There was a chance her hastily conceived plan would not work, and she worried that she would never live to see the dawn, but her life was now out of her hands. “God help me,” she whispered drowsily.
Now she had to rely on the savior of Prydd.
Sorcha paced the room and silently prayed that their plan would work; ’twas risky … too risky, and she worried that another death would be on her hands. “Please, Lord, help us,” she whispered as the breeze rolled softly through her window. She stared outside to the bailey, where darkness had settled over the castle. The clouds that had poured rain all day had disappeared and the moon was full, casting silver shadows along the landscape and reflecting in the puddles that had formed during the day’s showers.
She flung herself on the bed, ignoring the cupboard where her wedding dress had been hung. If her plan did not work, she would marry Darton and the thought sat like a stone in her stomach. She tried to still the racing of her heart. She had to be patient and feign sleep. If the plan was to work, Darton must never realize that he’d been duped. Closing her eyes, she let out a slow breath and thought of Hagan. A wretched pain sliced to her soul. Was he dead? Had he been found by Darton’s men and slain at his command, or had he crawled off like a wounded animal to die in the forest, without food, without water, and burning from the fever of infection? Her fingers clutched the fur coverlet in a death grip. She’d never told him she loved him, hadn’t wanted to accept the truth herself, and yet she missed him horribly. Tears welled in her eyes and she sniffed as quietly as was possible.
There was a chance, though a slim one, that he was alive, and she clung to that slight hope, thinking she might see him again. Telling herself she couldn’t fall victim to grief, that she had to be strong, she slapped away her horrid tears and swallowed against the sudden thickening of her throat.
She tried to sleep, but her eyes refused to close. She lay stiffly on the bed, her ears straining at every creak of the rafters, or the shuffle of footsteps in the hall, or the quiet cough from a guard or a snort as a sentry tried to stay awake.
Why hadn’t she been summoned? Had something gone wrong? Could Anne, even at this very moment, be lying on the brink of death? “Please, please, be with her,” she prayed, though fear made her lips tremble.
The minutes slowly passed and the moon moved in the sky. This was wrong. It was too close to morning. The morning of the day she was to marry Darton. Her stomach churned. Oh, God, if Anne, too, had died … another death would be at her feet. For she was at fault. She shivered. Some had called her the savior of Prydd, and yet she felt at this moment like the very death of everyone who had known her.
It must be time!
She thought she would go mad with waiting when she heard the thud of hurried tread, the groan of the bar being removed from her door. Forcing her eyes shut, she kept her breathing even as the door was yanked open to bang against the corridor wall.
With a start, she sat up and feigned surprise. Her gaze settled on Darton. “What’re you doing here?” she demanded as he entered. Sir Ralston, the cruel one, was at his side, and as they approached, she cowered to a far corner of the bed.
“ ’Tis Anne,” Darton said in vexation.
“What of your sister?”
“She needs your help.”
“My help?” Sorcha said, arching a brow as her pulse began to race. “How … ?”
“Don’t ask questions, just get dressed and come with us.” Darton’s face was white with fury and impatience, and there was something else in his eyes, an evil suspicion that lingered just below the surface. “No matter what happens, we are to be married this day.”
Sorcha watched as he and Ralston left her alone to dress, and her fingers fumbled as she placed the hated velvet dress over her head, then shoved her feet into her boots. With a prayer, she slid her dagger into the inside of one boot, where it pressed against her leg. “God be with us all,” she whispered as she shoved open the door and found Darton pacing the hallway. Ralston leaned insolently against the wall, propped by one shoulder, as if bored by the drama unfolding.
Only a few of the sentries had been awakened, and Sorcha suspected that Darton had not wanted the entire castle to be disturbed, but he smiled wickedly when he noticed her gown of gold velvet.
“What is wrong?” Sorcha asked, half-running to keep up with his long, angry strides.
“Anne is near death, though I know not why,” he said tightly, and she was surprised to notice how much this seemed to bother him. She hadn’t thought him capable of caring for anyone but himself. “Lord Spader has asked for her hand, and he won’t be interested in a corpse.”
So there was no love in his heart for his sister.
“You must work your magic, Sorcha. Whatever ails my sister, you must bring her back to life!”
“And if I fail?”
His lips tightened. “Don’t.”
They entered Anne’s chamber, and Sorcha had to repress the urge to gasp. The room was dark and cold as the winter rain. Anne lay pale as death upon the bed. Oh, Lord, she’d drunk too much, Sorcha thought as she dashed to the bedside and took Anne’s cool hand between her own. “Lady Anne! Wake up!” Anxiously she rubbed the insides of Anne’s white wrists and noticed in the flickering candlelight the way her veins webbed beneath her thin skin. “Lady Anne!” Sorcha flung herself to her knees. “ ’Tis I, Sorcha … Please, wake up.”
Fear clawed at her heart. This had been a foolish plan, and now Anne, whose pulse beat so faintly, it could barely be felt, was dying. It was all her fault! No! No! No! She swallowed hard and, remembering that she should not know the truth as yet, turned worried eyes to Darton. “What happened?”
Ona, the sparrowlike little maid, was standing near a stool in the corner and wringing her hands. “ ’Tis my blame,” she whispered, tears rolling down her pale cheeks. She coughed loudly. “The lady asked me to check on her as she’d felt ill, and … I fell asleep, and when I woke up, she was like this.” The pitch of her voice had lowered with each of her words, and she
could barely be heard.
“Stop that sniveling!” Darton ordered, then turned his eyes upon Sorcha. “Do your magic, m’lady. Save my sister.”
“I need …” Her words failed her for a second before her eyes met Darton’s. “Does not Bjorn have the necklace of knotted thread?”