MacRuairi had noticed it, too. “It looks like a lass, captain,” he whispered.
Tor frowned, studying the cloaked figure struggling with the guard near the gate. His pulse spiked and his heart took a sudden lurch against his ribs. Not just any lass,hislass. It seemed his wee wife had decided not to wait for a rescue. Why wasn’t he surprised?
He cursed and took off running down the stairs that led to the bailey below. With both hands, he reached behind him and pulled the sword from the scabbard at his back. A fierce war cry tore from his lungs, stunning the soldiers below.
A moment later, Gordon answered his call with one of his own.
•••
Christina was fortunate that English soldiers liked their drink.
She’d almost made it past the hall when a soldier she’d thought had passed out in a drunken stupor grabbed her as she was walking by the table and spun her onto his lap. She wiped her mouth, still tasting the disgusting kiss on her lips. But she supposed escape was worth suffering through a drunken groping. She’d laughed and swatted him away playfully and handed him another goblet of wine before slipping off his lap, murmuring that she had duties to attend to.
She winced, thinking about the servant’s clothing that she wore. She hoped she hadn’t hit the girl too hard, but Christina had to make sure she didn’t wake up for a while. When the serving girl had opened the door to bring her the evening meal, Christina had surprised her with a candlestick to the back of the head. She’d “borrowed” the cotte and brat, hoping that no one would notice how the skirt dragged three inches too long, and then tied strips of sheeting around the girl’s mouth, hands, and feet. If she did wake, she wouldn’t be able to alert anyone.
Never considering the possibility that a woman would attempt to escape, Lord Seagrave thought the bar on the door sufficient and hadn’t posted a guard. It was an oversight he would regret.
Hoping to avoid another amorous soldier, Christina grabbed a tray and an empty flagon and pretended to be clearing the tables as she walked right past the guards at the entry, down the stairs, and over the bridge into the bailey below. After getting rid of her props, she hid in the shadows behind the stables near the gate, waiting for an opportunity to slip out with the villagers. But the guard closed the gate not long after she arrived. She tried not to despair, knowing it would not open again until morning.
How long before they realized she was gone? Would someone miss the serving girl? Had she tied the bindings tight enough?
So many things could go wrong. She prayed for a miracle.
Instead, a few hours later—thanks to an inquisitive kitten with the loudest meow she’d ever heard—she was discovered. She kept trying to shoo the pesky ball of fluff away, but it kept coming back. A soldier saw it and decided to investigate when the kitten refused to heed his bidding.
Wrenched from her hiding place, she found herself facing a young knight. Short and broad-shouldered, he had a flat face and crude features, but his eyes gleamed with intelligence. Unfortunately, he hadn’t drunk nearly enough wine.
“What are you doing, hiding in the dark?” he demanded.
She struggled to come up with a plausible explanation while her heart was pounding in her throat. “I …” She forced an innocent smile to her lips and batted her lashes. “I’m meeting someone.”
The feminine ploy failed miserably. His gaze sharpened. “Who?”
“Edward,” she said quickly. Surely, there had to be an Edward? People always named their children after kings, and Edward Plantagenet had been king for more than thirty years.
“Edward who?”
Nettles!Of course there had to be more than one. When she hesitated, he dragged her out to the torchlight and called out to the three other soldiers stationed at the gate. “Do any of you know this lass?”
One of them did. A soldier who’d been on the galley with her said, “She’s the lass we captured. Fraser’s gel.”
No! She’d come this close; she couldn’t bear to think that she wasn’t going to make it. This was her only chance. Next time, her keepers wouldn’t be so lax. She tried to pull away, but the soldier’s hand was like a vice.
“Please,” she begged, “I need to get back to my duties—”
A terrifying cry pierced the blistery night air. They all turned in the direction of the motte and tower house.
She sucked in her breath.
The soldier dropped her arm.
But she moved back toward him, instinctively shirking something far more terrifying than English soldiers.
Hell had opened its gates and unleashed a demon army. The four warrior wraiths descending on them were the fodder of nightmares. Covered head to toe in black to blend into the night, supernaturally tall and muscular, they tore down the stairs, swords raised, ready to wield the devil’s own fury with each swing of the fearsome blade.
Instead of tabards and mail they wore black war coats and dark plaids belted around them in a strange fashion. Even their faces beneath the ghastly nasal helms were covered, not in the blue woad war paint of the ancient Gael, but in ash. Only a flash of white pierced the darkness.
Dear God, the fiends are smiling!
