“Is the wildcat in the house?” he asked as they reached it. ’Twas built well with two floors of stone and timber. “Should I keep my sword ready?”
“The guards will not let you in with your sword,” one of them told him.
Torin didn’t care. He would get another one.
“She is inside, but do not fear. She is locked away upstairs.”
“I do not trust locks,” he replied with a dubious grin that made his frosty emerald eyes go dark. “Locks have keys.”
“Richard Bells is the only one with a key.”
“And where is Richard Bells?” he asked as they entered the house.
They were met immediately by four guards who demanded Torin’s sword, but not his pan. The thing was made from heavy wrought iron. It could likely do as much damage as a sword until it grew too heavy to wield.
“He is guarding her door,” one of the lasses with ginger-colored hair falling around her shoulders told him while he handed over his sword. “Come. I will show you the kitchen and then to your room.”
Ah, Elaine.
He smiled and followed her. He didn’t have too much more time. He’d told the Hetheringtons to give him two hours. That time was fast approaching.
Still, it wasn’t as if they would attack after two hours. Was it?
He saw the kitchen and did his best to show interest. Elaine took him to his room and reluctantly left when he showed her even less interest than the newly forged pots in the kitchen.
He waited a moment and then ran out and hurried down the hall. He searched for a moment for the stairs and upon finding them, climbed up them slowly.
Before he reached the top, he looked up and down the hall. He saw two men at the far southern end guarding a door. Which one was Richard Bells? No matter, he thought, climbing up the rest of the way.
The two guards saw him right away and drew their weapons.
Torin moved forward. He held up his hands, and then chuckled at the pan before his face. “I’m the new cook.” He lowered the pan. “Elaine said the garderobe was up here.”
“There is one below stairs. The small door to your left,” one of the guards told him with a warning lacing his tone.
Both men were tall and broad of shoulder. Both were armed with swords. One of them had a key swaying from a string at his hip.
“You two look as if you have not had a proper meal in weeks.”
“Months,” the man who wasn’t Richard corrected. “The last cook was terrible.”
Torin grinned and held up his pan again. “I will remedy that.”
The one who wasn’t Richard smiled. Richard did not. Torin swung the pan at him and turned away from the blood that splattered across his face. He hit Richard’s companion next, narrowly missing a swipe of the man’s blade across his throat. When both men were down, he dropped the pan and pulled the key from Richard’s string. He fit it into the lock.
He pushed open the door and saw her lying on a bed. Her mouth was bound, as were her wrists to the bed. Her ankles were bound to each other.
Torin’s heart cried out in rage for her and in joy at finding her alive.
When she saw him, she let out a breath that made her shoulders sag with relief.
He moved quickly, pulling a knife he had hidden behind his back and untying her. He wanted to go on a rampage. He felt the fury building up in him and almost let it loose when he saw her swollen, purple jaw.
“Come then, Braya.” He pulled her up and led her to the door pressed close to him so he could kiss her bruised face.
“How did you—”
“Later, love. We still need to get out of here.”
