The Storming Read online

  He’d still die. He had no doubts about that. He’d search every crevice of his new dungeon with the thoroughness of a captive plotting escape from The Tower. But it would be of no use. For when The Dire Dragan set about doing a thing, he did it properly.

  The undermining had worked brilliantly. The castle curtain wall had collapsed, if prematurely, precisely as a sapper would have intended. Without the braces, however, Giric was imprisoned by his own hand under tons of rock and rubble.

  His mouth twisted with black humor. It seemed he’d accomplished quite an admirable feat. By the complete lack of light, Giric was certain not even a chink remained for the wind to blow through.

  Then his heart sank. Campbell. Why hadn’t the stubborn Highland captain left when Giric ordered him away? The poor wretch had probably been buried in the collapse. Even if by some miracle Campbell survived and could bring rescue, Giric would suffocate by the time his men could dig through the massive wall of granite.

  Meanwhile, Giric would have time to dwell on his sins, to relive all the ugly passages of his life.

  A small part of him, deep inside, felt a wrenching sort of satisfaction. After all, this was the end he deserved. At last Giric would suffer for his crimes and do penance for the innocent lives he’d destroyed.

  And the young woman who waited within the castle walls to be his bride, whose father had stubbornly refused to surrender his maiden daughter in sacrifice to The Dire Dragan? She could stop wringing her hands in terror, for the beast she was betrothed to would be dead in a few hours.

  Giric raised his hand to his forehead. His fingers came back slick with blood. He felt the sting of several scrapes and gashes along his bared forearms. All his bones seemed intact, though he was certain he’d be bruised on the morrow.

  Then he chuckled bleakly. Bruised! He’d be dead on the morrow.

  His laugh turned to coughing as the dust settled invisibly around him in the pitch black. Perhaps Campbell was right about him. Perhaps he had been courting death, for the idea of dying brought nothing but relief.

  No more would he be haunted by the images of his loved ones’ lifeless bodies.

  No more would men cower as he passed, crossing themselves before him, making the sign of the devil behind his back.

  No more would lords’ daughters quiver in fear at the prospect of becoming his bride.

  Once he paid the debt of his soul, he’d be free.

  He gathered dusty saliva in his mouth and spit it onto the ground. The thirst would be the worst of it, he supposed. Aside from that, once the air ran out, he’d likely just drift off to sleep.

  No more worries.

  No more responsibilities.

  No more innocents to harm.

  He crossed his battered arms over his chest, closed his eyes against the black oblivion, and gave up the fight, settling back against the jagged rock that would mark his grave.

  The repose of eternity lasted exactly five measured breaths.

  Then he heard it, faint at first, like the chirp of a cricket.

  He opened one eye, as if that would make any difference in the utter dark.

  It came again, louder this time, from beyond the inner wall of the tunnel.

  He opened the other eye.

  The sound was probably just a mouse, injured in the collapse. He hoped it would die soon. He wanted his last moments on earth to be peaceful.

  He frowned, squirmed into a more relatively comfortable position, and closed his eyes tighter.

  There it came again.

  His eyes flew open.

  That was no cricket, no mouse. There was something distinctly human about the cry.

  He swallowed. When the forlorn cry came again, it sent a shudder through him like a battering ram pounding at his heart. There was no mistake. That voice belonged to a woman. And if there was one sound he couldn’t ignore, it was the call of a maiden in distress.

  Chapter 2

  It hardly seemed fair. Giric had given up his joust with dogged destiny. He’d resigned himself to dying, slipping away in this quiet tomb with nothing but his own thoughts, fading from the wretched world on a serene and silent breath.

  But it was not to be.

  That voice called to him.

  Needed him.

  And stronger than his desire to escape into oblivion was his cursed sense of honor. He was a knight. He’d taken certain oaths, sworn to live by certain morals. And paramount was the vow to protect and defend those creatures weaker than he.

  Muttering a mild oath, he pushed himself up from the rubble and fumbled his way toward the source of the noise. It was here, from the place he’d been digging before, a patch of bare earth clear of stones. He pressed his ear to the dirt, listening. The despondent cry came again.

  He pulled his head back in wonder. As unbelievable as it seemed, there was someone beyond the innermost side of the tunnel. For one mad moment, he wondered if it was the voice of some dark angel of the underworld, calling him to Hades.

  He groped about, searching for his spade, till he remembered he’d tossed it aside before the rockslide. He’d have to use something else then.

  His fingers clambered over the debris until he located a sharp shard of stone. Hefting it in his hand, he began jabbing determinedly at the soil. While her cries continued, then hopelessly diminished, his efforts at enlarging the hole in the earth were about as effective as a rat gnawing through iron.

  He cast the rock aside. The sound had ceased. God’s breath—had she fainted? Was she dead? His heart in his throat, he hurled his body against the tunnel, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted as loud as he could.

  “Hold on!”

  Hilaire sat bolt upright, digging her fingers into the carved wood of her harp, every sense strained. Sweet Mary—was that a voice? Or was it only a delusion, part of the phobia that had reduced her to a quivering child? She bit her lip, trying to still her breath to better hear.

  And then, blessedly, the voice came again. Relief burst out of her in a sound that was half laugh, half cry.

  Someone was adjacent to the passageway.

  It didn’t seem possible. She was deep underground, and as far as she knew, only one tunnel led from the castle. But possible or not, the muffled voice on the other side of the dirt embankment was real. And it sounded sweeter to her than the strings of her beloved harp.

  “Here!” she cried. “I’m here!”

  Still clinging to the harp, she dragged herself toward the source of the voice and pressed her cheek against the damp earthen wall.

  He called out again, and she answered. Then she set aside her instrument and with her good hand, began clawing like a shrewmouse at the dirt.

  The task was difficult. The tunnel was sunk deep in the bowels of the earth, where the soil was more rock than mud. She scraped the pads of her fingers and broke off two of her nails.

  But he kept calling to her, encouraging her, and she continued to wear away at the wall till she heard digging on the other side and felt it give beneath her hand.

  Breathless with triumph, she scrabbled at the dirt, enlarging the gap inch by inch. Finally, with a ragged sob of victory, she reached through the makeshift burrow and clasped a miracle. A human hand.

  A fount of grateful tears squeezed from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She sobbed as warm, strong fingers closed around hers.

  He didn’t speak for a long while, only holding on to her. It felt as if he transferred his strength into her, sustaining her. She neither knew nor cared who he was. He was another human being in the darkness.

  The maiden’s hand felt small in Giric’s, warm and soft and helpless. He’d forgotten how pleasant the touch of a woman was.

  His own hand was coarse and callused from battle, no doubt abrasive to her delicate skin. Yet she made no attempt to withdraw. On the contrary, it seemed as if she might never release him.

  His throat thickened at the thought.

  She wouldn’t be clinging to him if she knew who he
was. That much was certain.

  But at the moment, she clutched his hand as if her life depended upon it. Or her sanity. From her wild sobbing and the sweaty trembling of her fingers, she seemed but a whisper away from complete madness.

  He called to her through the gap. “Are ye hurt?”

  “My ha—” she began, then shakily amended her reply. “I’ll be fine. Only please…get me out o’ here.”

  She said the last in a rush, and he heard fear lurking beneath her polite request. Her voice was light and sweet, yet never had chivalry called to him quite so powerfully.

  But his heart caved at her words.

  Get me out of here, she’d said.

  Shite—was she trapped as well? If so—if her prison proved half as impenetrable as his—all his knightly vows, all his heroic efforts, and all his noble intentions couldn’t save her.

  He bit out a silent oath. Saving her had been a foolish notion anyway. What made him think he could do that? His days of rescuing damsels in distress were long over. Now everything he touched he tainted with death.

  The lass’s fingers tensed subtly within his palm, as if she sensed his unease.

  “Ye have come to rescue me, haven’t ye?” she ventured.

  She sounded so innocent, so vulnerable. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

  “O’ course,” he lied, praying he wouldn’t live to regret his words.

  His mouth curved into a rueful grimace at the thought. He probably wouldn’t live at all. And even if he found a way out, he was the last man on earth she should count upon to save her.

  Still, he was obliged to try.

  It was difficult to extract his fingers from hers. She was very reluctant to let go of him. But giving her hand a final clasp of sustenance, he began scrabbling again at the soil. She scraped at her side of the hole as well until the gap slowly grew enough—inch by arduous inch—to allow him snug passage through.

  “Back away,” he told her. “I’ll come to ye.”

  His shoulders scraped against the rough stone as he squeezed through and foundered onto the rocky ground like a newborn foal.

  “Are ye all right?” she asked.

  The lass’s fingers brushed across him as she bent near, making accidental contact with his shoulder, his chest, perilously high on his thigh.

  His breath caught. When was the last time a woman had touched him there? His nostrils flared for an instant before her hand slipped away again.

  “I’m fine,” he croaked, shuffling into a crouch.

  The situation looked bleak. The air seemed just as dense and black on her side of the wall. Still, he felt compelled to search every inch for chinks in the armor of their prison.

  “Do ye have no torch?” she asked. The request was subtly colored by trepidation.

  “Nay.”

  Women always feared the dark. He wondered why. He found the dark to be a great friend—comforting and concealing.

  He explored the cavern slowly, meticulously. Alas, the walls yielded no promise. Those surfaces that weren’t as impenetrable as chainmail were plated in the rocky refuse of the deluge. He found no weaknesses.

  “Should we not go now, sir?”

  He winced at her question. How much should he tell her? He wondered how old the lass was. Too young to die, certainly. Never mind that that hadn’t stopped death from taking Giric’s four-year-old daughter.

  “Sir?” A hint of bewilderment touched her words.

  Giric knew he wouldn’t be able to shield her for long. He hoped she wouldn’t burst into hysterics when he divulged the truth of their situation.

  Carefully, he groped his way toward her, contacting first her long, soft hair. It hung loose, caressing his questing fingers like a fine silk veil. But by the rough fabric of her kirtle sleeve, he guessed the lass must be a commoner.

  He gripped her gently but firmly by the arms. She felt so small, so fragile in his grasp, like a dove. Lord, such a delicate woman might be easily broken. He ran his tongue uneasily across his lower lip.

  “It appears there is no…” he began, clearing his throat. “There is no easy way out.”

  She stiffened beneath his hands, but to her credit, made not a peep of despair. “I see.” Her voice was scarcely a whisper. A long silence ensued, violated only by her shuddering breath. Finally she found her voice. “Do ye think… Are we…are we goin’ to die?”

  Her words—so guileless, so brittle—cut him like the edge of a blade. A fierce longing to protect her welled up suddenly inside of him. How could he burden an innocent damsel with such an awful truth? How could he bring such suffering to her?

  In good faith, he could not.

  So he lied. “Nay,” he said, giving her arms a reassuring pat. “Never fear.” He prayed she couldn’t detect the forced levity of his voice. “I only said there was no easy way out.”

  Hilaire bit down on her lip. She wouldn’t cry. No matter what happened, she wouldn’t lose control. This man, whoever he was, was doing his best to comfort her, even if he was a poor liar. She refused to disappoint him by blubbering like a child. She’d be brave.

  Still, when she opened her eyes to all that smothering black, it was all she could do not to scream in horror. In her mind’s eye, the walls began to shrink, squeezing her lungs until she could draw no breath. She gasped in the stale air, wheezing faster and faster, as she fought the suffocating sensation.

  Not enough air.

  Not…enough…air.

  “Lass,” the man ordered, “easy now.”

  But she couldn’t stop. If she stopped breathing, she’d die. Like a drowning animal, she clawed at him in desperation, twining her fists in the folds of his tabard, hanging on for dear life.

  He gave her a wee shake. “Slow down. Or ye’ll faint. Breathe with me.”

  “I…I…can’t…” The sound was no more than a whispery squeak.

  No air.

  No. Air.

  She scrabbled at his chest.

  He tightened his grip on her, almost to the point of pain, shocking her from her panic, and barked the ferocious command inches from her face. “Breathe with me. In!”

  He rasped in a breath, and she battled to match his rhythm.

  “Out!”

  The breath shuddered out of her.

  “In!”

  She sucked in another draught of air.

  “Out!”

  She released her breath.

  “In!”

  They drew in a loud gasp together.

  “Out!”

  Her breath escaped on a long sigh.

  Then they were breathing together, deeply, calmly. Hilaire felt her lungs gradually expand to take in all the air she required. For the moment at least, her fears were eased.

  “Ye see?” he said, “There’s plenty of air.”

  Suddenly ashamed of her panic, she slowly untangled her fingers from the man’s tabard. “I’m sorry. I—”

  “Don’t be.” The man ran his thumb soothingly over her arm, as if to apologize for his harshness. For the first time, she noticed the soft clink of chainmail and felt the rigid contour of his hauberk beneath her hands. She wondered who he was.

  “Thank ye, Sir…?”

  He didn’t enlighten her. Who was he? Who was her savior?

  His hands were rough, the hands of a man accustomed to labor or warfare, as coarse and rugged as his voice. Yet, like his voice, they possessed gentleness and warmth. He smelled of earth and iron and leather. Though she couldn’t tell his age or his bearing, he exuded strength and comfort—enough to assuage her fears.

  When he didn’t reply, she asked, “Ye are a knight, aye?”

  “Aye,” he grunted.

  She wondered if she’d seen him before. Because of the growing alliance between Scotland and England, so many border knights had sworn fealty to her father in the last year, she honestly didn’t know them all by name. She vowed, however, if this man somehow managed to get her out of this hellish grave, she’d embroider his name on every ki
rtle she owned and remember him in her every prayer.

  The man released her arms, interrupting her thoughts. “What is this chamber?” he asked. “How did ye come here?”

  She flushed, forgetting her own curiosity. The tunnel was a mild embarrassment to her, having been constructed exclusively for the noble family’s use.

  “’Tis an underground passageway,” she admitted. “It leads from the keep to beyond the curtain wall.”

  “Ye were fleein’ the castle?” he asked.

  “Mmm.” Perhaps it was best not to elaborate.

  “Because o’ the attack?”

  “Aye.”

  “Were ye alone?”

  She bit the inside of her cheek. She didn’t know if Martha yet lived, but there was no reason to incriminate her. “Aye.”

  “Did anyone know ye were here?”

  She hesitated.

  “Will anyone miss ye?” he persisted.

  “Nay. That is, I mean, aye!” She could ill afford to test the man’s patience, but deception didn’t come easily to her.

  “I only want to know,” he said evenly, “if anyone will come lookin’ for ye.”

  “Oh.” If he’d brought a torch, he’d have seen her cheeks redden in chagrin. “Oh, aye, I suppose they will. At least, I hope so.”

  Surely Lord William would search for her. On the other hand, he was not especially pleased with her.

  Why would he be? Hilaire had brought ruin upon them all.

  When her father had first announced the name of her husband-to-be, she’d adamantly refused the marriage.

  But Lord William, long a commander of knights, would never allow his daughter to win in a contest of wills.

  So she’d tried to use reason. She’d assured him she would accept the next husband the king offered.

  William had sternly warned her he was not about to be manipulated.

  By the time her bridegroom arrived, Hilaire was reduced to begging and pleading with her father to continue resisting the siege so she could escape.

  In the end, he’d buckled in the face of her copious tears. But it had been a gruff farewell he’d bid her, replete with reminders of the king’s wrath he invoked with his actions and the great risk he invited in countering the forces of The Dire Dragan.