Just as the sorcerer predicted! “Nay.”
“You might pray for his wretched soul.” He wiped his hands on his robes and sighed loudly. “For that of your sister, too, for if she returns to Dwyrain and has not been faithful to Holt, he will kill her.”
“No, please—”
The priest’s face was somber. “Say what you will, child, but mind, if you need my help, I’m at your service.” Climbing to his feet, he left the rope in the middle of the floor. “ ’Tis not that far to the bailey from here, and one of the stable boys left a hay cart filled with straw beneath your window. ’Twill be there until morning. Rue will be in to see you before you sleep, and, should you find a way out the window, she’ll untie the rope and drop it into the cart.”
“I told you I plan not to—”
Holding up a hand to silence her, he said, “I blame you not for how ye feel, Cayley. My thoughts of you haven’t always been pure, I’ve enjoyed too much the Lord’s wine, and I’ve been a prideful man worried about earthly things. I’ve … I’ve forgotten my purpose. But no longer. I pledge you this, my lady, I am your humble servant, as I am the servant of God.” He laid a cool hand on her shoulder, muttered a short prayer, and then hurried out of the room, leaving the length of rope and small sack of coins behind. She tucked the coils beneath her bed, hid the pouch in the thick fur coverlets piled over the mattress, then walked to the window and peered down the sheer rock walls of the keep.
As Father Timothy had promised, a farmer’s cart filled with hay was positioned beneath the window of her room. If she were brave and if she could trust the priest, she could secure the rope on one end to the foot or post of the bed, throw the coil through the window, slide down the thick hemp snake, and sneak to the stables.
Before fleeing, however, she would have to try to free the outlaws, and the sorcerer, to aid her. If Holt found her, he’d kill her or flog her as well. She cringed inside and wished that someone, anyone, would come to her rescue. She wasn’t cut out for danger and would rather be weaving or embroidering than doing anything so rebellious as plotting this escape.
But she had to work fast, before the prisoner died. Whether she wanted to or not, she was forced to trust the priest.
“ ’E’s dead, fer sure,” the jailer said. “Barely alive when we brought him in.”
Holt scowled down at the body. The stench and squalor of the dungeon turned his stomach and the glassy-eyed body, battered from the flogging, lay curled in a ball in the corner. Holt hadn’t intended to kill the man, not so soon, not until his tongue had been loosened, but the shorter, dark-haired outlaw had given up the ghost and died before uttering a word, not even his name.
“You’ll pay,” a deep, rolling voice warned.
Holt’s head snapped up at the ominous words coming from the next cell. The blond outlaw sat cross-legged in a corner, his eyes burning feverishly bright as they bored into Holt.
“Upon my mother’s grave, I vow, Holt of Dwyrain, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”
“You’re in no position to start handing out death sentences.” Then why did his insides turn as weak as jelly? The man was locked and shackled, he could do nothing but talk, but Holt felt a tremor of trepidation slide down his backbone in this dark part of hell. “You’re the prisoner, not I.”
“All in good time.”
Through soggy rushes, Holt advanced upon the barred wall separating the cells. “But your time isn’t good now, is it?” he said with a nasty sense of satisfaction. “Your time is spent healing in this rat-infested hellhole. You’re in no position to bargain or threaten me.”
“As long as you live, I will be your enemy.”
“Nay,” Holt said, his temper snapping, “as long as you live, which, judging from your friend’s length of time on this earth, won’t be long. If I were you, my friend, I’d be less inclined to wag a tongue that could easily be cut off and be more interested in telling the truth so that I would be set free.”
The blond one had the audacity to laugh, sending Holt’s anger screaming through his blood. He was tired of being laughed at, furious that men—even this lowly prisoner—had the audacity to snicker at him. “You have one day to change your mind, and then, piece by piece, I will cut you apart. First, a finger or a toe, then part of your ear—even your balls—until you loosen your tongue.”
Furious because the man was not intimidated, he motioned to the body. “Burn or bury this and tell me when our prisoner changes his mind!”
The blond prisoner’s silent rage followed him up the steps like a shadow and Holt felt an unlikely tremor of fear. Outside, the night air was cold but fresh, and he shook off the dark images of the cells.
He had to do something. Things were not happening rapidly enough. Though there were men searching for the outlaw and Megan, it had been weeks since her capture. Wolf and his band had quite successfully eluded them. Since the day when they’d come upon the old camp by the creek where Connor had discovered Megan’s wedding ring, there had been no sign of the outlaw.
Until now when Wolf’s two messengers had appeared. Now, because of Holt’s harsh need for justice, one of the two men who knew where Megan was hidden was dead. The other—that big blond brute—had to be kept alive no matter what.
There was too much disloyalty in the castle as it was. Many of the men were beginning to doubt him. Oh, they’d been only too happy to swear their allegiance to him when they realized that Ewan of Dwyrain was failing, that his mind was no longer sharp, that he was not the dauntless and feared leader he’d once been, but now, ever since Megan had been captured and the men had been tested, their loyalty questioned, Holt had felt that the tides of allegiance had shifted from him and to the dying baron. Curse the old apothecary; had Jovan been right in his dosage, the old man would have died weeks ago, but instead Ewan of Dwyrain lived on, lingering in his bed, muttering his thoughts to a wife who was already in her grave.
Well, Holt was tired of waiting. Everyone expected news of the baron’s death and now they would get it. ’Twas only a matter of laying a thick robe over the elderly man’s face. He was too weak to struggle and he’d die quietly. Then Holt would summon the guard and the castle would learn the news that the old baron had left this earth to join his wife. Holt would become the new ruler.
Swiftly, he mounted the stairs, and with a nod to the guard, entered the baron’s room. He closed the door firmly behind him and saw in the quiet light the face of a once-strong man. He hesitated only a second, calling softly to the baron. Ewan’s blind eyes turned in his direction and he managed a weak smile.
“M’lord,” Holt said. “I’ve come to help you.”
“There’s news … of my daughter?” Hope brought a smile to his weathered face.
“Soon.”