were not to die tonight? Perhaps, after all, there was a chance.
‘Please. Could you free my page, Jemmie, too? He is only young and the cold is bitter here.’
A wary puzzlement filtered into the eyes of the soldier opposite as his glance skimmed the floor.
‘The offer is for you alone, Lady Randwick.’
‘Then I am sorry, but I cannot accept it.’ Already the faintness of blue marked the pale face of her sister as the chill crept in through granite flagstones. She held out her arms for the manacles and turned her head away. She felt the chains re-locked as tangibly as she felt the indecision of the man opposite, though she did not look at him as he left, the heavy iron door clanging shut with a dreadful finality.
Sitting down, she put her head between her legs and willed calm as the small fingers of panic wrenched aside composure. She was trapped in the dungeon of an Armstrong keep by a Laird known well for his lack of mercy, and, if that was not bad enough, Jemmie was in a disguise that would tip the balance further were she to be unmasked. Everything was worsened yet again by the fearful nature of the Laird of Ullyot himself.
She made herself stop.
Unlike your brother, I do not kill women and children. Were those not the exact words he had used?
The thought cooled panic and kindled hope. If the rumours about the Ullyot’s appearance had been so misleading, then perhaps his character was also unjustly slandered?
‘Please, God, let it be so,’ she prayed; as the tightness around her chest loosened, she crept across to Jemmie, frightened by her stillness. If her sister died, how could she keep living? A sob of terror escaped her before she could stop it, before she could again assemble the core of strength that she very seldom lost a hold of. She had been in worse predicaments before and had survived. With the grace of God and a little luck, perhaps they would both survive this one, too.
Quinlan returned to the Great Hall less than ten minutes after he had left it.
‘She says she will’na leave her young servant.’
‘She what?’ Alexander turned to his second-in-command, wincing as the movement tore into the wound on his shoulder.
‘She says she will’na go without the boy. Jemmie, she calls him. He has’na regained consciousness yet and she’s worrit by the cold.’
‘Then leave her there. Place a blanket across them both and leave them there.’ But Quinlan wasn’t quite yet finished.
‘She smells nice, Alex, and her manners are more than fine….’
Sharp laughter filled the room. ‘She’s Noel Falstone’s sister, Quin. She takes place in his raids.’
Quinlan shook his head. ‘And yet when the plaid fell from her shoulders in the cell I saw a scar on one breast fashioned into the sign of the cross. Remember Jock Ullyot’s words, Alex. He told us that the woman from Heathwater Castle who had helped him bore the sign of a cross. And her hair. He spoke of a fiery angel who healed people…’
‘He was dying. Delirious and dying. And if it be a fiery angel we are searching for, I doubt Madeleine Randwick would qualify.’
‘The rumours could be wrong—’
Alex cut him off. ‘They’re not. Leave it at that, aye?’
‘I would, save Geordie is on guard duty tonight.’
Swearing, Alexander reached for his dagger on the chair, tucking it into the belt at his waist with difficulty. ‘And his son is laid out on a slab in the chapel. Ye dinna think it wise to change the watch, then?’
Quinlan shrugged in resignation. ‘He’s as close to the edge as I’ve seen him. To insult him further…’
He didn’t finish as Alex Ullyot led the way out of the Great Hall, his shadow lying uneasily against stone as they made their passage to the dungeons below.
The cell was quiet save for the night-time wind that howled around the corners of the draughty passageways. Madeleine Randwick had hooked herself around the scrawny body of the boy she had been brought in with. An uncomfortable position, Alexander reflected, given the space between them. He noticed how her hands were taut white with the effort of stretching so far left.
‘Get up.’ He strode in as soon as the locks were freed and pulled her to her feet, ripping the plaid off her in one quick movement and turning her around to the light to find the scar of which Quinlan had spoken. A dainty cross of gold surprised him and he fingered it briefly before turning his mind back to the scar. ‘Who marked you so?’
Maddy was stiff with shock. ‘Liam Williamson, the Earl of Harrington.’
‘You are his?’
‘Yes.’ Her heart beat fast in her chest and her mouth was dry. She saw the knife in his hand before she felt it and looking down, saw that her breast ran with the blood of a shallow cut. The red of her blood stained his hands as he drew away.
‘Under the spoils of battle I relinquish his claim. Untie her, Quinlan, and bring her to the chamber off the solar.’
‘You mean to—?’
‘Now.’ He said the word through his teeth and the soldiers in the cell all hurried to obey him. She felt their rough hands take liberties and knew that the Laird had seen it, too. This time he offered no retribution.
A large bed dominated the room they repaired to and it was on this the soldiers placed her. She noticed them fan out across the room as if they meant to stay through the deed, though the one named Quinlan was clearly agitated.
‘She is a Lady, Alex.’
‘She is Harrington’s whore.’
‘No, I’m not—’ A hand clamped across her mouth.
‘Speak again and I will kill you.’ He released her only as she nodded. The blood at her breast made her faint, made her shake, made her sick to her stomach and she retched across the floor the contents of a frugal meal from the morning.
Now she would die. Looking up, she blotted the spittle with the borrowed arisaid and waited for retribution. Kill her or ravish her. It was all the same—if this Laird did not do the deed, then Liam Williamson surely would before too much time had passed.
She was sick of caring, sick of worrying, sick of the effort it took to live into another day