style="font-size:15px;"> Till now. She minded terribly that Duncan hated her.
Why did he? She’d risked her life to save his, nursed him through two days and nights, yet he sneered at her. Called her pagan and witch as though she were cursed.
Was he truly the one?
Kara stared at the leaping fire in the kitchen hearth. But no vision came.
“Here you are, then. There’s more if he can eat it,” added Black Rolly. He held out a tray set with a bowl of savory stew, brown bread and a cup of ale. The tray looked tiny in his big, warrior’s hands. He’d smashed his leg the same night Fergie had nearly lost his eye. She’d stitched them both up, not daring to hope they’d live. But they were strong and adaptable. With his fighting days over, Rolly had taking up something he liked. Cooking.
“It smells wonderful, but don’t be surprised if he can’t finish it all. He’s still recovering.” In his present state of rage, he might refuse to eat at all. She had to do something to change that. How were they to win against the MacGorys if their appointed savior refused to play his part?
She took the tray, then hesitated. In his youth, Rolly had left Edin to ride in Border raids against the English. He’d even been to King William’s court in Edinburgh and knew much of the outside world. “Rolly, do you know what a Cru...Crusader is?”
“Aye.” He leaned his bad hip against the worktable. “They’re knights who’ve sworn to free Jerusalem from the grip of the Infidels.”
“Are they bad people, these Infidels?”
“Worse than the MacGorys. They dinna believe in God.”
“Oh.”
“And they cut out the hearts of those who do.”
Kara gasped. “They must be fierce, indeed. He was wounded fighting them.”
“Duncan?”
Kara nodded. “He’s a strange man, full of pride and anger. For all he’s weak as a new colt, he hates having us do for him. I fear I had to tie him up to keep him from injuring himself, which only made things worse. He thinks we are pagans.”
“Some Crusaders have deep religious convictions.” Rolly told her briefly about the training a knight went through, and the vow he made before God when he was knighted. “They pledge to protect the weak and vanquish the oppressors.”
“That is good, we are being oppressed by the MacGorys. And we did save his life.” Kara repeated that as she trudged up the narrow stairs. If the one thing didn’t convince him to help, mayhap the other would.
She reached the second floor and found all was dark and shadowy. The torch at the near end of the corridor had burned out again. Poor Dod, Edin’s steward, was growing forgetful. When she’d finished with Duncan, she’d set one of Dod’s grandsons to replenishing the torches. Covertly, so Dod’s pride wasn’t hurt.
She nudged the door open with her hip, took a deep breath and pasted on a smile. “Well, here we are....”
She stopped and gaped at the empty bed.
The savior of Edin Valley had slipped his bounds and fed.
Chapter Three
From his hiding place under the bed, Duncan listened with grim satisfaction to Kara Gleanedin’s gasp of dismay. The wood floor was cold on his bare chest and legs, but at least they’d left on his braies when they stripped him. He watched her stomp one foot, the ragged hem of her skirts twitching in agitation. The ripe oath that followed made him scowl. That a woman should know, much less utter such foul phrases.
“Damn and blast.” She stalked to the bed.
Had she seen him? Did she guess? He held his breath, wishing he’d had time to get to his sword, but her return had followed his escape by only moments.
Wood rattled on wood as she set a tray down on the stool where she’d sat vigil the past two nights. An unwelcome reminder of the debt he owed her. With one final curse, this time in Gaelic, she bolted from the room. He waited till her angry footfalls had faded away before he gingerly crawled out.
His shoulder throbbed, his legs were wobbly, his mind foggy, but he had no time to indulge such weaknesses. One hand on the rough, unpainted wall, he worked his way to his sword with the determination of a man pursuing the Holy Grail. Gripping the hilt made him feel better. He bent to retrieve the belt coiled neatly on the floor. The pouch was still attached to it.
Knowing he’d not rest easy till he saw the stones, Duncan took a few precious seconds to release the intricate metal clasp and open it. Inside were his few remaining silver coins. The silk lining of the pouch was intact. Then he saw that the stitches in one corner were made with black thread, not the red he’d closed it with when he’d hidden the gems behind the lining.
“Nay!”
He split the threads with the tip of his sword.
Empty!
He swore hoarsely, then tried to suck the words back.
Damn. Damn. Crushing the pouch in his fist, he glanced around the room. There was not much to see, an uncurtained bed with a chest at its foot, a table holding a fat candle and assorted small crocks. Crude woolen tapestries brightened the walls, but there was nothing concealed behind them. ’Twas a moment’s work to ransack the chest. It contained a few sets of woman’s clothes. Kara’s he supposed, for her scent clung to them. But she’d been smart enough not to hide her stolen loot there.
Likely she had it on her person.
Or she’d given it to her uncle.
Duncan spun toward the door, his hand tightening on the sword hilt. With the Gleanedins out beating the brush for him, he’d search their castle. But he needed clothes. Preferably his own. Anger fired his blood, but his skin was cold and pebbled. Snatching a blanket from the bed, he slung it around his waist and over the wounded shoulder like a toga.
The hallway beyond the door was gloomy as a crypt, with only a single torch burning at the far end. He scanned the length with an invader’s eye, noting the archway to his left where the stairwell came up, the pair of doors farther down the corridor. To search them, or escape while he could?
In the courtyard outside, he heard shouting and the excited trumpeting of horses. The sounds built to a wave of thunderous hoofbeats, then there was silence. They’d left.
Duncan grinned and headed for the next room.
Fergus Gleanedin, for this could only be his chamber, had few possessions, but what he had was well cared for. A polished claymore hung over the small hearth, where banked coals glowed. The bedside table held a candle and flask of fiery osquebae, the Scots breath of life.
Duncan took a moderate swallow, groaning as the liquid burned down his gullet and exploded into his belly. Ah, he’d missed that. It lent strength to his flagging muscles. False strength, but he’d take what he could get. Kneeling beside the trunk, he picked the lock
