would pray that the black Baron of Ullyot would scourge Heathwater from the earth on which it stood, leaving nothing for her ever to remember it by. And no one.
Alexander strode to the chapel. The candles burning in the vestry lit his passage as he crossed to where Ian lay. Lifting the plaid blanket away, he ran a finger in the sign of the cross over a cold forehead and pinched the salt in a dish on Ian’s stomach to the four corners of the room. ‘A charaid. May the Devil be far from your soul and your journey into Heaven sweet.’ With care he rearranged the rondel dagger tucked into the sleeve of his dead friend’s jacket, pleased to see that someone had thought to clean the blade and sharpen it. ‘I swear ye will be avenged,’ he whispered into the dawn. ‘I swear it on the soul of the Virgin Mary and the blood of our Lord.’
Our Lord?
How long was it since he had prayed? Crécy? Alexandria? Cairo? He looked up at the vaulted ceilings and across to the portraits in gold of the Holy Family that hung against the far wall. Adam Armstrong was a devout man and his chapel reflected this. A small likeness of the Virgin Mary caught his fancy, for she had hair the same colour as Madeleine Randwick’s. Shaking his head, he cursed abducting her, cursed the porcelain sheen of her skin and her fire-red hair. He should leave her with Armstrong to send back to her brother. Hostages could only harm Ashblane and he was always careful as far as his castle was concerned. And yet he knew he would not do it.
‘Why can I not just leave her here?’ His whispered question seemed like a shout. Lord, to be even considering taking her? Protecting her?
‘I think she has cursed me, Ian. I think she has used her magic and cursed me.’ The blood in his arm beat loudly and he felt hot. Sick. Cursed.
Breathing out, he pulled up the sleeve of his jacket to get a better look at the wound at the elbow. Angry lines of dark red scoured the skin and tracked upwards, the pain surprising him. Even in Cairo, with his face slit open from cheekbone to temple, he had felt better.
He knelt and genuflected, holding his right arm against his side so that no movement jolted it. And when he had finished his prayers of deliverance he made his way out to the waiting soldiers, hoping like hell that his dizziness was a temporary condition and that he would not slide from his horse before he again saw the battlements of the Ashblane keep.
Chapter Three
They had been travelling north-east through the damp of a rising drizzle for three hours, the hooves of hundreds of horses making such a sound that any enemies thinking to engage a force of men this size had long since vanished. Madeleine rode in the middle of the column with Jemmie at her side, and as the red and gold banners of the Ullyot clan swirled about them and the cold numbed the skin on her face, she wondered how much longer they would ride.
Finally the wide valleys of the Esk lay before them, tree berries bold and the branches covered with flaming leaves, and beyond, the deeper green of a forest. Jemmie seemed stronger after a night’s rest and Madeleine’s own wound stung less now, the throbbing of the night giving way to a softer ache. Ahead of her Quinlan reined in his horse suddenly and bid them to halt and she felt Alexander Ullyot’s presence before she saw him, bathed in a coat of dust. She could tell that his arm hurt him by the angle at which he held it. His wounds required more than the poultice his physician had laid upon him and the healer in her surveyed his symptoms carefully.
Already he sweated.
The beat of his heart had quickened as well. She could see it in the pulse at his throat.
‘We will build camp here for the night. The Liddesdale Forest is dangerous to stop in and we will’na make the other side by nightfall.’ He shielded his face as he scanned the sky and Madeleine had the impression of him reading both time and weather. As he looked down their eyes met, flinted silver less sharp now as the first waves of deep infection assailed his body.
Little time left, she thought and dropped her glance. He would be beyond her help by the morning.
‘You are comfortable?’
His question made her start, as did the full frown on his brow.
‘Pardon?’
‘Do ye have all you need?’ His glance went to her breast. ‘I could send my physician.’
‘No.’ She bit at her bottom lip to stop saying more and looked away. Already he was leaving. She felt as much of a murderer as her brother.
Quinlan dismounted and stood ready to help her down and she laid her hand upon his sleeve. ‘I would thank you for your help last night.’ Her gaze flicked across to Jemmie. It had been Quinlan who had brought Jemmie to her wrapped in a blanket.
The resentment that lay in his light blue eyes was momentarily replaced by perplexity. ‘Your retainer was full of praise for you, my Lady. I’ve seldom heard a young boy chat so much.’
The statement brought laughter to her lips. ‘Surrounded by such soldiers as these, any stranger could seem verbose.’
Quinlan frowned. ‘Alexander instructed everyone to keep their distance for your own safety. He wants you protected.’
‘Why?’
‘You are his now. Since last night.’ His eyes dropped to her breast. ‘As a hostage. I thought you understood.’
‘And if he dies?’
Alarm flickered in blue eyes as he sought her meaning. ‘Ullyot is invincible. Who would fight him and win?’
‘My God…’ Maddy crossed herself and turned away, the twin emotions of dread and joy battling within as suddenly everything dropped into place.
Could Alexander Ullyot, the feared Laird of Ashblane, shield her from everyone? From Noel and Liam? Even from King Edward? If he took her as a mistress, and unwilling, could such an uneasy alliance allow her time to think and plan, to throw them off her scent and disappear? She closed her eyes, the force of her desires washing across the more familiar powerlessness. He had men and might and an authority of leadership that was unrivalled. And last night, after she’d been sick over his floor, he had not killed her.
Not all bad, then, she reasoned, and turned again to Quinlan, her mind made up.
‘Without my help, your Laird will be dead by nightfall.’
She saw the hairs of Quinlan’s arm rise and his face redden visibly.
‘You curse him?’ His voice was strangled as he drew his blade.
‘Nay. I told your Laird, I have the power of healing.’ All around men gathered, their own swords drawn in response to Quinlan’s anger. She held his gaze. ‘The wounds your Laird has will poison him. Another few hours and his blood will run with it and there will be nothing I can do.’
‘Kill the Randwick witch,’ a bold voice cried to her left, and further knives were unsheathed.
‘No.’ Quinlan bade the men retreat, and they did so, but uncertainly, the air crackling with an unguarded tension. Were she to say more, she doubted even he could save her, and thus she held her silence.
An impasse. Drawing her gaze upwards, she looked towards the sky. The sun beat down upon the land and she felt it reflected in her hair. Quietly she raised
