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Reina was not sure how long she sat there. Only that she knew once she stepped back through the door and made her way to her bedchamber, the choice would be taken from her.

She looked at the guard, slumbering peacefully, and wondered how long it would be until he was noticed missing. She’d had the good sense to drag him here, on this side of the door. But when someone came to relieve him, it would not take long for them to realize what had happened. She could not drag him any farther, for there was nowhere to go except down the stairs. Even if she did manage to get him safely below, the small dungeon held just four cells. A quick look around would reveal his whereabouts easily enough.

Of course, she did not believe the prisoner. As naive as she may be, this time Reina knew better. He’d spun the tale so that he may offer his services as a “guide north to find the truth.” The moment she aided him, the prisoner would flee, never to be seen again.

Then why do you sit here?

At first, she’d been angry with him. Why devise a story that would paint her father as such a man who would slaughter an entire village, and then kidnap a babe on top of it? What sort of person did such a thing?

“A Scot,” she could hear her father say.

Now, after some thought, Reina was less angry and more confused. Why such a tale indeed? He did not strike her as a particularly evil man, but then again, what opportunities did she have to decipher such a thing? All at Anbarth treated her with the respect due the daughter of their lord. Because of her ties to Joan, the villagers treated her kindly. It was only her parents, her father especially, that did not care for how much time she spent with Joan. But she did spent much time as Lady Reina too. Had listened patiently to her tutors. She could read and write in four different languages. She could run Anbarth Castle if need be, so studious she was at following her mother’s guidance.

She was bereft of nothing, save a bit of the world outside Anbarth.

And the truth.

How oft had she chided herself to be content with her parents’ story? But something had always niggled at her, only now it was more of a shout than a niggle. A woman, near to giving birth, travelling in such a state? And none remembering more details about her than her parents could give. Even those who lived here at the time.

Questions. All Reina ever had were questions, but never answers.

A sound from outside the door prompted her to stand. Oddly, the smell no longer bothered her, nor did the darkness, which usually unsettled Reina quite a bit. Opening the heavy wooden door, she peered out but saw nothing.

You cannot set free a companion to Wallace. If you are caught, Edward is as like to put you in the tower as he would your father. Besides, the man is lying. You will have done nothing more than set free a prisoner who deserves the punishment he has wrought. William Wallace was an outlaw, responsible for countless deaths.

Even so, of their own accord, Reina’s feet moved, slowly at first until she spied the cell. When he saw her, the prisoner stood. Her heart lurched at his cuts and bruises. Aye, he might deserve them, but that did not mean she liked to see them, to imagine him being beaten. That he was their enemy mattered even less as she watched his expression change from despair to hope. One that only she could offer.

“I gave the guard a potion,” she said. “When he wakes, he will be very aware ’twas me who aided your escape, if I am able to manage such a thing.” Was she really contemplating this?

Answers. ’Twas the only thing Reina ever wanted.

“They will not find you,” he promised.

“Do you propose I go with you. . . never to return?”

“Would you return knowing your father killed your true parents?”

“My parents,” she said, “are the Lord and Lady of Anbarth. They raised me from a babe. Cared for me. Loved me. Gave me a home. I know no other parents.”

“And yet,” he said, his gaze intense, “you came down here looking for the truth. Perhaps you never wanted it, then?”

“Of course I do,” she shot back. “But what you are asking. . . even if I could convince myself to dismiss the consequences of it, there is the very real possibility that I could aid you only for you to leave me here.”

He seemed genuinely surprised. “Why would I do such a thing when I gave you my word I would help you find answers?”

She laughed. “Perhaps because your tale is false? Concocted for the purpose of escape?” Reina looked into his eyes. She trusted her own judgement less today than the day before. If what he said was true, she’d loved a monster. And if it were false. . . she shook her head. “I cannot.”

“I swear to you.” His gaze did not waiver, and Reina didn’t dare to look away. “The tale is true. I am a man of honor, Lady Reina. If you could get me past the gates, I will help you discover the truth.”

How could she not consider it? He offered all she had ever truly wanted. “You swear to me, on your honor. But you are a Scot. A prisoner. A man whose name I do not even know. One who hates the English and is just as likely to slit my throat if I were to open that cell than to aid me.”

“I am a Scot, aye. But I do not hate the English. Nor would I ever kill an innocent woman.”

Unlike your father. Though he did not say the words aloud.

“Do not all Scots hate the English?”

“Nay, they do not. Certainly not this one.” He shrugged. “My mother is English.”