you have any idea where Frasyer has hidden it?” he demanded.
Isabel nodded, but the location was the last place she’d ever wish Duncan to see.
“Where?”
Isabel braced herself. “In Frasyer’s private chambers.”
Red stroked the hard angles of his cheeks. His eyes narrowed to slits.
Coldness swept through her. He would rid himself of her now. How could he not? A fact she should be thankful for, but a part of her still ached at his leaving.
“When I return, be ready to depart.” He strode toward the door.
Return? No, he was supposed to be leaving! “Duncan?”
At the entry, he turned. “What?”
The hard expression on his face dared her to challenge his decision to remain. The stubborn, honorable fool. ’Twould seem he’d risk his life for her and her father due to his deathbed promise to Symon. Something she couldn’t allow.
“Be careful,” Isabel said, keeping her voice soft so as not to betray her intent.
A muscle worked in his jaw. “Careful? Nay, lass, I will take the risk. The last time I was careful, it was with you.” He jerked open the door. “And you left me for Frasyer’s bed.” The seasoned wood settled behind him with a soft clunk.
She sagged back. His anger toward her would serve him well. More so when he returned to find her gone. Then he would quit Moncreiffe Castle.
Without her.
Breath heaving in his chest, Duncan glanced at the unconscious men with disgust. Only after he’d thrown the torch atop the pile of straw filling the wagon and the flames had begun to build had their outlines come into view. By then it was too late. The men had noticed him.
And charged.
Thankfully, both were poorly trained. Still, one of their blades had sliced his left arm. Keeping pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding, he sprinted across the bailey.
“The smithy’s hut is catching fire!” a guard shouted from the wall walk. Several other guards located farther away echoed the alert.
Duncan bolted into the shadow cast by the keep as men raced past him toward the fire. Dragging in gulps of air, he braced himself against the cold stone wall.
He swiped the sweat from his brow. He was a knight. Not an inexperienced lad. He knew better than to let his guard down, but moments ago, caught up in thoughts of Isabel, he’d missed seeing the men standing near the smithy’s hut.
At the clatter of steps, he flattened himself against the cold stone.
Torchlight outlined several guards as they rushed from the keep.
That a way, lad, keep thinking about the lass and you will have your bloody arse in the dungeon.
“Form a line,” a man yelled from across the bailey. “Pass the buckets!”
Water sloshed from wooden buckets as they were quickly passed from man to man to be emptied onto the flames, then rushed back to the well.
The door beside Duncan creaked open wider. Two more guards ran past. After a quick glance around to ensure no one saw him, Duncan slipped inside the keep.
Servants hurried about, some grabbing empty cauldrons, others blankets to soak and beat at the flames.
“Put your backs into it and put out the fire!” a commanding voice roared from the bailey.
At the curt order, Duncan froze. He turned and looked out the stone exit. Outlined in the roar of flames stood Frasyer’s familiar outline.
Bedamned! Isabel had said Frasyer was away. From the fear in her eyes, he’d believed her. Part of him marveled at how he seemed ready to accept her word at face value; the other part cursed his lingering naïveté, which had put him in this situation of wanting to help a woman who didn’t deserve it.
A man ran past him and slammed the door to the keep, cutting off Frasyer’s next words.
Holding his left arm tight against his chest, with the whir of activity, Duncan passed through the great hall unnoticed. When he reached the turret, he ran up.
As he passed the second-floor exit, his legs grew heavy. It took his entire concentration to push forward. When he reached the third floor, his vision began to blur.
Bracing himself against the wall, he lifted his cloak. Blood stained a wide swath of his undershirt and was seeping onto his robe. Grimacing, he tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his undershirt, then wrapped his arm tight to stop the flow of blood.
By the time he reached the chapel door, his legs trembled as if weighted by stones. He shoved the door open and entered. Embraced by the scent of frankincense and myrrh, he glanced around.
Candles flickered on a nearby wall, filling the chamber with a golden glow. The crucifix behind the altar lay haloed within the calm, its simple beauty lending to the surreal air.
But the room stood empty.
Where was she? He glanced toward the robes. “Isabel?” The garments hanging along the wall remained still.
“Isabel?”
Silence.
Another wave of dizziness swamped him. He gritted his teeth. Slowly, his mind cleared, and Isabel’s words of caution echoed in his mind. Blast it. She’d told him to be careful, because she’d already decided to search for the Bible without him.
How could he have again given her his trust? He glared down the corridor toward the opposite end of the hallway to where the stairs spiraled up one more level. A forth floor, a novelty that only a man of great wealth could afford. And Frasyer’s father’s pride and joy.
Like father, like son.
His anger built. As Frasyer’s mistress, Isabel had known the likelihood of the Bible being hidden on the elusive upper floor, but having planned on sneaking away, she’d kept him ignorant of where Frasyer’s chamber lay.
Duncan started toward the steps. At the top, the corridor unfolded before him. Unlike the barren hallway below lit with several torches shoved within dreary wall sconces, a finely woven burgundy rug graced the entire length. Torches burned outside of each entry like polished sentinels, rigid within their ornate sconces.
Portraits of the current Earl of Frasyer preceded that of the majestic parade of his ancestors hanging prominently along the walls in gilded frames, each of their faces captured in an unyielding stance. The array of finely crafted swords hanging on each side of the portraits embellished the obvious.
Luxury. Wealth. Power.
A slight scrape of the door to his immediate left was Duncan’s only warning someone was coming. He scanned the corridor. Bedamned, nowhere to hide!
He flattened himself against the wall, his dagger drawn.
