She had heard the rumors all her life—that she was not her father’s daughter—and yet Eaton had been so close to her, loving her and teaching her, letting her learn the skills of the knights, not denying her just because she was a woman. And now he was gone.
Her soul writhed in agony.
Darton had locked her in her chamber, and other than the numbing news of her father’s death, she’d learned nothing. She’d had no word of Hagan, nor of Leah and Bjorn. The soldiers whom Darton had sent to find Hagan came back with neither the man nor his body, and Sorcha prayed that he was alive and safe. In her mind’s eye over and over again she heard the sickening thud of arrows piercing his muscles, saw him pitch over the horse and crawl into the forest. “Please, God, protect him and keep him safe,” she prayed so often that her desperate prayers became a litany.
She refused to eat, and each time Ona came in with food from the kitchen, Sorcha left the trencher on a stool, untouched. Ona returned later in the day, retrieved the uneaten portion, and clucked her tongue. “It serves no purpose, you not eatin’ Ada’s good brawn, m’lady,” she admonished as she picked up the stale bread platter and greasy meat thereon. “You need yer strength.” With a sly glance in Sorcha’s direction, she continued. “ ’Tis said you will soon be Darton’s bride—”
“Never!”
Ona shrugged as if she cared not what Sorcha did, then left the room. Sorcha barely noticed. The girl was a twit, and she would never, never marry Darton. She’d die first. Sorcha stared out the window and wondered how she could trick the girl so that she could escape. The only window, though it looked over the bailey, was far too high to jump from, and the oaken door with its thick timbers and iron bands was barred from the outside. The chimney was impossible to scale, though she’d attempted to climb its blackened tunnel and ended up coughing and covered with soot. She had no weapon to lay against Ona’s pale throat whenever she appeared with food, water, or a bucket in which Sorcha was supposed to relieve herself.
Sorcha’s only hope was to ask for a tub of hot water for her bath. More than one man would have to carry up the tub and take it down again. The door would be open longer than normal, and if she could cause some confusion … by spilling the scalding water on the two guards or … using her fire to ignite the rushes on the floor and create panic within the castle, she would have a chance to free herself. But she had to wait for the right moment. Patience had never been one of her qualities, but as she thought long and hard, she decided that the plan with the bath might just work. As long as she moped and said little and seemed to be wasting away, no one would expect her to try and escape. Looking grief-stricken would not pose her any trouble, for she thought of Hagan constantly and her heart was heavy.
However, she cautioned herself to watch her tongue and not be so forceful in her denials of marriage to Darton. She had to lull the guards and Ona and Darton into believing that she would actually take the holy vows of matrimony with the cur. Christ’s blood, it would take all of her strength to pretend that she would do the horrid deed.
Staring out the window, hoping for some sign of Hagan’s return, she chewed her lip and plotted a way to escape, but her hopes, so recently soaring, fell like dead birds to the earth when she heard the men’s shouts and the portcullis, with the low grind of metal gears, opening. “Oh, no,” she whispered as the soldiers—all men loyal to Darton—entered the bailey. A company of twelve men surrounded the captives, and Sorcha felt tears pool in her eyes as she recognized her sister and Bjorn.
She bit her knuckles so that she wouldn’t cry out.
Both prisoners looked haggard and drawn, and thick ropes surrounded their torsos, holding their arms to their sides. Leah’s mud-spattered face was white with fright, her eyes cast down to the ground, but Bjorn sat proudly upon his horse. His shoulders were stiff, his chin thrust forward at a mutinous angle, his eyes looking neither left nor right.
Near the stables, they were yanked to the ground, and Leah slipped, her feet sliding away from her. A guard pulled her roughly to her feet, and she screamed. To Sorcha’s horror, the guard slapped Leah soundly.
“No!” Sorcha screamed, pounding her fists futilely against the window ledge.
The sudden silence in the bailey was deafening.
The prisoners were shepherded into the great hall, and Sorcha was frantic to see her sister. Running to the door, she cried, “Guard! Guard!” and pounded upon the rough timbers. “Open up! Guard!” Her fists thudded, and pain jarred up her arms. “Open the door!”
Clunk! The bar was lifted out of its brackets. “By the gods, woman, you’re makin’ enough racket to wake the bloomin’ dead,” the guard, a portly man with a red-veined nose, said. His breath smelled of stale mead and he belched loudly.
“I want to see my sister,” Sorcha demanded.
“Yer what?”
“I just saw some soldiers return with Lady Leah, and I demand to see her.” She tossed her head imperiously.
“I’ll be havin’ to talk to Lord Darton—”
Sorcha didn’t wait. While the dullard was making his plans, she raced by, pushing him out of her way.
“Hey, wait! Bloody Christ!” The soldier gave chase, but Sorcha had already scurried along the corridor and to the stairs. Her feet were swift and sure on the steps. “Hey! One of the prisoners is escaping. Sir Brady! Elwin! For the love of Jesus! Stop, you fool woman!” Other footsteps pounded through the halls, and Sorcha was met at the bottom of the stairs by Sir Brady and Darton, the lord of Erbyn himself.
Brady grabbed at her, but Darton held up a hand. “What is it?” he asked.
“I want to see my sister.” From the corner of her eye she caught sight of Tadd, his face red from too much wine as he backed Lucy into a corner and grabbed at her breasts. Lucy giggled, had the decency to blush, and ducked out of his drunken embrace.
Sorcha’s stomach turned over, but she pulled her gaze back to Darton’s. “I saw Lady Leah being brought in. I need to talk to her.”
“In good time,” Darton said with eminent patience.
“Now!” Sorcha cried. “Tadd …” She turned to her brother, and he growled back at her. “Leah is here!”
Tadd’s eyes were glazed from too much wine, but he managed to lean against the wall, and his thin lips pulled into a smirk. “Just in time to marry her off.”
“You cannot!”
He stepped closer, swaying slightly. “I can do anything I damned well please, sister. I’m the ruler of Prydd now.”