tones of his speech masked by rushing blood.
‘Noel Falstone had burnt down cottages and taken womenfolk from a village west of Ashblane, and Ian left in fury before I had a chance to join him. If he had waited, we could have hit the bastard together.’
‘Waited?’
‘I have been away in Edinburgh with the King.’
‘And when the King knows of the Falstone treachery? Will he act?’
‘Our liege lord has lost heart after his long captivity under the English and prefers diplomacy these days to battle.’ Alex was careful with his words.
‘You may well be right; besides, David will’na slay a man as wily as the Baron Falstone no matter what the provocation. He is too useful to him with his lands on the border and the Marches completely in disarray.’
‘Which is exactly why I will have to do it myself.’ Alex pulled himself up. This time the room did not sway. ‘Falstone is a braggart and a risk taker. Bur he is also a man of habit. He spends each January in Egremont and travels by way of Carlisle with only a small guard of men. He thinks himself safe.’
‘You could not breach the sanctity of England so far south. Not like that.’
‘Could I not?’ His eyes hardened.
‘As it is now, you stand in favour with the King. Imperil the treaty and you will lose Ashblane under the banner of treason. No one could save you.’
‘No one will see me.’
‘You would not wear the plaid? Lord, let me warn you of the pitfalls in this pathway. David may be your kin, but he is first and foremost King and he allows you Ashblane as a royal fortress. Should there be any instability here, any hint of falseness…?’ He spread out his hands across the table in a quietly eloquent gesture. ‘I am your friend, Alex, and from my experience men with a single purpose often bury their logic to define what they were not sure of in the first place. Take your clan safe back to Ashblane where Falstone cannot harm you, neither in siege nor battle. And while you are at that, toss the Randwick woman back to her brother with a note of clemency. Falstone may even thank you for it and David certainly will with the ink on the parchment of the Berwick Treaty hardly dry.’
Anger exploded as Alexander drew himself up from the chair and threw the last dregs of his ale into the fire.
‘It is not thanks I am seeking,’ he growled and watched as the pure alcohol caught with alacrity and the flames licked upward. ‘Nay, Adam. Vengeance is what I want. I want Falstone’s sister, I want his land and I want his life.’
‘And the de Cargne sorcery? How will you still that in Madeleine Randwick when it is said she can make a man believe anything?’
This time Alex did laugh. ‘You’ve a strange way to interpret the Holy Scripture. Thou shall not worship false idols, and are not sorcery and witchery the falsest of them all? If it is the magic you fear, then do so no longer, for the Bible would’na countenance the existence of such inexplicable unreason.’
Adam Armstrong brought his hand down hard. ‘You have stayed in the world of warfare for too long, Alexander, and strayed from the gentler teachings of God, so do not lecture me on the interpretation of scripture. The border lore is full of the tales of the de Cargne women whether you deem to listen or not. Josephine Anthony. Eleanor de Cargne. And now Madeleine Randwick. She uses her beauty to tie men to promises they canna remember making when they wake in her bed come the dawn. Strong men. Brave men. Brought down by the wiles of a witch.’
Alex took a deep breath and groped for normality. One more day and he would be at Ashblane. Twenty-four hours and the malady of what burned in his bones could be healed. Aye, the wound was making him light-headed, for the image of Madeleine Randwick’s naked pale limbs entwined about his own kept surfacing. And resurfacing.
Angrily he slammed his clay goblet down. He remembered the living flame of her hair as she had been bustled from the room and the cool feel of her skin when she had touched his hand.
I can help you.
He shook his head in disquiet. She was a hostage, that was all. A valuable means of vengeance and retribution when expediency demanded he find a way to exact conditions from the rampant greed of her brother.
A convenient pawn. A woman whose very name was synonymous with treason and immorality.
The Black Widow of Heathwater.
With an angry swipe at the ale beside him he upended the bottle and felt the pain in his arm numb. She would be gone before the week’s end. He swore it. And Ashblane would stay safe.
She had hardly got back to her cell when the man named Quinlan came down the stairs.
‘Unshackle her,’ he called to the guard and waited as this was done.
Maddy tensed—she had seen the anger in the Laird of Ullyot’s eyes. Had he rethought his plan and sent his minion to kill her? Panic made her struggle and pull back.
‘Where are you taking me?’ Deciding indignation was the best way to push her advantage further, she stood.
‘To a room without rats.’ His reply was measured, and the humour in his words struck her as odd. She struggled to make sense of it all.
‘Why?’
‘Our Laird wants you fit to travel north in the morning.’
The significance of this reply hit her with a blinding euphoria. They were not to die tonight? Perhaps, after all, there was a chance.
‘Please. Could you free my page, Jemmie, too? He is only young and the cold is bitter here.’
A wary puzzlement filtered into the eyes of the soldier opposite as his glance skimmed the floor.
‘The offer is for you alone, Lady Randwick.’
‘Then I am sorry, but I cannot accept it.’ Already the faintness of blue marked the pale face of her sister as the chill crept in through granite flagstones. She held out her arms for the manacles and turned her head away. She felt the chains re-locked as tangibly as she felt the indecision of the man opposite, though she did not look at him as he left, the heavy iron door clanging shut with a dreadful finality.
Sitting down, she put her head between her legs and willed calm as the small fingers of panic wrenched aside composure. She was trapped in the dungeon of an Armstrong keep by a Laird known well for his lack of mercy, and, if that was not bad enough, Jemmie was in a disguise that would tip the balance further were she to be unmasked. Everything was worsened yet again by the fearful nature of the Laird of Ullyot himself.
She made herself stop.
Unlike your brother, I do not kill women and children. Were those not the exact words he had used?
The thought cooled panic and kindled hope. If the rumours about the Ullyot’s appearance had been so misleading, then perhaps his character was also unjustly slandered?
‘Please, God, let it be so,’ she prayed; as the tightness around her chest loosened, she crept across to Jemmie, frightened by her stillness. If her sister died, how could she keep living? A sob of terror
