His hand shot out, jerking her forward. “If you are so eager to shed your clothing, demoiselle, you need only say so.”
Mary could not summon up a suitable response, especially not in the face of his fury.
“For how long have you been leaving these signs, demoiselle?For how long?”
Chapter 3
“You’re hurting me!” Mary cried.
Stephen instantly released her. Mary backed away from him, nibbing her arms. “Did you really think you could take me prisoner without a fight?”
Stephen was regretting hurting her, but her words made him itch to shake her again. This child-woman was determined to fighthim?“For how long?”
“Since this morning.”
Stephen was incredulous, stunned by her wit, her audacity, and her bravery. “I have greatly misjudged you,” he said harshly. Then he shouted. “Neale!”
The older man was at his side instantly. “My lord?”
Stephen did not remove his furious gaze from his captive. “This shrewd little minx has made fools of us all. She has been leaving a trail. Alert the men; we may have pursuit.”
Neale wheeled his destrier.
Stephen reached out and pulled Mary closer as she began to sidle away. Her body stiffened at the contact; he had to drag her with him. “Just whom were you alerting, demoiselle? Your lover? Your father?”
“Yes!” she cried. “Yes, yes, yes! And soon, so very soon, you shall be skewered by my father’s sword, Norman, for he is the greatest warrior in all of Scotland!”
Stephen halted. “Is he, indeed? Then surely I must know of him.”
She set her mouth mulishly.
“Your father is not this Sinclair of Dounreay as you so prettily insist, is he, demoiselle? Such an insignificant man would never attack me, and we both know it. So who are you expecting, Mairi? Is that even your name?”
She said nothing.
Very angry, he propelled her roughly towards his mount. Mary stumbled, then had to skip to keep ahead of him and out of his reach. Stephen did not care. He abruptly caught her, and heaved her into the saddle as if she were a sack of grain. He leapt onto the destrier behind her, signaling his men. The cavalcade rode off at a fast canter.
Mary closed her eyes, giving in to a moment’s despair. She should not be distraught, she knew that; she should be elated. She had outfoxed the Norman with her trail of scraps. But she did not feel like gloating; she felt something close to terror. The bastard heir was enraged. Every instinct Mary had told her that there would be hell to pay for her small victory.
They rode harder now. Mary found herself frequently looking over her shoulder, hoping for a glimpse of her kinsmen upon the horizon. She saw nothing, and as every mile passed, her hopes sank a little bit more.
Where, oh where, was her father?
Now they climbed a long, gradual rise, and when at the summit, Stephen abruptly drew his mount to a halt, clamping her to his powerful, mailed body. His words quelled any protest she might have made.
“You have lost, mademoiselle,” he stated. “For we are here. Look. Alnwick.”
Dread rushed over her and she was heedless of how harshly she gripped his thick forearm, cutting her fingertips on his chain mail. They had arrived—and she was lost. Ahead lay Alnwick—ahead lay her prison.
The sun was setting. Partly obscured by gloom, Alnwick’s stone walls appeared dark and unbreachable. The fortress lay on a huge natural motte with impenetrable man-made ditches surrounding it. The thick brown outer walls of the bailey were interspersed with watchtowers, tall and imposing; beyond them, the taller, crenellated tower of the keep could be seen, drenched in fading apricot-hued sunlight. Mary felt an acute dismay.
If she failed to escape—and escape was unlikely—and if she was not set free or ransomed, she would have little hope of ever seeing home and kin again, because no attack could be sustained for long against such a place as this, not even an attack by Malcolm.
They rode across a drawbridge and through a raised portcullis into the outer bailey, saluted by a dozen armed guards. There were a dozen buildings within—stables for the horses, shops for the keep’s craftsmen, quarters for excess knights, and pantries and supply sheds. People were everywhere—women with hens underarm for the cook pot, children herding pigs, carpenters working with their apprentices, farriers and grooms and horses, servants and bondsmen. An oxcart laden with barrels of wine had entered ahead of them; other carts were being unloaded near the wooden stairs at the entrance to the keep. The noise was deafening. Amidst the human cacophony was the barking of hounds, the squawking of hens, the whinnies of horses, the ringing of the smith’s anvil, and the banging of the carpenter’s hammer. There was scolding and laughter, terse shouted commands. Mary had never been inside such a large fortification before—it was larger than most Scottish villages and larger even than her home, the royal fortress at Edinburgh.
They reached the steps at the front of the keep, and the Norman easily swung her to the ground. Mary stumbled a little, her legs stiff from the day’s long ride. Stephen slipped to his feet beside her and began to guide her firmly to the stairs. Mary jerked her arm free. “Do not fear. There is obviously nowhere for me to run even if I wished to.”
“I am glad you have the sense to think so.”
