Behold the Dawn (23 page)

She eased open the stall door and pushed past Duncan to crouch at Marek’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

Her hand on his arm jerked him out of his sleep. He reared up on an elbow, his eyes squinted, one hand scrabbling through the straw for his sword. “Eh— what?”

“We must leave here now. He’s come— Lord Hugh has come—”

He blinked and coughed. “He’s what?”

“He’s
come
.” She could have slapped him right across his rosy cheek. The footsteps were almost to the door. A sword clattered free of its sheath.

Someone called from back in the yard: “Where is it you’re off to?”

The other, so near that Mairead started, replied, “Thought I saw someone come in here.”

Marek pushed himself up higher, and his short blade flashed in his hand. “What do you want me to do?” he whispered.

She
wanted
him to find Annan, to make him ride back to her as he had promised and place himself between her and her foes once more. But that was hardly an option. She clenched her teeth and listened. The man stopped just outside the roof that covered the open front of the stalls. If he would just stay there…

But he didn’t. He took another step, then another, his strides falling with the soft regularity of a man who did not wish to be heard. Mairead pushed Marek back down and leaned so near that her lips brushed his ear. “If he discovers me, stay here. Saddle the horses. If I don’t find my way back to you—” She stopped, trying to swallow the thump of her heart in her throat.

The man-at-arms paused at one of the stalls and said something in French. From the tone of his murmur, she could tell he spoke to a horse.

“If I don’t come back, find Annan.”

She pulled away, until she could see the glint of Marek’s wide-open eyes. He wouldn’t like running away from her, and Annan would be furious with him. But by himself Marek didn’t stand a chance against these men. Hugh would tear him limb from limb without a pause of conscience, and then she would be truly lost.

Better to die with the hope that someone was coming for her.

Airn snorted, and again the man-at-arms spoke in a hushed tone. He was one stall away. One stall.

She shifted in the straw so that she was almost under the palfrey’s mud-flecked belly.
Blessed Father, let him pass me by...

A hand, framed in a mail sleeve, reached through the darkness above the stall door and Duncan shifted his head to avoid it. “
Calme-toi, poney
.”

She closed her eyes and tried not to breathe. The beat of her heart thundered in her ears.

The man-at-arms paused for a moment—a long, long moment—then withdrew his arm.

Mairead opened her eyes, daring to hope he would go on and that would be the end of it. Behind her, Marek shifted in the straw, and both she and the man-at-arms froze.

Again, the straw rustled and something hard bumped against her ankle.

The man-at-arms drew near again, his sword lifted. “
Qui vive?
”

She shifted her head just enough to see that the object Marek had pushed at her was his short sword. The knight shot a glance back down the row of stalls, then reached for the door latch. If he entered the stall, he would see them both, and then all hope of rescue would be lost indeed. He could not see Marek.

The door swung out and open, and Mairead reached for the sword’s hilt. Duncan snorted, his eyes gleaming white at the corners. Praying the horse wouldn’t trample Marek, she shot to her feet and lunged at the man with a cry.

An oath on his lips, he snapped his sword up to meet hers. The ringing force of the blades connecting sent tremors of pain dancing through the bones of her arms. She took a step back, sword raised, ready for the next blow. God help her, she would not die here tonight!

But though he kept his sword before his face, the man-at-arms did not attack. “Maurice!” he shouted. “
Esmè! Elle est là!
”

Footsteps clattered against the ground outside, and she tightened her grip on the sword until the leather binding of the hilt squeaked beneath her clammy fingers. “Who is it you seek?” Perhaps she could convince him she was not the prize his master pursued.

The wind blew through the stable, plastering her hair against her hot cheek, and she could see the knight’s eyes tracing it.

“You, my lady.” He lowered the sword a bit. “Just you.”

He wasn’t going to be convinced. Serving maids and common wenches did not speak the language of the noble English and have hair to their waists.

She clenched her chattering teeth. “I will not be sought.”

The summoned men-at-arms, Maurice and Esmè, clanked into the stable, and she drew back against a closed stall door.

“Bertrand?” one of them called.

“Here,” said the knight.

Straw rustled in Duncan’s stall, and she prayed again that Marek would stay where he was.

“Well,” said one of the men-at-arms, “on the run already, she is.”

The one called Bertrand took a step toward her, his free arm raised enough that the mail sleeve slid to his elbow. “Put down the sword, lady. His lordship’s ridden long and hard for a word with you.”

“More than a word, I’ve little doubt.” She didn’t release her grip on the sword. These men could take it from her in an instant, she knew that. Could and would. She hesitated. To give it to them now would be the surrender of her only defense. But perhaps it was better to save her strength for later battles in which she could actually grasp a chance of victory.

Bertrand took another step. “Give here the sword.”

Marek shifted in the straw once again. If she stayed any longer, he would be lunging from his hiding place to die at her feet.

Her arms dropped to her sides. The sword fell with a dull clatter to the hard-packed dust at her feet.

Bertrand said nothing, only grunted. He took her by the arm, manhandling her as though she were a common
charwoman
, and nodded to one of his men. “Get the sword.” Then, without another word, he led her from the stable and back across the yard.

She held her breath until she heard Maurice and Esmè follow. Marek, at least, was safe. She closed her eyes and breathed out. Thank God for that.

He would saddle the horses before he did anything else. And when he came for her, she had to be ready to leave with him. Annan would come for her if Marek summoned him, she did not doubt that. But by then it would be too late—much, much too late. Her stomach cramped. This time she would have to save herself.

Bertrand led her to the front entrance. The doors stood open, torches lighting the chambers. Their footsteps sounded huge in the empty foyer. They neared the Great Hall, and voices shrilled, Lady Eloise’s most strident among them.

“I don’t care what you say, Sir! That girl is in the charge of my husband—”

Hugh’s voice rumbled, “And, as I’ve told you, it was
her
husband who sent me.”

“Why should he?”

Mairead and Bertrand came around the corner. From either side of the hearth, Hugh and Eloise faced each other. Ducard knelt between them, feeding the fire, his head low, as though ducking the verbal match that raged above.

Lord Hugh, begrimed with the dust and sweat of a ride that had probably lasted since his battle with Annan five days ago, twisted his gauntlets in sun-darkened fingers. His stance was wide, the cords in his neck taut, his nostrils flared. The skin of his throat bore the mottled purple of a swelling that was just beginning to subside. A badge of shame, administered by Annan’s unforgiving hand? “I have come for the Lady Mairead, madam, and that’s the end of it.”

Mairead pulled her shoulders back. Chin raised high, she allowed Bertrand to press her into the room. The conversation ceased. Every eye, even Ducard’s, turned to rest on her, and suddenly a determination blazed in her that she had not known she still possessed. Perhaps Lord Hugh had not yet robbed her of everything.

Bertrand nodded at her. “She was in the stables.”

“Clever girl.” Hugh’s eyes burned. For a moment, all was still, save the snap of the flames, and in that moment Mairead held his gaze without flinching. This man, who had taken so much from her—everything save life itself—would never have the satisfaction of knowing that he had broken her so utterly.

Ducard, eyes averted beneath his shaggy brows, rose and dusted his rumpled tunic. The sound of his hand against the rough cloth broke the spell of silence.

Hugh let go of his gloves with one hand and dropped his arms to his sides. Slowly, with the grinding precision that had always so marked him, he sidestepped a chair and shortened the distance between him and Mairead to a pace. Bertrand released her arm and stepped away; Mairead stood fast.

Hugh panted, whether with anger or with the satisfaction of finding at last the prize for which he had hunted so long, she didn’t know. “Lady Mairead, have you no word for an old friend?”

“Aye.”

His white teeth glittered.

“But you are no friend of mine, Lord Hugh.” Mairead looked to where Lady Eloise stood with creased brow, her intense eyes following the exchange. “And he is no friend of my husband’s. Whatever he has told you, it is not true.”

Eloise grunted and lifted a jewel-adorned hand in a shooing gesture. “You have heard it, Sir Knight—the lady wants nothing to do with you. Now get out, all of you.”

Hugh glared at Mairead, but his words were for Eloise. “And do you put your faith so strongly in the lady, even over myself?”

“Indeed I do.”

“She has never mentioned me to you?”

“Nay, and I’ve no wish to hear any further mention.”

Hugh took another step, pushing a fur-covered chair aside. “You mean to say she has not told you her secret?” He clucked his tongue.

Mairead’s skin burned. Was it not enough to rob her and to shame her? Must he now proclaim it to the world? But no, he could not tell everything. Even he did not know all her secrets. He did not know of the small body moldering beneath French soil—the tiny body that cursed her dreams, waking and sleeping, the body that was half
his
.

Lady Eloise’s sharp gaze shifted to Mairead. “What secret?”

Hugh stopped a mere step away and smiled. “That she was once mine, in all but name.” With a forefinger glorified by a great ruby, he traced the sharp definition of her jaw.

If there truly was a Hell as the priests preached it, it blazed now in Mairead’s vision with a white-hot vehemence. She slapped him across the face—that arrogant, handsome, Norman face—so hard the bones of her hand shuddered.

He reeled, shocked no doubt that someone dared strike out at him. He would be shocked indeed when Heaven finally meted out its justice.

She stepped away, her aching hand clenched to her breast. “Why the hand of God does not slay you, I know not!”

He swore and took one long step toward her. His hands clamped round her upper arms, squeezing flesh against bone. “I made you mine when still in London, and you will be mine yet again!” He drew her close to him, the air from between his lips hot against her face. “And then perhaps I shall kill you.”

She shoved a palm against his chest, putting almost an arm’s length between them. “Then kill me! I cannot leave this world any poorer than you have already made me!”

He did not laugh, but the smile on his face spoke to laughter nonetheless. “Oh, yes, you can, my lady. So I’ll ask you again. Become my wife?”

She threw her head back. “I cannot. I am married.”

“The Earl of Keaton died in the Holy Land.”

Eloise sucked in a breath, its angry whistling seeming to indicate she blamed Lord Hugh himself for the deed.

Mairead didn’t flinch. “Aye, Lord William is dead.”

“So you see…” He stroked her arms with his thumbs but didn’t relax his grip. “You are as free as the sun.”

“No.” She looked him in the eye. Perhaps Annan did not want it known at all, perhaps that was why he refrained from speaking the truth. But
this
was the reason he had given her his name, and if it could not save her now, then little else could. “I have married again.”

Hugh’s brows came together with a ferocity that made her breath catch. “To whom?”

“Marcus Annan.”

Lady Eloise uttered a strangled sound, her mouth flopping open, then snapping shut again, her jowls a-quiver.

Hugh’s grip tightened until Mairead could feel her blood pulsing beneath his hands. “That accursed assassin?
That
is the sort of man you prefer to me?”

“
Yes!
” She hurled the word at him. “The sort of man I prefer is one who knows how to fulfill honor, instead of defiling it!”

“Then you should not have taken Marcus Annan to husband! Honor will leave him in all too great a haste when I find him. I
will
find him, and he will die at my hands. Slowly and painfully, he will die. And you will live long enough to watch it!”

Hatred bit down hard within her. The man could do what he would to her, and she could not stop him. But she would kill him herself did his blade ever find its way past Annan’s defenses. With all the fury that had been building, building, building for month after month, she spat at him. “No, I will not!”

He roared, his oath blackening the air between them, and he struck her with the back of his hand, felling her to her knees.

“Enough!” The red heat of Eloise’s skirt billowed as she thundered across the room. “Not under any roof of mine, Sir! Nay!”

“Silence,
bellwether
!”

Eloise’s head reared up. “What! You dare say this to me?” She spun. “Ducard!”

But Hugh seized her arm and dragged her back. “If you value your life, you will be silent! My men and myself shall be gone before your husband returns. And the lady with us.”

Mairead, one hand pressed to the throb that had come of Lord Hugh’s red gem against her cheekbone, lifted herself to her feet by the arm of a chair. She was near enough the slit of window that she could hear the men-at-arms talking in the yard below. The hollow sound of hoofbeats plodded against the hard-packed dirt.

A voice rose above the others, loud enough for her to make out the words. “’Ey, there—where is it you’re off to?”