Knight In My Bed (40 page)

She didn't awaken until just before the dawn, and only then because of the insistent rustlings of a mouse moving through the floor rushes.

Not wanting to lose the sweet languor still enveloping her, she tried to sink back into the mind-numbing bliss of deep slumber.

She rolled closer to him, the man she could no longer deny as her true soul mate, determined to ignore the pillaging mouse.

But the noise grew louder, the creature's foraging more frantic.

Angry now, she pressed her face deeper into the cushioning warmth of Donall's shoulder. His hair scratched and jabbed her, no longer silken and thick, but dry, coarse, and itchy.

Coming fully awake, she pushed herself upright on the bed of rushes.

Donall the Bold was gone.

Naught remained of the wild, lust-ridden night save the disarray of the flooring, the wrinkles on her gown, and the opened shutters. No longer admitting the whistling storm winds of the night, the glistening wet shutters granted entry to naught more daunting than a gloom-ridden drizzly rain.

A gray morning peopled only by herself, the still-slumbering Bodo, and the wretched mouse whose annoying scurryings had so rudely torn her from her sleep.

Only unlike the other unwelcome companions of the cold morn, the mouse was nowhere to be seen.

Vanished as soundly as the braw and handsome man she loved.

But, unlike Donall the Bold, whose low, seductive voice had disappeared with him, she could still hear the mouse's loathsome rustlings.

Scratchings now, ever louder and persistent.

Scratchings at her door

Determined to bring vile spoliations on its source, Isolde pushed to her feet and straightened her rumpled gown as best she could. Squaring her shoulders, she crossed the empty chamber, a slow, cold dread building inside her.

No one would dare come knocking at her door this early lest grave ill had driven them there.

And the stealth of the scratchings boded an even worse ill.

Whoever had sought her out had news no one but she should hear.

With shaking hands, she opened her door, somehow not surprised to see Evelina standing there, her lovely dark eyes massed with concern, her beautiful face free of paint and pale.

Very pale.

“He comes, my lady," her friend whispered, grasping hold of Isolde's hand. "Balloch MacArthur's galley has been spotted He should lay anchor within the hour."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“You Are Certain?" Isolde stared hard at her friend.

The wall torch nearest Isolde's door had near burned itself out, but still spewed enough guttering flames to cast an eerie reddish glow over Evelina's beautiful face.

What Isolde saw there chilled her blood.

Evelina's full lips, usually curved in a quiet smile, were compressed into a tight, hard line. Long uncombed strands of her dark hair hung about her shoulders, the disheveled state of her tresses scarce concealed by the black cowl she wore.

Even if she'd stood before Isolde perfectly coifed and groomed as she was e'er wont to go about, the pale cast of her unadorned face bespoke the truth of her warning.

And the depth of her concern.

"You are certain?" Isolde asked again, a chill dancing up and down her spine.

"I would that I was wrong, but there can be no doubt.” Evelina cast a furtive glance down the shadowy passage, empty and dark at this early hour.

With Donall returned to his cell, even Niels and Rory had hied themselves elsewhere, no doubt snoring peacefully on their pallets outside the entrance to the dungeons.

Isolde's stomach began to convulse. "There is no chance the ship has been falsely identified?"

"The approaching galley bears MacArthur banners." The answer dashed Isolde's last hope. "'Tis so near, my lady."

"Ne'er would I have believed he'd come." Isolde pressed a band over her fiat abdomen, tried to still the roiling dread churning there.

Wished something else tossed and turned inside her.

"It is too soon," she said, half to herself. Sharp talons of regret dug into her, squeezed so tight she could scarce breathe. "There hasn't been time . . ." She let the words die, her eyes filling.

"All may not be lost, but you must be wary. A journey worth taking is oft most difficult near its end." Evelina took her hand, gave fit a brief squeeze. "The elders gather already," she added with another quick glance over her shoulder.

Isolde followed her gaze, her heart thumping. She could imagine the council's grim-cast faces, almost see their eyes grow cold with disdain, hear their wrath, their ... shock, upon learning what she'd done.

"You must stand tall against their anger," Evelina urged, resting her hands lightly on Isolde's shoulders.

One of his favored gestures.

Isolde's heart twisted, her pulse racing ever faster. Hot panic clawed at her from within.

“Hold firm when Balloch confronts them," Evelina warned. "When he confronts you. He will be furious thinking you -"

"And how I wish I was!" Isolde cut in, then stopped at the look of pity in Evelina's dark eyes. A tear trickled down her cheek. "I am not yet with child. All I am is ..."

She paused to swipe a hand over her damp cheek.
"I – I’ve fallen in lo –“

“I know you have." Evelina's own eyes gleamed bright. She stepped back, searched the shadows again. "I must go, my lady. I've an old debt to repay."

Isolde opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Too thick was the hot lump swelling in her throat.

Her friend gave her a wan smile. "May God be with you," she said simply, and began taking backward steps, moving deeper into the shadows.

Before Isolde could question her further.

Or ask why she roamed Dunmuir's passages so early.

"Wait ...
lady .
. ." Isolde called after her, lifting a hand, her legs too shaky to carry her after her friend's retreating form.

"Come back ...
please
. . ."

But Evelina had already slipped away, her light footfalls hurried. And she was then gone, swallowed up by the corridor's gloom.

Isolde stared after her, dread cold and metallic on her tongue, her hands pressed hard against her middle, and trying desperately to find the steel Donall the Bold swore she possessed.

Donall came awake the moment one of his lady's buffoons began fumbling with the cell door's heavy drawbar. Despite his drowsiness and great desire to drift back into the bliss of his much-needed sleep, he couldn't help smiling at their repeated, failed, attempts to lift the fool bar.

The whoreson louts must've spent the night deep in their cups to have to struggle thus to unbar the door.

Not wanting to miss an opportunity to gloat at them, he scooted up against the wall and folded his arms behind his head. Planting a broad grin on his face, he waited for the door to swing open.

Then he'd laugh.

But the mirth died in his throat when the cell door eased open but a margin, and an angel slipped inside.

An angel of death.

Garbed completely in black, a deep cowl concealing all but a shadowy glimpse of her night-black hair and beautiful face, the angel glided forward, her movements fluid, graceful, and full of stealth.

She stopped at the foot of his pallet. "Good sir, I can see why she loves you so," she said, smiling down at him, not a harbinger of death, but a desirable flesh and blood woman.

"Aye, 'tis most clear indeed," she said. "You are a fine braw man, Donall the Bold."

Her smile deepened, reached her sultry black-lashed eyes.

Donall smiled, too. The fool grin he'd plastered on his face in anticipation of them grew warm. Saints, but the woman's words filled him with joy.

Had she truly claimed Isolde "loved him so"?

Aye, she had.

"And I love her, my lady whoe' er-you-may-be," he said, springing to his feet, his heart swelling.

He made her a low bow. "Donall MacLean, laird of Baldoon, fair lady," he said as he straightened. "And you are?"

"Not a la-" she began but broke off when he snatched her hand to his lips and brushed a reverent kiss across her knuckles.

"Fair lady," he said, emphasizing his regard, "who are you, and to what honor do we owe your visit?'

“I am a friend of your lady's," she said simply, "but she does not know I am here." She glanced at Gavin, who still sprawled, snoring loudly, upon his pallet. Pale gray light falling through the window opening slanted across his boyish face. "I am come to repay a debt."

And make good a gross wrong I've done
, Donall thought he heard her murmur beneath her breath.

"A debt?" he asked, choosing to leave go of the other faint words she' d uttered.

The ones he might have misunderstood.

Words his chivalry forbade him to consider.

He peered at her, mused at the wistful smile playing across her face as she watched Gavin. "I did not know he had a lady," he said, more than a little surprised.

Especially that the freckle-faced knave could win the heart of such an elegant, if somewhat older, beauty.

"Gavin MacFie and I are friends, naught else." She returned her attention to Donall, gave a little sigh. "His father and I were ... more. Both men have done much for me, and I would repay their friendship this day," she said. "Laird MacLean, I mean to lead you from here, but we must hurry."

"What th-" Gavin finally stirred, a lopsided grin spreading across his face when he spied the dark-haired angel. “`Tis you, Evelina! Whate'er are you doing here?"

Donall reached down and grabbed his friend's arm, hauled him to his feet. "The most gracious lady Evelina is here to aid our escape," he announced, pleased at the surprise his words put on the all-knowing lout's face.

For once he'd been privy to something first.

'The lady Ev ...?" Gavin's words withered under Donall's sharp glance. But he caught himself as quickly, came forward, and embraced his old friend most heartily. "By the saints, my lady," he vowed, releasing her, "ne'er have I been more pleased to see you."

"We must make haste." She returned to the door. "I can only accompany you part of the way," she said, already stepping into the dimly lit corridor. "Then you shall be on your own, but hopefully not for long."

"Hopefully not for long?" Donall queried, but she'd already moved deeper into the dank passage.

Fully awake now, Gavin followed her, his broad grin bright enough to dispel the morn's murkiness, mayhap even chase the darkness from the low-ceilinged corridor.

Only Donall hesitated. May he be cursed for a hundred thousand fools, yet now, with his freedom looming so near, he dragged his cumbersome feet.

He was loath to leave her

Suffer her the anguish he knew she'd feel upon discovering him gone.

Loath to suffer himself the anguish of missing her .., if only for the short time it would take him to locate her sister's true murderer, clear Iain's name, then come back to Dunmuir and make her his bride.

"Do not tell me you've waxed fond of yon cell?" Gavin's voice called from a distance.

Donall blinked. He stared after Gavin and the black-clad angel, the lady Evelina. They'd already covered half the length of the passage. But when he didn't move, they turned and started back.

The lady Evelina spoke first. "You serve her better by leaving," she said, proving herself as full of all-seeing wisdom as Gavin. "She is strong. She will stand tall until you return for her."

Donall lifted a brow at her words. The look in her eyes filled his heart with bitter dread. "You speak as if she is in danger."

"I pray she is not." She grasped his hand, tried to pull away from the cell. "But if she is, my lord, then the need for you to gather your men is all the more dire."

With ease, Donall pulled his hand from hers. He folded his arms and braced his legs apart. Gavin muttered under his breath and rolled his eyes, but Donall ignored him. "I would know what intrigues you speak of, lady, or I swear to you I shall stand here until I grow roots."

The angel pushed back her cowl and ran a trembling hand through dark, unbound tresses. "Sir," she said, casting yet another furtive glance over her shoulder, "I shall tell you all I know, all I suspect, if you would but come with me."

She drew a long sigh and readjusted the cowl over her head when Donall didn't budge. "Pray do not ill wish me for my honesty, sir, but I know much of ... men," she said, a sad, almost defeated note in her voice.

"I fear all is not as it would seem here," she went on, "and would hope you return with enough able-armed men to set things aright ... if need be."

Ill ease sluiced hot and cold down Donall's back. "Lady Evelina," he vowed, suspecting her position but granting her honor for her bold heart, "you are a loyal friend, but your words make me more loath than before to leave. If my lady faces danger, I shall quell it here and now."