strain to hear something—anything. The light of the guards’ fire that mocked her chilled body slowly burned down, leaving the end of the hall in near-darkness for the first time since her arrival.
While there was still a lone spark in her own hearth, Tonia picked her way across the uneven flag-stone floor to her pallet. “Good Saint Michael,” she prayed aloud, not caring if any unfriendly mortal also heard her, “send me your strength for I am very weak and sore afraid.”
The last ember winked out in a thin plume of curling smoke. Tonia pulled her cloak tighter around her. A new thought knifed through her. Suppose the guards had abandoned her! They may have received word to return from whence they came, and to leave Tonia to her fate in the bowels of this isolated mountain fastness. She choked back a sob. She must be strong to the end—and a bitter cold end it was likely to be.
It gave her little comfort to think that she would die a martyr for daring to open a Catholic nunnery within the boundaries of her Protestant homeland, currently racked with religious dissension in the name of the sickly young King Edward VI. Her father had warned her of her folly, but Tonia thought that by living so far from London, she and her followers would be safe from the stern laws against popery. And what of the others who had been arrested with Tonia? Had Lucy, Agatha, Margaret and little Nan suffered the same fate as she? Were their deaths on her soul? “Pray forgive me, sisters,” she whispered into the darkness.
A noise awoke Tonia with a start. Angry with herself for falling to sleep again in the middle of her prayers, she blamed the lack of food for making her light-headed. Again she heard the noise that had disturbed her slumber. Someone had returned to the guards’ room. She was not alone! A sudden gladness overwhelmed her before her common sense prevailed. Whomever was bustling around out there had not come to free her, or he would have done so immediately. This unseen person was either a new jailer, perhaps one skilled in torture—or her executioner.
Through the barred window she saw a light move toward her. Her stomach growled with a bleak anticipation of food. A man’s heavy tread echoed down the narrow corridor; his armament jingled as he walked. Then a dark form blotted out the light on the other side of the door.
Her heart nearly jumping out of her breast in fear, Tonia pulled herself erect. She would face this stranger on her feet rather than huddling on her knees. After all, she was a Cavendish, one of England’s greatest families. She would not dishonor the Cavendish’s sterling reputation for bravery—no matter what the next few moments might bring.
A key rattled in the door’s lock. Tonia’s teeth chattered. Clenching her jaw, she squared her shoulders. She would be bold, like the great wolf that was the Cavendish family emblem. Squealing in protest, the door swung open on its rusty hinges.
Tonia sucked in her breath.
The man in the doorway appeared huge. His dark cape covered his broad shoulders, making him look as if he had just furled two large black wings. He had to duck his head to enter her cell. When he lifted his lantern higher, a small cry welled up inside Tonia. The man wore a black hood over half his face—an executioner’s mask.
Even though her knees shook with terror and weakness from hunger, Tonia dropped a small curtsy before her fate.
“Good evening, my Lord of Death,” she said in a steady voice. “I have been expecting you.”
The man took a step toward her then stopped and lifted his lantern higher still. Behind the slits in his mask, Tonia saw a pair of dark blue eyes glitter in the candle’s light.
Now that the worst had happened, she felt almost giddy with relief. “Come in, sir, and close the door quickly behind you. I fear you are causing a draft, and I am chilled enough as it is.”
He stood still like a large shadow.
Tonia stepped more into the pool of light cast by the lantern. Giving him a smile, she hoped that her lips did not tremble. “I pray you, my lord, do not linger but close the door. My time grows shorter by the minute and I prefer not to freeze to death in the meanwhile.”
Giving Tonia the briefest of nods, the hooded man turned and shut the door as if he were a guest in her father’s house instead of a rough minion of the crown. Then he placed the lantern on the small plank table that constituted the cell’s main piece of furniture.
“You are Lady Gastonia Cavendish?” he asked in a low tone. Had the man not been a headsman, his voice could have belonged to a minstrel.
She inclined her head. “I am. And who, sir, are you?”
He shook his head, and half turned away from her. “My name is not important.”
Judging from the sound of his voice, Tonia deduced that the man was young, perhaps near to her own age of three-and-twenty. She smiled again. “You fear that I would curse you with my last breath if I knew your identity?” When he did not reply, she suspected that she had hit the core of truth. “Have no fear, Master Death. My last words will be for God alone, I assure you.”
The headsman strode to the fireplace and stared at the heap of cooling ashes on the hearth. “Why did they not give you more wood before they left?”
Taken aback by his question, Tonia shrugged. “Why should they waste fuel—or food—on one who will be dead by dawn?” She hid her hands in the folds of her cloak so that he would not see them trembling. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep up her veneer of courage.
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “You have not eaten?”
Tonia sank down on the only stool. “Not since last evening at this time. I fear that you arrived just before my midday meal.”
“’Tis no way to treat a lady,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.
Tonia detected a chivalry that she had not expected from so dire a visitor. “My jailers did not consider me a lady, but only a common criminal awaiting my appointment with death.” When he said nothing in response to this, she pushed her boldness a little further. “I pray you, sir, could you fetch me a cup of clean water before we proceed to more serious matters? My throat is parched. I would bless your name, if I knew it, for such a little kindness.”
He muttered something that sounded like an oath under his breath, but Tonia did not recognize the language. Then he turned on his heel. Without a word to her or a backward glance, he flung open the door, strode through it and banged it shut behind him. At least he had left his lantern. Tonia stretched out her fingers to its flickering heat while she wondered what would happen next.
Once he had rounded the corner of the hall, Sandor ripped off his hood and mopped his sweating face with his sleeve. Why hadn’t one of those gadje guards warned him that his intended victim was young and exceedingly beautiful, instead of the old crone he had expected? He pressed his burning forehead against the rough stone wall to cool his skin, though nothing could temper the flame that had ignited him the moment his lantern’s light had fallen upon Lady Gastonia.
Tall and slim like a willow in a summer meadow; her every movement like a dance. Bright blue eyes like precious sapphires set against the white silk of her skin. And her hair! Sandor groaned to himself. A man would be in paradise if he could lose himself within that raven cascade; her disheveled appearance from her captivity only made her more enticing. And what unexpected courage lodged in her heart! She had curtsied to him as if he were the finest lord of the land even though she had recognized him for what he was—the instrument of her death.
Sandor clenched
