White Lion's Lady (8 page)

Head swimming with pain-induced, spinning shards of blinding light, Griff peeled open one eye and saw that the lady actually had paused. Standing at the door, hands fisted at her sides, she stared over her shoulder at him, frowning. “Why should I believe you?”

He levered himself to a sitting position, wincing when the more tender part of his anatomy shifted with the movement. “What other choice do you have?” he hissed.

Her answering laugh was filled with scorn and a good measure of suspicion. “I am to trust that you came up here tonight because you had a change of heart? That now you suddenly wish to help me get safely to Montborne? I am not so great a fool.”

“ ’Tis as I told you,” he said, regaining the normal use of his voice now that his pain was finally subsiding from piercing agony to a dull throb. “Dom reneged on his word to me. I was to be paid for my efforts and now I have every reason to suspect that is not going to happen.”

She threw him a haughty glare. “You will pardon me if I do not sympathize with your apparent dilemma, my lord.”

Griff chuckled at her spunk, albeit somewhat weakly, for it brought a jolt of renewed pain to his body. “If Dom won’t reward me for your capture,” he told her, “surely your betrothed will do so for your return.”

“The only suitable reward for a rogue of your ilk is a trip to the gibbet,” she retorted smartly.

“Perhaps,” Griff admitted. “But I think once Montborne hears how I delivered you out of Dom’s clutches, he’ll be more than willing to see me compensated.”

“How can you be so sure?” she challenged. “For all you know, he may find you no less a criminal than Dom himself. How do you mean to convince him to absolve you?”

“I won’t have to convince him, my lady. You will.”

“I will do no such thing!” she gasped, facing him now in her outrage, hands on her hips. “I will not aid you in this further plan of extortion!”

Griffin got to his feet, serious now. “Aye, my lady. You will.” She backed toward the door, one hand slipping behind her, no doubt searching for the latch. He shook his head knowingly. “Even if I allow you to flee this chamber, do not be so foolish as to expect to escape the castle on your own. You’ll never make it out of here without me, let alone make it to Montborne.”

She was breathing hard, lip caught between her teeth, brow pinched as she contemplated her options. Griff watched her like a hawk, anticipating her every movement, ready to spring if she made even the slightest overture to run. She stared at him, wounded, her gaze blazing in plain contempt. “I despise you, Griffin of Droghallow. I wish I’d never laid eyes on you.”

He shrugged as if her declaration did not sting him in the least. “Have we an agreement, Izzy?”

“Don’t call me that,” she told him quietly. “You haven’t the right to call me familiar.”

Standing there in the dim light of the chamber, petite and trembling, she was once more the sweet, terrified girl Griffin had rescued from danger some ten years before. Except that now she did not tremble out of fear for a raging forest beast, but out of fear and loathing for him. He tamped down the queer feeling that realization brought with it, telling himself it should not matter what she thought of him. She meant nothing more than a means to
an end, his passage to a boon that would be the foundation of his future.

“I am going to take you out of here,” he told her sternly as he met her at the door. “And unless you’d prefer to deal with Dom, you are going to do precisely what I tell you to do—without question. Understand?”

The fact that she did not refuse him outright was consent enough. Griff took her by the hand and opened the door a crack. He peered out to make sure the corridor was clear, then stepped over the threshold with Isabel in tow.

As late as it was, the tower stairwell and labyrinth of hallways were empty, most of the castle folk having hours before taken to their pallets. But the implication of safety did not slow Griffin’s pace. Indeed, it only made him move all the faster, using the fortunate circumstance to its fullest advantage. He guided Isabel down to the main floor of the keep, past the great hall with its sea of occupants; the trestle tables that lined the chamber during the day were now stacked against the walls, clearing the floor for the bulk of the garrison and dozens of servants who slept there each night on thin pallets of straw.

A few of those common folk stirred, some taking their pleasure with each other despite the lack of privacy. Griff hastened past the wide arched entryway, tugging Isabel’s arm when she peered inside and paused, letting out a shocked little gasp at the mingled groans of carnal pleasure that sounded from within. They were nearly to the keep’s exit when Griff heard footsteps pad along the corridor in front of them. With no time to spare, he turned to Isabel and grasped her by the shoulders, pushing her into a shadowy alcove of the hallway.

Then he kissed her.

It was a deep kiss, accompanied by the full press of his body, a maneuver primarily meant to conceal the both of them from whomever approached. Griff was not prepared for the bolt of lust that shot through him the instant their
lips met. Nor, it seemed, was Isabel. Her startled cry of protest when he seized her had dissolved into a soft, throaty mewl as his mouth brushed over hers, the resisting push of her hands at his chest all but melting away, her fingers now curling into the loose fabric of his tunic.

She was sweetness and untried passion in his arms, an intoxicating mix that his body responded to with swift, urgent need. He dragged her further into his embrace, covering her lips with his, all but lost in the sensual pleasure of the moment.

Through the fevered thud of his pulse, he heard the approaching footsteps, closer now, as the person padding down the hallway rounded the corner and drew up short.

“Sir Griffin?” a female voice gasped. “Saints, milord! ’Tis late to find you down here.”

With more reluctance than he cared to admit, Griff broke the kiss. He said nothing at first, did not even acknowledge the interruption, his mind too rattled to conjure any manner of reply. He stared down at Isabel, unsure what had just passed between them even though his every fiber and muscle was taut with keen and certain awareness. He nearly had to shake himself to focus on his surroundings, to wrestle sense enough to deal with the present situation.

That present situation came a few paces forward, attempting to peer around Griff’s shoulder in curiosity. “Who’s that with you—is it Tess from the kitchens?” She gave a saucy little giggle. “Mayhap milord would be better pleased with the both of us together.”

“To your pallet, Meg,” Griff ordered gruffly, his voice coarse and thick with arousal, his head still bent to hide Isabel from prying eyes, his gaze fixed on her and hungry with want.

The servant girl obeyed with nothing more than a disappointed sounding huff. Griff listened as her feet scuffed down the corridor toward the great hall. He waited to hear they were alone once more, willing his heart to cease
pounding in his head so he could think of something other than the compellingly moist invitation of Isabel’s mouth.

“Let’s go,” he said, taking her by the hand.

Satisfied that the keep had fallen back into silence, he resumed their flight, his brisk stride chewing up the remaining space of corridor that separated them from escape.

Outside, the bailey was quiet, the wall-walk vacant save for the handful of guards on night watch. With a measured air of purpose that dared anyone to question him, Griff descended the stairs leading down into the courtyard. Isabel followed along, forced to take two quick steps to every one of his. He led her to the stables, silencing the old horse master with a pointed stare and a dismissive nod of greeting.

Griff’s destrier was stabled in one of the far stalls. The huge gray steed neighed and tossed his head when he saw his master approach, the beast’s nostrils flaring as if he smelled insurrection on the wind. With a warning to Isabel to mind her distance from the animal, Griff saddled him and led him out of the berth.

“What about Felice?” she whispered suddenly. “I can’t just leave her here.”

Griff doubted very much that, were the tables turned, Isabel would receive the same consideration. “The woman is none of my concern, but if you see fit, make arrangements to fetch her once you are safe at Montborne.”

She seemed mollified somewhat by the suggestion, nodding as she followed him out of the stables. “Shouldn’t we take two horses?” she asked. “We might make better time riding separately.”

Griffin shook his head. “Taking one mount out at this hour will cause suspicion enough. Besides, I think it wiser if we rode together.”

He did not miss her look of disappointment, despite the fact that she tried to hide it under her scowl. Would she have tried to abandon him on the road? He hoped not, for a
woman traveling alone on remote northern byways would not get far without inviting trouble.

At the moment, they had trouble enough of their own, he decided as he mounted the gray, then hoisted Isabel up into the saddle with him. On the battlements near Droghallow’s gates, one of the guards took notice of their presence in the bailey. Lance in hand, he said something to the man watching the yard with him, waking the knight with an ungentle nudge.

“Open the gate, Roger,” Griffin commanded, turning Isabel’s head into his chest and wrapping the edge of his mantle around her shoulders. “Don’t show them your face,” he whispered in a voice only she would hear.

“Is that you, Griff?” the gatekeeper asked, peering down from his perch.

“It is. Open the gate, will you?”

“Dom gave orders that no one was to leave tonight without his say-so,” the guard replied, looking somewhat unsure in his refusal, yet making no move to comply.

Before him, clutching his waist in a death grip, Isabel drew in her breath. Griffin could feel her anxiety, and in truth, he shared it. The only way out was through those gates. Staring up at the guards, he cursed vividly. “Dom said no one was to pass?” he said, more accusation than question.

“That he did, Griff.”

“Well, would that he had mentioned that fact before he woke me with orders to deliver this woman back to her cottage in the village before her husband found her missing.” He noted the guard’s reaction, seeing the look of doubt come over the man’s face. Griff pulled his mount’s reins and made to wheel it around and head back to the stables. “Fine by me,” he said with arrogant disregard. “Let Dom ferry his own whores to and from his bed.”

“Wait,” the guard called, after a moment. “I wager Dom would trust you before anyone else in his service. If you
say he sent you out, that’s good enough for me, Griff. I’ll open the gates.”

“ ’Tis about time,” Griffin drawled as the portcullis was raised, and he and Isabel rode beneath the heavy iron grid.

He rode in the direction of the village only until he was certain the guards on watch could no longer see him, then he veered his destrier off the road, headed toward the dark cover of the woods. Griff noticed that the horse’s gait had begun to falter slightly after they traversed a rocky patch of ground. He slowed the beast to investigate the trouble, bringing him to a halt once they were safely ensconced in the forest.

“What is it?” Isabel asked as he dismounted and pulled her from the saddle.

Griff took up each of the horse’s feet in turn, then found the source of the problem. “He picked up a stone,” he explained, working the pebble out of the horse’s hoof with the tip of his dagger. “There you are, boy, that should feel better now.”

Behind him, Isabel’s feet crunched in the dry pine needles that littered the ground. “How far do you suppose we are from Montborne?”

“About three days’ ride,” Griff told her, patting the destrier’s flank as he released its foot and made sure the beast could stand.

“Which direction?”

Griff wondered at her questioning interest, sensing that the wheels of conspiracy had begun to turn in her pretty head. Mayhap they had never stopped. “That way,” he answered, waving his hand in the general direction of the forest path.

“Oh,” she answered, her soft reply punctuated by more movement at his back. “Three days isn’t so terribly far. I think I can make it.”

Griff realized his mistake a mere heartbeat before it hit him—literally hit him—for Isabel, the sweet girl he had
rescued ten years prior and sought to rescue again tonight, had found herself a hard and rather useful length of oak. Griff acknowledged the makeshift weapon as he turned his head to the side and saw her raise it.

She brought it down on him like a hammer, dropping him quite efficiently on the forest floor. The last thing Griff saw before darkness began to crowd his vision was Isabel, tossing aside her bludgeon and peering down at him as if to ascertain whether or not she had killed him.

He half wondered the very same thing as his heavy eyelids drifted closed and a thick, fuzzy silence engulfed him.

“I am truly sorry, Griffin,” Isabel whispered as she blinked down at his big, sprawling form. “But I fear you left me no choice in this.”

He groaned slightly, not quite a response, but enough to ease her mind with the knowledge that he was alive. She had not meant to kill him after all, merely distract him, until she was able to get away on her own. He certainly seemed distracted now. She did not want to think about how furious he would rightfully be once he woke. Indeed, the more distance she could put between herself and his sore head, the better. Three days separated her from Montborne; she had better get started.

Isabel took a couple of steps toward the waiting gray stallion, trying to ignore the prickle of guilt that began to needle her. Could she simply leave Griffin like this, unconscious in Droghallow’s woods? He was sure to be found by Dom’s soldiers; how could he explain his part in stealing Isabel out of the keep? Would he be punished—tortured—for her escape?

She really should not worry over him, she reasoned sternly, trying to shake herself into the same brand of disregard for others that he seemed to employ. Griffin of Droghallow was her abductor. A heartless knave, utterly lacking in honor. If he later sought to free her from the terrible situation it was only to use her further for his own
gain. She owed him no consideration now. Indeed, she owed him nothing at all.