Page 54 of Warrior’s Lady

"Lady Violet and Mistress Rhiannon."

He had to keep the man talking to get a fix on his location. He strained to listen. "Rhiannon is dead."

"Nay, she isn't."

"Lockhart." The bishop frowned into the darkness. Damn the man.

A movement came from the opposite corner. "I'll not be a party to killin' them girls. For God's sake, ye tried to burn the girl alive."

The man stepped in front of the window. Moonlight illuminated the silhouette to reveal the warrior he'd hired a few weeks ago — a young man who'd said he'd do anything to keep his son from harm. A surge of relief rushed through him. He cautiously rose to a half crouch. The man posed no danger.

"If you want silver in addition to my promise not to harm your son, Rhys, I can be generous." The bishop stood, moving slowly toward the man.

The man's face was distorted in the half-shadow. "I'll take yer promise that my son will be safe, but I don't want yer silver. I want out, with my conscience intact. Ye've lost, and I won't go down with ye."

"Nonsense. Nothing has changed because the girl lives. Although, I cannot say the same for you." The bishop lifted his dagger and with a snarl drove the weapon into the man's ribs.

Shock froze the man's expression. He staggered, then fell to his knees in a pool of his own blood.

The bishop tossed the dagger onto the floor beside him. With a slight tremble in his hands, he reached for the hand bell that would bring his manservant to his side.

A moment later the door opened, and his sleepy chamberlain appeared. "You rang, Your Grace?"

"We've had an intruder." The bishop scowled at the man on the floor. "I had no choice but to defend myself."

A flicker of fear crossed his butler's features. "I shall take care of it, Your Grace." The servant bowed, then left the room only to return a moment later with two grooms.

"Put this around him, like a shroud." The bishop tossed an old sheet at the men, a sheet from his mother's sickbed. "We must do this properly," he said.

They did as they were told. Draping the body in the sheet, they rolled the man's body up in the woolen carpet.

"Dump his body in the loch," the bishop ordered, savoring the god-like power that surged through him.

A renewed surge of determination straightened his spine. Ridding himself of the man had been easy, as though it were God's will. If this exhilarating sensation came to him each time he condemned a man to death or saved his life, he wanted more of it. Surely, that meant he was doing the right thing, trying to get the Stone away from the Lockharts. For who deserved it more than a man of God?

"Then get back here. Time grows short. The Council could arrive at any time. We must find where Lockhart hid that Stone."

Dampness surrounded him. Rhys pushed against the darkness. Agony shot through his side and the salty taste of blood came to his mouth. Where was he?

He tried to flail, but his limbs were caught against his body. A cold sweat swamped him just before he felt a sensation of flight followed by a hard thump and a rush of freezing water. He struggled even more, frantic now as the water rose and cut off his air.

Just when he began to despair, the barriers that confined him loosened. Cold sapped the breath from his lungs. Water crushed down over his head.

He stared up, or was it down, into the dark void that hungrily swallowed him. His lungs tightened at the lack of air. A hazy fog entered his brain. The dark waters seemed to stretch into eternity. A bittersweet smile came to his lips at the thought. Eternity was where he would be heading unless he could break through to the surface.

Please, God, let him find air. If he lived, he vowed he'd confess to Lord Lockhart.

Even if Lord Lockhart killed him after, at least his conscience would be cleansed.

He clawed at the thick blanket that trapped him, forcing it apart. Once free, his instinct told him to surge ahead. But was that up or down? He calmed his thoughts and drew the small iron ring from his finger. He knew that objects always fell down, whether on land or in the water.

The ring moved upward, so he twisted his body in the opposite direction. He gritted his teeth as hot, sickening pain seared his lungs. He thrust with his legs, and slowly moved toward the surface.

Too slow. Much too slow. He had to live. He had to warn Lord Lockhart of the bishop's plans.