For My Lady's Honor. Sharon Schulze
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don’t leave!” she cried. “Please—please, come back.”
No answer met her plea; she could hear naught but the storm.
She must be patient, she reminded herself, disgusted by the feelings of panic she could not completely suppress. For all she knew, many others could be trapped as well, in circumstances far more dreadful than her own. There were people out there searching; they’d not leave her here any longer than they must.
She could endure this! Think of Lady Catrin, she told herself, wounded by bandits, with none but Lord Nicholas to help her. Remember Lady Gillian, abducted by an evil kinsman and spirited away from Lord Rannulf, from her home and all she held dear…. Did these intrepid women give up? Nay—they remained strong, did whatever necessary to help themselves.
At the least, she could wait patiently for however long she must.
And in the meantime, she’d try again to work her way out. She’d one useful arm, hadn’t she? What more could she need than that?
Despite her resolve, however, tears streamed down her face, startling her with their warmth. ’Twas such a contrast to the utter cold suffusing her from head to toe that it made her shudder more violently. Sweet Mary, how the slightest movement hurt…but she refused to give in to the pain. She’d withstood it till now, she could not let it overwhelm her.
Seeking distraction, she concentrated instead on her surroundings as she carefully worked her arm about in the narrow space enclosing her. ’Twas impossible to move anything much out of the way, but by dint of gritting her teeth against the pain and pressing her arm against the dense jumble of branches, she was able to increase the space around her.
’Twas still not much room, barely enough to shift so that her head rested higher than her feet and she could almost pull herself into a half-sitting position. Nonetheless, the simple fact that she’d made this much progress inspired her to keep at it in spite of the pain.
Alys had no idea how much time had passed, but it appeared the storm had finally begun to fade, the rumbles of thunder more distant and farther apart, the rain lessened from a pounding torrent to a soft, pattering shower.
Other sounds rose to replace the storm’s fury. Boughs creaked and snapped as they were moved about, debris crunched beneath booted feet. Voices wove through the sounds; though she could not clearly understand the words, the mere sound of them—the sense of resolve they conveyed—lent her strength, gave her faith that this ordeal would soon be over.
Lightning flashed yet again, however, followed almost at once by the deep boom of thunder and a series of sharp cracks as wood splintered. She stopped moving and held her breath for a moment to listen as the sounds faded away, lips moving rapidly in a near-silent prayer. Thankfully she heard no panicked cries of pain, nor the crash of more trees coming down close by.
The rumbling had barely ended, however, before she realized the lightning had filled her timbered prison with a brief, eerie glow so bright she was able to briefly distinguish individual branches piled overhead.
Anticipation flared higher—there had to be less debris piled atop her than before, if she could see so well!
Who would she find there, she wondered, once the rubble had been cleared away and she’d been pulled from the pile? Were there others trapped as well, or injured?
Was Marie all right? Though she could not distinguish individual voices, what she could hear sounded nothing like a woman’s higher tone.
Which could mean nothing more than that the men had already settled the maid someplace safe.
And what of Padrig? He’d been riding at the head of the column…had he been the first to fall?
Abruptly on the verge of panic, Alys caught her breath, disgusted by her weakness. What was wrong with her? By the Virgin, had she grown maudlin from lying here so long?
No more! Calling herself a fool, she closed her eyes for a moment and prayed that all their party had escaped the storm’s wrath unharmed…that she’d find within herself the will to do whatever she must.
Calmer now, her strength of will restored, she opened her eyes, clenched her teeth against the renewed pain and resumed her task. Though she tugged and pulled with all her might, one-handed, in so little space, she could make little additional headway into the thickly packed tangle of limbs along her side. Nigh growling with frustration, she shifted to lie flat on her back and thrust her left hand up into the thick mass overhead.
All of a sudden the entire mound above her shifted and disappeared, sending a torrent of cold water and debris spilling over her. Temporarily blinded, she gasped and coughed as she sought to catch her breath and clear her vision.
When a warm hand captured her own, she couldn’t help but shriek.
“Alys? Milady, is it you?” Padrig asked, his tone urgent as he shifted aside more branches with his free hand. He kept hold of her, the feel of his fingers clasped tight around hers as comforting as an embrace. “Jesu, are you all right?”
She’d inhaled so much water—especially when she’d screeched—’twas a wonder she hadn’t drowned, but it mattered not a whit. “I am now,” she said, still gasping a bit, her voice little more than a croak.
Grinning like a fool, realizing she’d no doubt sounded like one for shrieking when he’d touched her hand, Alys tilted her face into the clear cascade of rain and let it wash away the bark and needles clinging to her skin. She turned her hand within Padrig’s until they touched palm to palm, their fingers intertwined. “Thank you for finding me,” she murmured, tightening her grasp.
He shifted to sit on the edge of the mound and leaned closer, his face scarcely visible in the faint light. What she saw there, however, pushed aside her joy at being found, replacing it with the fear that had haunted her captivity.
“What of the others, Sir Padrig?” she asked. “Where is Marie?”
In her urgency she tried to sit up, the movement wresting a cry of pain from her before she could suppress it. “Have a care, milady,” he cautioned. He wrapped his arm about her; with his assistance, she pulled herself up so they were face to face.
Sir Padrig somehow maintained his hold on her as he eased himself over a sturdy tree trunk and down into the hole with her. Tears of joy pooled in her eyes; she blinked hard till they were gone, for she did not wish to appear weak before him.
She’d far rather keep such vulnerability locked away, lest he think her naught but a pathetic fool.
“Don’t worry about the others, milady,” he said, his manner calm and reassuring, his face kind.
Yet there was a fleeting look in his eyes…
This close, even in such poor light, she could tell there was something he sought to hide—but ’twas there, then gone, in an instant.
“You’ll see the others soon enough once we get you out of here,” he told her. “Meanwhile, let me see how you’ve fared in this disaster.” His gaze had shifted away from hers as soon as he began to speak.
Increasing her misgivings. Something was obviously amiss.
Since he hadn’t given her a direct response, he’d simply have to hear her question once more—and yet again, if necessary, until he answered her.
Her stomach in a knot, she tightened her grip on his hand until he looked at her. Once she was certain she had his attention, she asked, “What of Marie?” She infused her voice with Lady Gillian’s quiet tone of command and hoped ’twould be effective. “Have you found her? Is she alive?”
Chapter Six
“What of Marie?” she’d asked again.
Lord save him from a tenacious woman! By Christ’s bones, why must she ask such questions now, when ’twas her safety paramount in his mind?
“She is alive,” he told her, his tone abrupt.