CHAPTER Six
“You helped her to escape!” Ian pounded a fist upon the table in the great hall while that spineless worm Father Anthony shivered and shook in front of him.
His mazer of wine spilled, red liquid splashing onto the scarred oaken tabletop. The man was a buffoon.
The hounds, miserable animals, had been sleeping near the keep’s door. At the outburst they jumped to their feet and began barking wildly.
“Shut up!” Ian ordered and both animals circled and settled back to their positions, letting out disgruntled woofs as the priest, fool that he was, licked his lips anxiously.
Ian turned his attention back to the pathetic excuse of a man before him. Were it not for the fact that Father Anthony was a man of the cloth and respected by everyone in the castle, he would have flogged a confession from his lying tongue.
“I know n-not of wh-wh-what you speak, m’lord,” the good priest insisted, sweat sliding down the sides of his face, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously, his beringed fingers playing with a heavy gold cross suspended from a chain upon his neck.
Ian wanted nothing more than to clasp the links of that chain in his fist and choke the fool. Instead he motioned for the page who was quick to wipe up the mess and refill his cup. “Do not lie to me, Anthony. Need I remind you ‘tis a sin to lie?” He lifted a skeptical eyebrow and watched the skinny man squirm deep in his vestments. “No one left the castle that night but the soldiers and you. All soldiers, except one have been accounted for. Somehow the thief managed to disguise himself as one of the my men and soon we will find the missing sentry’s body.”
That thought rankled as well, for it meant either the men he trusted to guard the castle were bloody fools or there was a traitor in their midst. “As for the lady, she made her escape with you.”
“B-but, my lord, the guard, he ch-checked the coffins.”
Ian’s head throbbed, his legs where Trevin’s sword had sliced into his shins ached painfully and the mortification of being played for an idiot by the likes of Trevin McBain confounded him. This stuttering idiot of a liar did nothing to help his disposition. “Now,” he said with false patience, “you may tell me the truth in here alone and be saved the public humiliation of a trial.” He sipped from his cup. “You will not win.”
“B-But—”
“The sentry who checked the coffins that you carted to the graveyard now says he can’t remember if he saw all the bodies.”
“B-But he opened each casket!” Father Anthony argued. “Th-There was the m-miller, Bartholomew, and Brenna, and th-the little g-girl, Kate. You must believe—”
“What I believe is that you were a loyal and trusting servant of my brother, but that your allegiance to me as the new baron lacks sufficient…” he looked toward the high ceiling, where years of smoke had darkened the trusses, searching as if he expected to find the correct word in the dusty rafters, “… well, let us say portent.”
“Please, m’lord, t-t-trust me.” Father Anthony knelt on the other side of the table, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “I am b-but your faithful servant.”
‘Twas sickening, this display of false loyalty. “There are ways to test your devotion, you know.”
Anthony gulped.
“Would you drown in the river if held under, or would your faith serve you? Could you walk along a bed of coals and your skin not be burned, or, if you were unfaithful, would—”
“Please, you m-m-must believe me, Lord Ian. I am a t-true servant of Rhydd.”
He was near the breaking point and Ian was relieved. He hated to see a man of the cloth grovel.
“We’ll see what the guard has to say.” Ian snapped his fingers and motioned to a knight standing at attention near the door of the keep. “Call in—”
The door flew open, banging against the wall and sending the dogs into a barking frenzy. Sir Webb, his face flushed, his dark eyes flashing was fairly shivering with rage.
Now what? Ian wondered, knowing instinctively that Webb was not the bearer of good news.
The dark knight strode into the great hall. “M’lord,” he said through clenched teeth, then cast the priest a look that would melt the strongest steel. “I needs to have words with ye.”
“And I with you.” Ian waved off the priest. “I’ll deal with you later.”
“Th-th-th-thank you, m’lord.” Father Anthony, sweating and scurrying away like an insect, took flight. Muttering to himself he disappeared up the stairs.
Ian braced himself for what he expected was a round of bad news and a bevy of excuses. “Where is the boy?”
“We found him not.”
“I assume you took the trouble to look.”
“He’s a slippery one, he is.”
“Right.” His headache pounding, Ian took a swig from his mazer. “What of McBain?”
“Disappeared as well,” Webb growled, rubbing the shoulder where he’d been stabbed. “With, I fear, my best horse.”
“Wait a minute. Were you not to take a search party out and then, peel off so that you could put an end to the boy’s life? I expected you, and your party, to return with a few corpses and another would for your trouble.” Ian struggled to his feet and his legs burned with sudden pain—fresh, hot, and angry—that screamed up his shins and festered in his knees. He sucked in his breath and glowered at the knight in whom his brother had devoted so much trust. “You have failed me.”
“’Tis only a delay.”
“You were paid.”
“Not yet enough,” Webb said, unmoved.
Wincing, Ian fell into his chair and ground his teeth against the pulsating sting that the thief had wrought. “Do not dare say that you have not at least returned with my wife.”
Webb’s lips lifted into a sneer. “She, too, has vanished.”
Ian’s eyes closed for a second. Cretins. He was surrounded by moronic, simpleminded Cretins. He saw a movement in the curtains that separated this room from the hallway and wondered who was listening in the shadows. “Lady Gwynn has not vanished,” he said, motioning to the crevice where whoever, was hiding lingered. “She is somewhere. Hiding. Searching for her child.”
“Mayhap with the thief,” Webb admitted. Quietly he walked around the table. “Though they left not together, we found a lame horse near the mill where mine was taken and tracks of two animals as well as boot prints, some belonging to fair-sized man, the other must smaller, belonging to a woman.”
“So you’re telling me that my wife is with Trevin of Black Oak.” He had expected as much, of course. Gwynn had been aided in her escape by McBain, but he’d been told that they had somehow left the castle by separate means and he’d hoped that they were not together. Jealousy spurted through his blood. For years he’d waited for her—his brother’s wife who had so callously slept with another man and borne a child whom she’d portrayed as being Roderick’s spawn. A lying whore, she was, but a beauty he’d wanted for as long as he could remember even when he’d been married to that watery-eyed lass, Margaret. What a cold fish she’d been, lying and not moving as he’d entered her. Her bed had been like a tomb.
But with Gwynn things would be different. She was a fiery one, his brother’s wife. Ian’s crotch tightened in anticipation. He could not wait to bed her. He would watch her eyes round as he penetrated her fiercely, claiming her as his own, feeling her soft body close around him. He would take her over and over again, in as many ways as he wanted and each time he’d feel a renewed power in her submission.
Mayhap Trevin, the thief, could watch her taming.
Webb opened the curtain and found a woman cowering in the alcove. Frannie the weaver. Brown hair, doe-soft eyes, teeth a little too large, and small lips. “Why are you not at your loom?” he asked.
“Forgive me, Lord Ian, I am but checkin’ these curtains. The mistress… she, er, she told me we would be needing to clean these or replace them… and I was wondering how much velvet ‘twould take…”
Ian didn’t believe her for a minute. There were many servants loyal to Gwynn within the castle walls, freeman and peasants who would gladly turn on him if she but gave the word. “You may take the measurements later,” he said. “And should you breathe a word of what you overheard here, good woman, your days here would be numbered.”
She gulped. “But, m’lord, I—”
“Do not test my patience.”
With a quick curtsy, she turned and, heels clicking, scurried away.
“A spy?” Webb asked.
“Mayhap.” Ian stroked his beard. He felt the undercurrents of dissatisfaction in the castle, had heard a few servants gossiping that he’d forced Gwynn to marry him, that he’d banished her son. He would have to tread lightly for he didn’t relish the thought of an uprising.
“M’lord” —Webb’s voice brought him out of his troubled thoughts— “’tis tricked I was,” he admitted. “And it cost me my best charger. But now the outlaw has not only stolen a horse from Rhydd but kidnapped the baron’s wife. Surely there should be a price placed upon his head.”
Ian glared at his brother’s most trusted man. In truth he despised Webb, for the dark knight had ruined his plans in helping Roderick find freedom that Ian had paid for dearly. Keeping Baron Hamilton in gold had been costly, but Ian had been assured that Roderick would never escape. Until Sir Webb had ruined his plans. ‘Twas lucky that fate had stepped in and the baron’s false son had run him through, killing Roderick and ensuring Ian’s rule. “You will be paid well for your trouble, Sir Webb, I’ve told you as much. But you’ve failed me. I wish you to kill the boy, capture the thief, and bring my beloved wife back to me.” The smile he pasted upon his face was cold as death. “Is that too much to ask?”
“Nay, m’lord,” Webb said, but his eyes flashed in anger and Ian realized that the dark knight liked taking orders from no one, including the new master of Rhydd. Webb could, for the right price, turn against Ian.
“Take fresh horses and rested soldiers—ten of each—and find the traitors. Deal with them as we have planned. Leave the rest to me. As soon as I’ve healed enough to ride, I will lead an army to Black Oak and lay siege upon the keep of the bastard who dared defy me and made my wife a traitor to her own castle.” He rubbed the bandages on his legs and winced at the pain.
Trevin of Black Oak had been bold enough to wound him twice. The scar running down the side of his face had never disappeared and now, this new ringing pain in his legs. “Trevin McBain will be captured, tried, and proved to be a murdering kidnapper. The gallows will be too good for him.” Ian warmed to his thoughts. “I’ll see him drawn and quartered, his entrails spilled and his head cut off to be displayed from the north tower where all in the castle, including my wife, will be reminded of the price of disloyalty.”
He motioned to a page with stringy hair and a bad complexion for yet another cup of wine. His legs felt a little better. The pain pounding through his brain had dulled. Time was, as it always had been, on his side. He just had to remember to be patient. “’Twas difficult. Very difficult.”
“’Tis daft you be,” Gareth said as he watched the old man draw stick figures in the dry soil near the mouth of the cave. He was strange with his one eye, need for drink, useless cane, and gnarled fingers. He talked of curious images, of bloody links of a chain, of a future of ruin, of visions seen through a sightless eye. Daft. That was what he was. Mindless.
“Nay, child. Hush and keep that infernal dog away from me.” The pup was playing, romping through the thickets, startling winter birds and growling at unseen prey scrambling through the underbrush.
“Boon is no trouble,” Gareth muttered, his stomach grumbling in protest.
“Hush, child, ye disturb me thoughts.”
The pup, ever curious, bounded over to the magician and grabbed at the ragged end of his cloak. Snapping firm jaws around the muddy hem, he pulled backward, nearly toppling Muir in the process. “By Pwyll, ye’re a wretched little cur. Get away.”
“Pwyll’s a demon,” Gareth protested.
The pup growled and backed up, shaking his head swiftly from side to side, ripping the old cloth.
“I should turn ye into a toad, or a snake or tortoise, ye dumb mutt.” Muir lifted his cane as if to strike the dog or cast a spell.
“Nay!” Gareth leapt forward, but the pup scrambled away, the tired fabric of Muir’s cloak tearing. As the cane came down, Boon, tail tucked beneath his legs, dashed into the forest, only to turn and peek backward, his face nearly hidden by the fronds of a fern, the prized piece of cloth dangling from his mouth.
“Ahh, now see what he’s done.” Muir glanced at the sky and rubbed his forehead as if staving off a great pain. With a quick damning glance at the dog, then a longer look at the cloudy heavens and position of the sun, were it visible, he muttered, “’Tis time we were off.”
“I thought we were supposed to wait for your friend.”
“Aye, but we’ve tarried long enough as it is.” Muir’s eyebrows collided over his scarred visage. “Unless we want to face Ian of Rhydd’s wrath.”
Gareth was glad to be away from the cave. Inside, the darkness seemed to close in on him and the dusty air was hard to breathe. Asides, he was tired of sitting and waiting, of trying to trap rabbits and squirrels who seemed far more clever than he suspected. Without his bow and quiver filled with arrows, he was a useless hunter. Even the fish in the stream escaped his hands. He whistled to the pup, who, still keeping a wary eye on Muir, crawled from the bracken, the scrap still hanging from his jaws.
The magician paid no attention to the dog. “Come along, come along,” he said, as if, after days of inactivity, he was anxious to be gone. “’Tis less than two days ride to Black Oak.”
“Why must we go there?”
“’Tis safe.”
“Did you not say there would be a siege on the castle?”
“Aye, but ‘tis not yet.”
“How do you know?”
“I have seen it.”
“Yea, yea, as you have seen so many times that make no sense through that bad eye of yours.”
“All will be revealed in time,” Muir said pointing toward the cave with his cane. “Now, do not dawdle. We must gather our things and be away. There is fine food and drink at Black Oak.”
Gareth’s stomach squeezed at the thought of trenchers of gravy, sausages, a joint of venison, and banberry tarts. His mouth watered at the thought of jellied eggs, stuffed eel, and hunks of bread with butter and honey dripping onto his fingers. For a moment his hunger outweighed another more pressing concern, a thought that had nagged at him ever since escaping Rhydd. “What of my mother?” he asked as thoughts of sizzling meat and sweet pies disappeared. “Is she safe?”
“That I cannot say.”
“Of course she is not; she married Sir Ian.” Gareth frowned at the thought. He’d never trusted his uncle, had always considered him lazy and lustful. All too often Gareth had seen the older man leer at girls decades younger than he and though he’d been married to Margaret, he lifted the skirts of many a kitchen maid.
For as long as Gareth could remember he was uncomfortable around Ian and had known that the old the knight had lusted after his mother.
“She married Ian so that I would not be killed.” The idea galled him and since leaving the castle guilt had been forever his companion. “I needs know she is safe.”
“That I have not seen,” Muir admitted.
“Some visions you have, old man. Seems they only come when ‘tis convenient for you.”
“Let us not argue.”
“She is married to a pig,” Gareth said, wishing he could have the pleasure of running Ian of Rhydd through.
“Boy!” Muir’s voice brought him back to the here and now. “Get on with it, would ye?” The old magician had flung a bridle over his horses head. “’Tis time.”
Gareth helped the old man onto his nag and then with Boon bounding behind them, followed the plodding horse. Deep in his pocket, he rubbed a smooth stone for luck. As much as he wanted a hot meal and a softer bed then the pallet within the cave, he needed to know that his mother was safe.
The cave was empty.
Trevin used still-warm coals to relight the fire. Though there were signs that Muir and his young charge had recently occupied the place, it was now vacant except for a horde of bats that hung upside-down in the cracks and crevices of the roof.
Gwynn sighed in vexation. Her heart had been filled with hope that she would be reunited with her son, that she would see his young face again and know that he was truly safe.
Now, she was certain he’d been here, so at least he was alive. She noticed the pups paw prints along with two sets of boots. They could be from someone else, she supposed, but chose to believe that Gareth had found the magician and they were on their way to safety-wherever that might be. She sent up a prayer of thanks and promised herself to cast another spell for his safety.
Overhead the bats returned, their wings fluttering as they found their roosts and close together, hung upside-down, creating a large undulating mass near the door and moving restlessly as the fire caught and flames crackled.
Gwynn rubbed her arms and told herself not to worry. The bats and insects scurrying into the dark corners were creatures of the earth, nothing to fear. ‘Twas man and weapons who were her enemies.
Hanging her cloak on a root that protruded through the ground, she slid a glance in the outlaw-baron’s direction. Broad-shouldered, lean-hipped, he was taller than she by a head. His jaw, now dark with stubble was square, his features harsh, his eyes a bold blue that she’d found intimidating. There was an irreverence to him that beckoned her, a prideful intolerance to pomposity and arrogance.
A quiet man who had kept his thoughts to himself during their journey, whose countenance was often grim and brooding, he’d ridden without rest. His eyes had forever scanned the horizon and his mouth had been set in a line so thin and determined he appeared unapproachable, a man who needed no one.
Nonetheless, she had trouble believing him to be a killer. Aye, he had probably slain an enemy or two during battle, but she doubted he had murdered the old baron of Black Oak. Trevin was ambitious, yes, and could have easily duped a drunken old man into losing his castle in a game of dice, but murder? She shivered and refused to consider him capable of tossing an old man off the wall-walk to his death.
“Where is Gareth?”
“He and Muir and the dogs were here” —he pointed to footprints and paw prints in the dust— “not long ago as the embers still hold some heat. Now, they are on their way to Black Oak.”
“Or, after leaving here, they’ve been captured,” Gwynn said, her darkest fears resurfacing.
“Muir would not allow it.”
“Oh, and is he magician enough to vanish into a vapor and take Gareth with him?” she asked as dry moss and tinder caught fire, causing flames to crackle noisily and smoke to roll toward the blackened rocks overhead.
“You, too, dabble in magic.”
“I claim not to be a sorceress.” She watched the shadows play upon his bladed features and felt a restlessness deep within her. “I cast spells, aye, but they are more like prayers for good luck, health, good fortune. I draw runes hoping for blessings, but I cannot cause a person to disappear.”
“The boy will be fine.”
“How know you this?” she demanded as he settled upon a rock and stirred the coals with a long, charred stick.
“Because Muir raised me.” He looked up at her and held her gaze for but an instant. In that heartbeat her mouth turned dry as the dust of the floor. She cleared her throat and shifted her eyes so that he was only in her peripheral vision. “I knew not my mother. My father—” He lifted a disinterested shoulder. “Who knows? ‘Twas Muir who taught me to slip a coin from a purse and slide a ring from a bony finger. ‘Twas he who fed me and gave me a bed on which to rest. He bade me learn of the church as well as the ways of the old ones and never did he place me in danger. With him, I was safe.”
“’Tis different with Gareth,” she pointed out as she sat on a flat rock next to the fire and warmed the soles of her boots. “Ian has proclaimed him a traitor and a murderer. Though he promised to only banish the boy if I married him, I have broken my word and, therefore, no matter how much magic your sorcerer may conjure, our son is in danger.”
“You broke your word to Ian,” Trevin said, his eyes darkening, “because he struck you.”
“He is my husband,” she said simply, the thought curdling her innards. How could she ever return to him? Allow him to touch her? Lay with him?
“Aye, and he would as soon kill our son as not.” Trevin climbed to his feet and dusted his hands. “You are right. Gareth will never be safe until Ian is dead.” He stared straight at her. “Nor, m’lady, will you.”
That much was true, but she could always throw herself on the new lord’s mercy and hope that there was some shred of decency in Ian of Rhydd’s vile heart. “I will go back to him, appease him. Mayhap he will leave Gareth be.”
“Nay.”
“But, if it means my boy’s life—”
Trevin crossed the short distance between them and grabbed her by the arm, hauling her to her feet. “Listen, woman,” he said through lips that barely moved. “I will not have you place yourself in harm’s way.”
“I have no choice.”
“There are always choices. Only weak minds settle for the first option.” His gaze met hers again and she was lost. Her pulse pounded in her ears and she told herself to step away from him, to toss off the hands that clamped over her arms and yet she could do nothing save swallow hard. “You, m’lady,” he drawled, “have always done what was necessary to get what you wanted. You slept with me to get you with child, you ruled Tower Rhydd as if you, a woman, were the lord, and when it served your purposes, you married your brother-in-law.”
“To—to save my child,” she said as he cocked his head and observed her as if seeing her for the first time. He was so close. So near. ‘Twas far too dangerous to let him touch her. His scent permeated her nostrils, his fingers were warm through her clothes, and her lungs felt as if they could not draw another breath.
“You, Lady Gwynn,” he said in a voice that was barely audible, “are unlike any woman I’ve met.”
She didn’t know if he meant his words as a compliment or insult, but didn’t care. Her heart was pumping wildly and she couldn’t draw her gaze away from the hard set of his mouth. “And… and you, thief, you are like no other man.”
“Aye.” His breath fanned her face and teased her hair, the hands around her arms released only to clasp at her back and drag her even closer to him. “Oh, lady, how you vex me,” he whispered, his voice tortured. “Would I had never met you.” His head lowered and, for a heartbeat, he hesitated, his mouth hovering a breath above hers.
She licked her lips nervously and he groaned. “Damn you, woman,” he ground out just as his mouth claimed hers. She should stop him, push him away, and yet she couldn’t. Warm and supple, his lips molded to hers and a tingle whispered over her skin. Her head spun and though she knew she was playing with dangerous fire, that she had to break away from him, pull back from the sweet seduction of his kiss, she couldn’t summon up the strength.
Years she’d waited to feel like this, for the magic of this man’s touch. How many nights had she envisioned just this embrace? How often had she dreamed of his touch only to awaken alone, yearning and covered in a sweet, dream-induced sweat?
His tongue pressed anxiously against her teeth and willingly she opened to him, her mouth accepting the intimate intrusion as if they had been lovers for years.
Groaning, he dragged her closer still, bowing her back as he kissed her, hands splayed upon her spine, hips thrust forcefully against the juncture of her legs. She felt his heat, the hardness of his member, the pulsating pressure of his body so close to hers.
Let me be strong, she thought, but was ultimately weak. Desire stormed through her blood and deep within that most feminine part of her she began to ache. His tongue stroked hers and she wanted more; to touch him everywhere, to let her mouth and fingers explore his hardened body now that he was a man. Images of lying naked with him glided easily through her wanton mind and she wondered what would it hurt to have him, the only man who had known her, be with her again.
His fingers found the ties of her tunic and as the fabric parted, he kissed her throat with lips that were as gentle as they were firm.
Her breast ached and her breathing nearly stopped as he kissed the top of one breast, exposed above the neckline of her tunic. Beneath the velvet, her nipple hardened expectantly, as it hadn’t in so many years.
“You were wrong,” he said, his lips leaving a hot trail against her throat.
“W-wrong?”
“You are a witch.”
“Nay.” Warmth seeped from her womb to run in a hot current through her blood.
“But you enchant me, little one. Far more than you should.” With this sigh he lifted his head and curled his fists in the strings of her tunic. “There is no time for this and… and I want it not.”
Disappointment welled deep in her heart as sparks drifted toward the ceiling of the cave. She felt the struggle within him, didn’t understand why he held her possessively yet tried desperately to push her away. “But—”
“And you are another man’s bride. My enemy’s wife.”
“In body but not in spirit.”
One side of his mouth lifted in cynical smile. “In the eyes of the law and church.” His hands dropped and he stepped away from her, as if being so close was perilous.
“It stopped you not before,” she reminded him.
“Aye, and since then I’ve been cursed.”
“As have I.” Suddenly, cold, she reached for her cloak, flung it over her head, and wrapped the voluminous dark blue folds more tightly around her torso. Her lips still tingled from Trevin’s kiss, her body was still warmed by his.
Eyeing her, he said, “As long as the Lord Ian lives, you will be at his mercy.”
Her spine stiffened and fury snapped her head up. “Make no mistake, I will be at no man’s mercy, outlaw.”
His grin held no mirth and, as if he were making a vow to himself, he proclaimed, “Do not worry. I will see to the new Lord of Rhydd and do what is necessary.”
Fear slithered down her spine as she understood. “You mean to slay him?”
Trevin’s eyes glittered ominously. “If needs be.”
“Nay, outlaw, he is a treacherous man,” she said, and grabbed his arm only to release it quickly.
“So am I.” He narrowed his gaze at her, but beneath the glimmer in his eye, there was something more, something deeper and darker that he refused to confide. “Stay you here and wait.”
“Nay—”
“I’ll ride to the next village and listen to the gossip, to discover if Rhydd’s soldiers are on their way to Black Oak.”
She eyed the interior of the cave with its scattered, bleached bones, bat droppings, and winged inhabitants. She was not one easily frightened, but the thought of staying here by herself was unnerving.
“I will be gone but a few hours and will return before the morning.”
“You’ll be captured.”
“Trust me, Lady Gwynn. I have evaded far more clever enemies then your husband.”
“But he has soldiers and—”
“Shh.” Again he grabbed her. His lips found hers in a kiss that stole the breath from her lungs and caused her heart to beat in a wild, wanton cadence. Her knees began to crumble. “Wait for me,” he commanded, then that same sense that something far deeper was bothering him, that he was holding back, rippled through her.
“What if you don’t return?”
“I will.”
She raised one eyebrow skeptically and he kissed her lightly on the lips again.
“Have I not gotten you this far?”
“Aye, you’ve managed to anger my husband, place my son in grave danger, dupe Ian, wound his most trusted knight, steal Webb’s horse, and bring me to this… this—”
“Hiding place.”
“—tomb. We are no closer to finding Gareth then we were on the night we left Rhydd.”
“You are impatient, m’lady.”
“I worry for our son.”
“Fear not.”
Oh, if only she could trust him, believe that he would save Gareth. She kicked at a pebble with the toe of her boot. “So be it, outlaw. I will wait one day. But, if you do not return by nightfall tomorrow, I will leave.”
“And go where?” He asked, tightening his belt.
“Heath Castle.”
“’Tis a long journey.”
She tossed her hair from her face. “At least I’ll not be cowering in a cave with only bats as my companions.”
“You’ll be no closer to finding Gareth.”
“Mayhap not. But then again I told him to meet me at my sister’s, and he would be there now had he made good his escape and had not been captured by your magician friend.”
“He is safer with Muir.”
She wasn’t certain in this gloomy hiding spot. The thought of staying here without Trevin was terrifying, but her pride forbade her from voicing her fears. “As I said, m’lord, I will wait until dark on the morrow.”
He turned and walked to the entrance of the cave. “Trust me,” he called over his shoulder as he disappeared through the boulders that guarded the cave’s entrance.
Her heart sank as she heard the sound of hoofbeats fading into the distance.
Trust me.
Oh, sweet Mother Mary, if only she could.
Never had she felt more alone.