Ashblane's Lady. Sophia James
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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 and the absolute absence of any viable alternative. ‘End it here,’ she thought and stood, challenging him, before the rush of unbalance took her and she crumpled on to the floor of the raised dais.
Alex swore as the redness of her hair spilled across his boots, the white sheen of her body dappled now with blood and bruises. She was young and thin and strangely vulnerable, this Madeleine Randwick. Bending, he touched the fiery tumble of her silken curls. In unconsciousness her fear had been wiped away and moulded into something else entirely, the gentle line of her throat running up to a face that was unexpected.
He turned, his stomach no longer in this public ravishment. ‘Settle her into a bedchamber upstairs and bring the young page to her,’ he ordered, his eyes flicking to the wound he had inflicted on her breast. He suddenly wanted to cover it, but knew that to do so would invite comment. Stripping a flare from the wall, he made for the door, dismissing the sentries with a sharp order and glad that he could trust Quinlan’s honour to make certain that the Lady of Heathwater stayed safe.
Madeleine woke in a bed, the feather-tick covers pulled up over her, and Jemmie beside her in a makeshift cot on the floor. Reaching her hand across the space, she was relieved when the blankets stirred. Jemmie was alive and unhurt. That was all that mattered. Outside it was dark; she could see a quarter moon through the clouds between the ill-fitting shutters.
‘Are you hurt badly, Maddy?’
‘Only a little.’ Sitting up, she pulled at her plaid to reveal the cut Ullyot had marked her with. It still oozed slightly, though a skin had formed across the edges of the wound. Spitting into the palm of her hand, she rubbed the mark briskly and swallowed back tears.
‘It feels better already, and, if Ullyot has not killed us by now, I doubt that he means to.’
‘But the mark. He will take you—’
She cut off the worry. ‘He will take me as a mistress, mark or no mark, Jemmie. It’s the least of our problems.’ Rising from the bed, she went to the window, pulling back the shutter and opening it carefully. Three storeys from the ground and no foothole to allow leverage. The Laird was taking no chances. She knew the door would have a guard standing watch.
‘We have a knife and a gold crown.’ She pulled both objects from a hidden pocket sewn deep inside her petticoats, putting her herbal powders that were also hidden there aside. ‘It may be enough.’
‘To escape?’
‘Nay, to send a message.’
‘To whom?’
‘To Goult. If we could get away from here and ride west towards Annan—’
Jemmie interrupted her. ‘No, nothing is safe.’ As the words stopped, Madeleine noticed the thin band of sweat across her sister’s brow. Could she be sickening from the cold night on the floor already, or was this a sign of being as frightened by the Laird of Ullyot as she herself was?
Her heart raced in fear. The Laird of Ullyot was not at all as other men—she had seen the auras that surrounded him the moment he had turned towards her. Silver and black. Eleanor had always warned her of such a mix; years ago she had come across her mother in the stables with her gowns around her thighs and entwined in the arms of a stranger who had breathed silver.
Silver and black. And something else, too. Something unspoken and forbidden. Something primal and reckless.
Shaking her head, she pocketed the dagger and the coin and began to think how she could turn this adversity to her own advantage.
‘We will watch for our chance to escape; when it does come, we will make for France.’ Covering her hands with the folds of her skirt, she was glad Jemmie could not see the whitened knuckles of her clenched fist. Glad she could not know the other thoughts that rushed around inside her head and had her rigid with panic.
‘And we will be together, Maddy?’
The voice was shaky and years of her own fears allowed Madeleine to easily see fright in others.
‘We will always be together, Jemmie, I promise. But now you must sleep, for it will be a long march on the morrow.’
She watched as the blankets shifted and then stilled before turning her eyes to the light beneath the door and sitting up. If they came, she would be ready, and the knife in her hand was honed sharp.
The Laird of Ullyot came to her room just as the pinkness of dawn blushed the eastern sky, his surprise at finding her awake masked quickly.
‘I would speak with you, Lady Randwick, and without your page. My men will take him.’
Jemmie stood uncertainly, movements clumsy with sleep, and Maddy felt her stomach lurch in fright. ‘Where will you take him?’ She tried to temper her desperation.
‘To the room next door. We will return him to you later.’
Her eyes went to the two guards. How dependable did they look? She was thankful to notice one was an old man with kindness stamped in his eyes.
‘I will be safe, Jemmie. Go with the men.’
‘But I think—’
Maddy shook her head as Jemmie began to speak, but the gesture did not seem to sway any intent as a bony chin went up and thinly covered shoulders straightened. ‘Will you give me your word, Laird Ullyot, that you will not hurt her?’
A young, uncertain demand given without weapon or strength. Holding her breath, Madeleine waited for reaction.
‘Get out.’
Not a knife through the ribs then, or a fist against the thin bones of Jemmie’s face. Reciting a prayer of thankfulness in her mind, she watched as her sister was taken from the chamber. As the door shut behind the group, Ullyot began to speak.
‘You have one who would vouch for your character, it seems, Lady Randwick, though many would say you are a whore and a liar known throughout two kingdoms for your loose ways and dark magic.’
She made herself smile. ‘I have been incarcerated at Heathwater for the past ten years, my Lord.’
‘Hardly incarcerated, my Lady, for your exploits at the Castle are chronicled well by those who have enjoyed your favours.’
Unexpectedly, she felt herself blush bright red. Angry at doing so, she stood and walked to the window.
Why was he here? And alone?
‘How many retainers does your brother keep at Heathwater?’
Her relief was visible. He was here to find out about Noel’s fighting capabilities?
‘A thousand,’ she lied, knowing the number to be almost twice that.
‘A thousand without the retainers of Harrington?’
She knew the question was not lightly asked and looked away. ‘My brother has not the numbers your domain yields, sir, though there is a certain safety implicit in depending on others.’
‘How so?’ His eyes were instantly alert, the mark on his cheek