no!” Isabel gasped.
He blew out a deep breath and secured his weapon, all too aware of the soft press of her body wedged against his. “I told you to stay in the chamber below.”
“I—”
“Never intended to remain and wait for me.”
The flush on her cheeks betrayed her guilt. She glanced toward the window where outside, yellow flames from below in the bailey fragmented the night. Her mouth turned down.
“You risked going outside to start a fire?” Isabel asked. “I cannot believe that you—”
“Lass,” he interrupted, irritated by the awe in her voice. He was far from a hero. More of a fool. “We face a greater risk than my going outside. Frasyer is here.”
Her face paled. “He cannot be. It should have taken him several days to ride to Lord Monceaux’s with my father and deliver the charges.”
The sincerity of her reaction was believable, but he’d learned his lesson. “Then why has he returned early? Or have you been lying to me about his leaving all along.”
“I would never betray you like this.”
His arm throbbed. Her image wavered before him. He steadied himself. “And what do you call breaking your vow to wed me for Frasyer’s bed?”
For a long moment she stared at him, her face filled with sadness, then crumbling to regret. “The only decision I had.”
“Decision?” Her explanation was naught but twisted words. He shook his head to silence whatever she was about to say. “There is little time for your prattle.” With his arm hurting like the devil, he urged her forward. “Go.”
The muted yells of men below supported his claim. Once safely away, then he would have his answers.
Isabel tried to pull free.
“What?” he demanded.
She shook her head. “I…It is nothing.”
“For this once, spare me your lies.”
Eyes filled with anguish met his. “Only one reason would cause Frasyer to return early. My father is injured. Or”—she swallowed hard, her voice thinning, her entire body beginning to shake—“he is dead.”
“Isabel.”
She ignored him. “Mayhap en route, Frasyer arranged for my father to have an accident? Nay, Frasyer wouldn’t kill him,” she rambled. “He would never risk losing his control over me.”
After her incarceration, the contempt in her voice didn’t surprise Duncan, but her comment resurrected suspicions that she harbored a far darker secret.
“How long has Frasyer been gone?”
“Two days.” She frantically searched his face. “But I need to know if my father is alive.”
“Lord Caelin is not dim-witted,” Duncan said. “With his poor health, he would not be foolish enough to challenge Frasyer or his guards.” Unless he’d imbibed in one too many drinks, which wasn’t likely under the earl’s guard. “I believe he still lives.”
Isabel seemed to find strength in his words. “Do you truly think so?”
“Aye.” Duncan scanned the corridor, which was staggered by several doors. “Which room is Frasyer’s?”
She didn’t seem convinced. “Duncan—”
“Which one?” he pressed.
A loud cheer roared from the bailey.
“It sounds as if they have extinguished the fire. Hurry.” Another wave of weakness struck him. He pushed forward. He refused to pass out until after they’d escaped.
Isabel shot him a nervous glance. “We may need to search more than Frasyer’s private chamber.”
“I thought you said that is where he would keep the Bible?”
“It could be.”
“But you are not sure?” Duncan muttered, not liking where this conversation was heading or the anxious looks she kept sending him. “We will search every bloody room if need be.”
Isabel opened her mouth to speak.
“If you know what is good for you, do not even ask me to leave.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she remained silent.
Against the throbbing in his arm, he forced himself to walk by her side, her tantalizing scent doing nothing to improve his foul mood. Neither could he ignore the natural grace with which she walked, or how the fabric clung to her, revealing the soft swells of her breasts.
“And if the Bible is not in any of his rooms,” he pressed, “where do you suggest we search next?”
“I am unsure.” Isabel didn’t look toward Duncan. He was furious, how could he not be, but he didn’t understand how his mere presence was tearing her apart. All he could see was her betrayal.
God, she hated living this lie, how even now, with her father’s life at risk, she couldn’t tell Duncan the true reason she’d walked away from their betrothal. Or of Frayser’s threat to Duncan’s life if she revealed the truth.
She didn’t doubt Duncan’s abilities with a sword. Given a fair fight, he’d outmaneuver Frasyer as he had over and again throughout their youth. But she knew Frasyer. He wouldn’t fight fair.
Over the years, she’d prayed to find a way to set things right, then she could tell Duncan everything. After three years, no answer had come.
Only the passage of time.
And regret.
Until this moment, it had not mattered that she’d never visited Frasyer’s private room, that he’d not wanted her except as a reminder of what he’d taken from Duncan. She’d expected to conduct the search in private, her unfamiliarity of his personal living space going unnoticed. How could she fool Duncan? At least before he had arrived, she’d narrowed Frasyer’s personal chamber down to one door.
“The one at the end.”
“Of course,” he muttered under his breath. “We would not want his chamber to be close.”
In silence, she walked beside him and noticed he seemed to favor his left arm. “What is wrong with your arm?”
Not answering, he pulled his hand closer to his side as he continued forward. Then she noticed he winced.
“You are hurt!”
“It is naught but a wee scratch.”
The stubborn fool, with an ego to match. “Try not to bleed to death before I can tend to the wound,” she couldn’t help but add, appeased when his mouth
