“To be truthful, I do not wish to discuss your surrender,” he said quietly. “Could we not speak on more pleasant things?”
He was very near and Toby was having difficulty breathing. “Like what?” she asked breathlessly.
“Like Paris in the spring and our future trip to Rome.”
Toby smiled broadly, remembering those subjects from their very first in-depth conversation. “So you still intend to escort me to those places, I take it?” she asked.
“I told you that I would.”
“You said you would do it only if I did not find a husband to take me.”
“That is what we will discuss.”
Toby’s smile faded and she stared at him, her eyes wide with surprise. He gave her a bold wink, lifting the hand that gripped his elbow and kissing her fingers sweetly. Toby was so upswept in his last statement and subsequent kiss that she could hardly form a coherent thought. Was it possible he meant what she thought he meant? Or was she simply reading too much into his kindness?
As Toby and Tate lost themselves in each other’s eyes, Ailsa let go of Tate’s hand as they neared the narrow stairs. She skipped around, telling her sister to mind the stairs that were narrow and treacherous. But she apparently did not listen to her own advice; before Tate could grab her, Ailsa slipped on the top step and fell, screaming, down the entire shaft.
And then… silence.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Her skull wassmashed by the fall, Tate,” Stephen said grimly. “There was nothing I could do. Even I cannot bring back the dead.”
“I know,” Tate raked his fingers through his dark hair. “I did not mean to question your skills. All I want to know is if there was ever a chance to save her.”
Stephen shook his head wearily. “Nay,” he said hoarsely. “She was dead by the time she reached the bottom of the stairs. There was never any hope.”
Tate’s expression was taut with grief as he stood with Stephen in the hall outside of the master’s chamber. Kenneth stood slightly behind him and Edward was near the chamber door, his brown eyes swimming with tears as he gazed into the dimly lit room.
The four of them were entrenched in the unexpected tragedy, the shock of a little life cut short. The three knights, having been trained to control their emotions, were nonetheless having a difficult time concealing what they felt. Young Edward was positively beside himself. They had all been fond of little Ailsa, like a breath of fresh air in the midst of their hellish mission, and her accidental death was a dark and cutting thing.
By the door, Edward wiped furiously at the tears in his eyes. “Mistress Toby is just sitting there, holding her and crying,” he said painfully. “Is there nothing to be done?”
The three knights looked at the young lad. “What would you have us do?” Stephen asked quietly. “Ailsa is dead. We cannot bring her back.”
“Can you at least give Mistress Toby something to make her feel better?”
Stephen sighed heavily, moving to peek inside the half-open door. Toby was where he had left her, holding her sister’s corpse fiercely and weeping her heart out. In fact, she’d not let go of the body since Tate had brought her sister up from where she had landed at the bottom of the stairs over an hour ago. Stephen could hardly examine the little girl; Toby refused to let go. But a full examination was not needed to know that she was quite dead.
“I have something to make her sleep,” he said, looking to Tate after a moment. “It is not going to be easy separating her from her sister’s body.”
Tate could see Toby and Ailsa from where he stood. His own eyes were stinging and he realized it was because tears were close to the surface. He hadn’t cried since that dark day four years ago when his wife had perished while giving birth. Then he’d turned into a stone. Now the stone was cracking. The emotions were starting to come forth once again. He didn’t like it, but he knew there was no way he could stop it.
“Give her time,” he finally said, fighting off pangs of grief as he turned to Kenneth. “We will need a coffin for Ailsa. Will you see to that?”
Kenneth nodded slowly, his ice-blue eyes beholding the scene through the crack in the doorway. But he tore his eyes away as if he did not want to witness such pain. He was about to reply when a low voice came from the darkened stairwell.
“I told you that womenfolk did not belong at Harbottle.”
No one had seen Wallace come up the stairs. He stood several steps down from the landing, hidden by the shadows. Tate, Stephen, Kenneth and Edward turned to look at the man, looking dark and grim as he hovered just out of the light. Tate found that his patience with the man’s grumbling was vanished. Now he was brittle, poised to strike at a wrong word.
“The child’s fall down the stairs had nothing to do with whether or not she belonged here,” he growled. “If I hear another dark word come out of your mouth about this incident, I will cut your tongue out and throw it to the birds. I have had enough of your grumbling; go with Kenneth and help him find a suitable coffin for the girl. Stay out of my sight until my anger has cooled.”
Kenneth had never heard Tate issue such a threat; the man was perpetually calm in all things. He could only surmise it was the force of his emotion talking. The big blond knight moved to the stairs, grabbing Wallace by the arm and forcing him back down from whence he came.
Tate’s angry gaze lingered on the darkened stairs long after they had gone as he struggled to collect himself. He realized very quickly that his unchecked emotions were manifesting into sharp commands and zero tolerance. He should have been embarrassed but found that, in truth, he was not. He was feeling something for the death of Ailsa and was not ashamed about it. With a heavy sigh, he turned back to the half-open door.
“Get your potion prepared,” he said softly, pushing the door open slightly in preparation for entering. “I have a feeling we are in for a long and difficult night.”
