“Everything has been fine.” He hesitated. “Except that a missive was found in Lady Ceidre’s chamber.”
Guy, a few paces away, straightened and turned at this. “What missive?” Rolfe demanded.
“’Twas from her brother,” Beltain said.
Rolfe felt his anger, hard and boiling, filling him. “That wench will not learn,” he muttered. “Send her to me, and bring me the missive,” he snapped. She had committed treason again. Dread welled to join the anger. It filled every fiber of his being.
“Release her from the dungeons,” Beltain was ordering.
Rolfe whipped around. “You put her in the dungeons?”
“As your wife pointed out, ’twas the only way to ensure she would not escape.” Beltain met Rolfe’s gaze frankly. “I was hesitant, but decided ’twas better to do so and guarantee she would be an imprisoned prisoner when you arrived, rather than an escaped traitor.”
Rolfe did not question his own motivations. He was already striding down the hill, all anger in abeyance, the sense of urgency overwhelming. He was barely aware of Guy on his heels, grim, and Beltain, sober. He raced through the portcullis, almost running now, his strides eating up the ground. As soon as the manor with its dungeon was in sight, he was calling to the guard to open the trapdoor. The man threw the bolt, then lifted the door up. Rolfe reached his side and, without breaking stride, knelt and swung himself lithely down into the black pit.
He blinked, trying to adjust to the darkness. “Ceidre? Ceidre?”
There was no sound, no indication that anyone inhabited this dark, dank hell, and for an instant he thought she had somehow escaped. Then he heard a low moan. His head whipped toward the sound, and he made out a vague form crouched upon the ground.
“Ceidre!”
He reached her in an instant and was unprepared for a hoarse, shrill scream. He bent for her and was met by a feeble attack. Her fingers harmlessly grazed his face as she tried to claw him. Ignoring this, he lifted her into his arms. She was covered with mud and muck and she stank. For a second, as he moved beneath the open trapdoor, she was inert, and then she twisted and clawed at him again.
“’Tis me, Rolfe, stop it,” he said, calling for the ladder.
She did not stop her feeble, very feeble, contortions, trying to wrench away, trying to rake his face. Her breathing was hoarse, ragged, and very shallow. His gut was tight with fear. “’Tis me, Rolfe,” he repeated in a low, firm tone.
“Let me out,” she rasped, her voice a pitiful raw whisper, barely audible. “Let me out!”
“I am taking you out,” he said softly, something sick twisting inside him. “Do not fight me, I am taking you out.”
He slung her over his shoulder, realizing she was too weak to climb up the rope ladder herself, and he caught it with one hand. He balanced a foot on the lowest rung, then, sure of himself, he rapidly climbed up. The guard took Ceidre from him when he was high enough to do so, and Rolfe quickly made his way to the top, hoisting himself easily out of the dungeon.
He froze, then cried out in horror.
Ceidre was covered with mud as she crouched panting and shaking where the guard had deposited her. Her hands and forearms were streaked with blood— there was even blood on her face. His gaze flew back to her hands, to see that they were raw, the nails torn, some missing. But worse, much worse, was the wild, crazed look in her eyes, as she huddled blinking in the light—like a frightened, maddened animal.
He approached her instantly; she recoiled. Something huge and incredibly tender rose up in him, and very slowly, he dropped to his knees beside her. “Ceidre, ’tis Rolfe, you are freed now … everything will be fine.”
She looked at him, blinking rapidly, wary and afraid, reminding him of a trapped fox, tensed and ready to bite. He had the urge to weep. With a slow, trembling hand he reached out to her, not touching her. “Ceidre?”
He saw the moment of flaring recognition. She dropped her head with a sob. She was panting harshly, head hanging, fingers embedded in the ground. Rolfe touched her shoulder and felt her shudder. But there was no shrinking, no resistance. He gently took her into his arms.
She clung.
His embrace tightened as he rose to his full height. His expression was a rigid mask, to hide the real agony he was feeling. She buried her filthy face in his neck, and he felt the wetness of tears. He was keenly aware of her thundering heart, her harsh, rapid breathing, and it worried him. And he felt her hold tightening, tightening, until she was almost strangling him. His answering grip was nearly as fierce and, somehow, impossibly tender.
He recollected his men and turned a livid blue gaze on Beltain. His knight, he saw, was stricken with horror. “I am sorry.” He gasped. “I had no idea …” Beltain turned to Guy. “I am sorry. I am sorry!”
Guy nodded. “She lost her mind,” he said matter-of-factly. “You could not know she would do so. I’ve seen it before, grown men made crazy when imprisoned beneath the ground.” He turned to Rolfe. “Shall I take her, my lord?”
“No,” Rolfe managed, not trusting himself to speak to Beltain, whom he could murder easily if he let himself. With long strides, he carried Ceidre to the keep and into the hall and up the stairs. He gently laid her down upon his bed. She clung to him like a monkey, weeping, refusing to release his neck. Rolfe found himself sitting, holding her, stroking her tangled, mud-encrusted hair. She sobbed into his tunic front, still trembling violently. He ran big, firm, yet soothing hands over her back, again and again, stroking her, caressing her. “Shhh,” he intoned. “Hush now, sweeting, hush now, chérie, I am here, and all will be well.”
She began to babble. She began to tell him of how she had almost died, how she could not breathe, how the ground had tried to swallow her up. How she had screamed and begged to be freed but no one had answered, how she had tried to climb up the walls, until her nails were torn and ripped raw, how she had tried to tunnel out, until she fainted. Her voice was a bare whisper, practically inaudible from all the screaming she had vainly done.
“Do not talk now, sweetheart,” he whispered back, his large hand cradling her head. “Do not talk, you must let your voice heal.”
She went still and quiet for the first time, her face still buried against his chest. He began kneading the back of her skull. Her breathing was slower now, though not yet normal, and her trembling was a shadow of what it had been. Relief overwhelmed him, and with it, he became distinctly aware of a murderous fury.
