Amanda Scott (46 page)

“Where do you imagine you can go?” she asked, watching him. “The only way out of here is the way you came, and you cannot possibly walk so far as…”

On his feet now, holding himself upright with obvious difficulty, he staggered toward the water.

“If you mean to drown yourself,” she said, “perhaps you should wait until Hugo returns and ask him if that lake is deep enough.”

“The water is clear,” he said. “I can see how shallow it is.”

He stepped in and began wading away from the shore.

“Where
are
you going?”

She had forgotten the chest in the water, but she saw it then. Brassbound and the size of a sumpter basket, it had slipped some ten feet away from the lakeshore in the water. It certainly looked as if it could be a treasure chest, so although Hugo had said the treasure was not there, she watched Waldron tensely.

His attention riveted to the chest, he moved more effortlessly and with purpose. It was, she thought, as if he were not even hurt.

Hurrying after him, she barely paused as she waded into the water. It was chilly, and it soaked the boots she wore and her skirts halfway to her knees, but she did not take her eyes off him. As powerful as he was, and as immortal as he had proven himself, she could easily imagine him picking up the chest and striding off with it to disappear forever into the blackness of the huge cavern.

If that happened, Hugo would have failed to protect the treasure. The honor of the Sinclairs and the secrets of the Scottish Knights Templar would be gone.

She could not let that happen. The Templars had suffered too much to protect their Order. She would not be the one who allowed them to lose everything.

“Stop,” she cried, reaching to grab his arm. “You mustn’t take that!”

He jerked away with ease, kicked the chest farther from shore, then followed it. It moved with astonishing ease, and as Sorcha waded toward him and reached for his arm again, she realized why when her feet skidded on smooth, suddenly steep, sloping rock and slipped right out from under her.

Fighting for balance, she grabbed Waldron’s arm again to steady herself, but he twisted with a snarl and shoved her back. Her feet continued down the smooth slope, and she fell, landing with a heavy splash.

Realizing she was in imminent danger of sliding all the way under, and that in boots and her heavy skirt, she might not be able to pull herself out, she scrabbled for any sort of handhold. Managing at last to curl her fingers around what seemed no more than a nubbin of rock, she dug in her heels.

It was enough to stop her momentum. Returning to the shore then required only care and patience. The slope was slick, but a tense few moments later, she crawled onto the dry part at the edge of the lake. She had lost Isobel’s cap and the net to which it was pinned. And she was soaked from head to toe.

Waldron had disappeared. When she stood, other than a few ripples, she saw no sign of him or the brassbound chest.

The damned chest had kept sliding after he’d kicked it, and fury had engulfed him at the thought that even this small bit of the treasure might continue to elude him. So he had lunged for it and caught the nearest brass handle.

Agony from his wound seared through him as he did, and it was all he could do to wrap his fingers around that handle and hold on. His feet could gain no purchase. They shot behind him, plunging him into the water facefirst.

He had no strength left to fight for anything but the chest. Full of the stolen gold and jewels, as it surely was, it was incredibly heavy.

It continued to pull him deep below the surface, but he held on. God knew how weak he was, and God would help him. He would float both the chest and His faithful servant to the surface again.

Then he need only stand, and God would grant him the strength to carry it to shore. He would return it to the Holy Kirk as proof that he had found the long-lost Templar treasure, and as proof, too, that the damned Sinclairs had hidden it all these years. Then His Holiness would send the papal army to…

He
was
floating… no, sinking, now diving. Something pulled him straight down, a powerful force that held his hand with a grip of iron.

His thoughts shifted abruptly when light glimmered in the distance, but it was not the shimmering golden light of saintly haloes and the cities of Paradise that he had heard men describe. This light was fiery red. He could almost feel its heat. Perhaps the devil had caught him, just as the lass had prophesied.

When he gasped at the dreadful thought, water flooded his lungs and his wet, chilly grave returned to blackness.

Sorcha was still standing on the lakeshore, staring into the water and shivering, when Hugo returned. She was aware of his footsteps, knew it was he, but took a moment to collect her wits. Then fear for Adela flooded back and she turned.

As she did, he caught her roughly by the shoulders. “I told you to stay away from him!” he exclaimed. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“Aye, he’s dead, I think. How is Adela?”

“We stopped her bleeding and Wat MacComas has taken her to Roslin. Tam Swanson is searching for Einar. Now, tell me why you think Waldron is dead.”

“Because he went after the chest Adela pushed in the water when you came. It’s gone, too.” She frowned. “I thought you said the treasure was not in here.”

“It isn’t,” he said. “Like the chest beside the dais, that one contained supplies and ceremonial gear like the circlet you saw Henry wearing last night.”

“Well, Waldron wanted it, and he managed to get to his feet again to go after it. I thought the lake was shallow. I was afraid he would carry it into the inner chambers and disappear again.”

“He could never have done that. I’d have sworn he was too weak to stand!”

“I, too,” she said. “But he did stand, and I thought your honor was at stake, so I tried to stop him.”

He made a sound like a growl, but she ignored it. “The
chest kept sliding, and when he lunged for it, he just disappeared. He’s been down there for a very long time, too, because I counted to a thousand before I heard you come in.”

“Then what, exactly, accounts for your being soaked to the skin?” he asked.

“Don’t use that tone to me,” she retorted. “I’m already shivering from falling in, and when you speak to me like that, it puts icicles right up my spine.”

“It should. I know I ought to be grateful that you showed such concern for my honor, but I told you to keep away from him. So, if my tone of voice gives you that sensation, my lamb, consider what the image in my mind of Waldron grabbing you and carrying you with him down into that watery grave does to me.”

“Sakes, sir,” she said, looking up at him, “you’ve wanted to murder me more times than I can count since we met. Would it really have upset you so to—?”

Her words ended in a shriek as he grabbed her and pulled her close enough to kiss her thoroughly, apparently not put off by the fact that she was soaking wet.

She threw her arms around him and hugged him tight.

Hugo held her close, savoring the taste of her, thinking of how easily he might have lost her. Wet as she was, he did not want to let her go. He told himself it was because she was so wet and cold. He just wanted to warm her a little.

She did not resist his kiss. Indeed, she responded admirably, but after a moment she pulled back. Her face still
tilted up to his, she said solemnly, “I’m sure it is most uncharitable of me, but I am glad he’s gone.”

“Aye,” he said.

“You meant him to come here,” she said. “The entrance was open.”

He nodded. “I did not mean it to happen as it did, though. Einar was going to bring you, knowing Waldron’s skill at tracking, and we left the entrance ajar for him. But we thought Einar would have time to hide you, and I thought I’d be right behind Waldron.”

“But Waldron was already in the woods,” she said. “Another man was with him, too, because he jumped out of the bushes and tried to catch the palfrey’s reins.”

He smiled. “You need not tell me what happened next. That palfrey is Isabella’s. My father taught it not to let men grab it like that.”

“It’s a fine beast,” she said. “But then someone shot Einar from a tree.”

“Waldron was a fine archer.”

“What if he had captured me at the peel tower?”

“We knew he wasn’t there,” Hugo said. “A man took Adela there and returned to Edgelaw just as anyone might have expected from her letter. But Waldron must have hidden in that tree long before anyone realized he had left Edgelaw. We should go now,” he added, kissing her again.

When he moved a hand down her side, thinking to rub some warmth into her, she snuggled closer, pressing against him. His body stirred then, apparently not realizing that she just sought warmth.

“Let’s get you out of here,” he murmured, kissing her damp curls. “I’ll do my best to keep you warm, but it is likely to be a cold ride for you.”

She tensed then, and he knew she had remembered Adela again.

“Look at me,” he said, cupping her chin. “We have done nothing wrong, lass. Everything will work out as it should.”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet, but have faith. It will.”

Even in her guilt at having briefly forgotten Adela’s very existence, Sorcha wanted with all her heart to believe him. But Adela had not denied her love for him, and he had told Macleod he would offer for her. So Hugo could not back away now, nor, she decided sadly, could she in good conscience allow him to.

Outside, the fact that the sun still shone startled her. So much had happened that she had expected dusk if not darkness. But her mood lightened when they reached the cart track and found two men sitting against the huge beech tree, awaiting them. One leaped to his feet at their approach. The other did not, but he did raise a hand in greeting and grin at Sorcha.

“As ye see, m’lady,” Einar said, “I’m still no dead yet.”

“He’s wounded, sir, but his jack-o’-plate saved his life,” Wat MacComas said to Hugo. “He says he can ride, and I’ll gladly take him up with me.”

“Aye, Wat, if he says he’s fit, he’ll do,” Hugo said cheerfully. “I’ll take my lass with me.”

“You should not call me your lass,” Sorcha muttered to him as he settled her before him on Black Thunder.