her soul.
A distant shout rang out.
Lord Grey jerked her into his arms and clamped a hand over her mouth. Candlelight wavered at the quick movement. Another shout had him glancing toward the door.
The clunk of men’s boots on stone sounded with a muted echo. Footsteps pounded opposite the door, then faded.
He spun her around, glared at her with a ragged curse. “You lied!”
She shook her head. “They have only discovered you have escaped. They will not expect you to know of this tunnel.”
“No?” Candlelight glinted off the dagger he’d taken from her in the cell. He pressed the honed blade against her throat. “If you value your life, my lady, you had best pray they do not.”
The rebel secured the dagger in his belt, snatched the candle, and turned toward the dirt pathway. With the guards’ echoed shouts filling the dungeon beyond, he hauled her into the darkness.
Chapter 2
Adrenaline pumping, Seathan dragged in another gulp of the stale air permeating the tunnel as he hauled his captive alongside. He ignored the pounding in his head and how at times his vision blurred. With each step, the muted din of guards scouring the dungeon for him faded.
Candlelight illuminated the aged pathway cluttered with cobwebs and trickles of moisture edged with growth. He pushed forward. Naught mattered but achieving his goal.
Revenge.
By God, he would have it.
Images of Dauid’s stoic silence as he’d stood beside Lord Tearlach, the memory of the other Scottish rebels being dragged from the secret meeting, savaged his mind. Like blasted sheep led to a slaughter.
Thank God his brothers, Alexander and Duncan, had split off from him the day before the attack and had ridden with William Wallace to meet with Robert Wishart, the Bishop of Glasgow. If not killed in the slaughter, they, too, would have been tortured for rebel information and sentenced to hang.
Disgust rolled through Seathan as he thought of the Parliament held by King Edward at Berwick the summer past. He’d ordered prominent Scottish landowners, burgesses, and churchmen to swear fealty to him, then sign and affix their seals as proof. The Ragman Roll was naught but parchment scrawled with names of those without the backbone to fight for their country’s freedom or those who signed under duress.
Numerous nobles embroiled within the rebel cause had signed without intending to support the English crown, including Bishop Wishart of Glasgow and Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick. Then, there were those like himself and William Wallace, who refused to sign, consequence be damned.
Rumors of King Edward’s gloating that day as he’d watched each Scot sign the parchment fueled Seathan’s anger. As if to rub salt in a festering wound, before he’d headed south to England, the king had installed the Earl of Surrey as governor of Scotland and Hugh Cressingham as treasurer.
Confident he’d quashed the last of the rebels’ resistance, King Edward had ridden home to deal with the turmoil wrought by Flanders.
The English bastard believed he’d conquered Scotland, destroyed its people’s will to fight. He’d ridden from Scottish soil, leaving them naught more than pawns to be ordered about.
But he was wrong.
The Scots would never cease in their battle to reclaim their freedom.
The woman at his side gave a weary sigh.
Seathan glanced toward her, and a new thought came to mind. “You said you wished to go to the Highlands to be with your mother’s clan?”
In the flicker of candlelight, wary eyes met his. “Yes.”
“You are English.”
She hesitated. “Half. My father was.”
“Was?”
“He is dead.”
Suspicion flared at her claim, but her grief-stricken expression proclaimed her words true. “I am sorry.” She shrugged, but he saw the emotion she tried to shield from his view. He understood all too well the pain of losing a parent, and of the responsibilities arising from such a loss. “Your mother?”
“Dead as well.”
“How?” he asked, his heart softening a degree.
“It matters not.”
From the coolness of her reply, it did, but to disclose the reason to him would splinter the tough exterior she carefully built. A facade he, too, had forged out of sheer necessity. Any similarities between their lives, however, ended there. The challenges he’d faced were far from the pampered existence this noblewoman had enjoyed.
Her fingers curled within his palm. Seathan tried to ignore the softness of her flesh, how the velvet of her skin pressed against the roughness of his calloused hand, and how too easily he could imagine her fingers upon his body in a silken caress. Though she’d kissed like a siren, he’d tasted her innocence.
Who was this noblewoman? More important, what had prompted her to free him?
Or rather, who?
Though she was cloaked in a cape of worsted wool, her serviceable garb hid neither her refined quality of speech, nor her regal bearing.
Unease crept through him. Even as he’d accused her of having a part in Lord Tearlach’s twisted game, mayhap to free him for the thrill of the chase, his charge made no sense. Not that he’d put such past the Sassenach, whose amusement at Seathan’s capture had eroded to fury when he’d refused to divulge any information under torture about William Wallace or the rebels’ plans.
Which had led to Tearlach’s order for Seathan to hang at first light.
If the viscount wasn’t behind her actions, then who? Her request for an escort to the Highlands rang sour. A noblewoman needing protection would not seek out a man beaten to the point of near collapse. She had chosen him for a distinct purpose.
“Linet?”
“Yes?”
“Naught, I but wanted to know if indeed that is your real name.”
Red streaked her cheeks. “Proof I am not lying to you?” She shook her head. “Worry not. I expect nothing more from you than your vow given to escort me to the Highlands.” She faced forward and continued walking at his side.
If only it were so simple to believe her. Lives of thousands lay at stake. He would be a fool to accept words easily given. No, he’d watch her, listen for her to stumble and expose her true motive.
As he walked, a chill shook his body, then another. He forced himself to continue, each step punishing muscles long abused. He released her hand. The last thing he wished to do was reveal his deteriorating condition to her, but he needed to prepare for the worst. If possible, to make a plan before he passed out.
“Once we are safely away from
