The Storming Read online

  She repeated her question. “How did ye come to be…under the wall?” She awaited his answer with bated breath.

  He cleared his throat, but her mind raced ahead of his reply.

  Of course.

  He wasn’t one of her father’s men.

  He’d come from outside the castle which could only mean…

  Her breath rasped against her ribs, and her words sounded hollow in her ears. “Ye…ye were sappin’ the castle, weren’t ye?”

  His lack of a response damned him.

  Betrayal tripped bitterly on her tongue, and her words came out on a thin wisp of breath. “God’s blood—ye don’t fight for my father at all. Ye fight for him. Ye fight for The Dire Dragan.”

  Chapter 4

  Hilaire staggered backward, groping behind her with her good hand. She had to get away, get away from him before he…

  “Fear not, lass. I—”

  “Nay,” she warned him, blocking blindly before her with her bandaged hand. “Stay back.”

  She heard him step toward her, and fright made her throat go dry. Two threats menaced her now—the darkness and her enemy—and she was cornered between them.

  “Lass—”

  “Get away from me.”

  “I promise ye—” He took another pace forward.

  “Nay!” she cried. Her heart hammered against her ribs as the two evils closed in, one promising to swallow her, the other promising…

  “I won’t harm ye.”

  The sharp ledge pricked her back as she retreated to the limits of her prison. “Nay,” she hissed, shrinking back against the wall like a snake ready to strike.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he assured her, continuing his stealthy advance.

  All at once, he grabbed her wrist.

  She gasped, struggling wildly in his steely grip.

  “Lass,” he said, tightening his hold, “trust me.”

  “Let me go,” she breathed, twisting her fingers and trying to press him away with her free forearm.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Then leave me here,” she bargained. Fear pitched her voice high, and she raced over the words. “Go on without me. Tell him I’ve died. I’ll pay ye. I’ll pay ye well.”

  “I made ye a vow.”

  “Aye, ye vowed to see me safe.” Lord, he was strong as a bull. Why could she not pry free? “Yet ye’ll hand me over to him. Ye’ll give me to The Dire Dragan.”

  “Lass, I gave ye my word—”

  “The word of an enemy?” Her voice was brittle.

  “My word as a knight. I vow I will not force ye to anythin’ against your will.”

  “But ye’re sworn to him. Ye’re beholden to that…that beast!”

  He released her so abruptly she nearly tumbled backward. She heard his deep sigh as he stepped away from her.

  She was free. He’d let her go. She waited for a wave of relief to wash over her.

  It never came. He’d loosed her, aye, but she still languished in the dark, trapped and terrified. And now she’d alienated her sole source of comfort. She’d doused her only light against the darkness.

  Catching her breath, she wrapped her arms about her. Empty and cool, they were little consolation. She sought and found her harp and hugged it fiercely. But it, too, gave her no ease. And as she tried in vain to re-create the comfort Sir Claw had offered her, the shadows of the night crept closer and closer.

  He didn’t seem to notice them. He’d begun to grapple again with the wall, gouging away steadily. But she felt their presence—tangible, menacing. She felt the weight of them, pressing in on her, feeding on her fear. Her heart fluttered, and her breathing grew shallow.

  As the dark wraiths advanced with their ebony cloaks to smother her, Sir Claw’s digging grew distant, muffled, until the sound echoed curiously like the scratching of a rat in a hollow log. The edges of reality blurred into watery waves of black, then disappeared altogether.

  She’d fainted. Or died. She wasn’t certain which.

  When she returned to awareness, the world was tipped askew. She lay flat on her back. Swirls of gray and silver, coal and pewter danced on an ethereal current before her eyes.

  “Lass!” His whisper was urgent, anxious.

  She groaned as a fierce throbbing in her head suddenly commanded her attention. Nay, she wasn’t dead. Unless this was the punishment of hell.

  He smacked her cheeks lightly, clapping her face with his rough palms until annoyance shredded the last of the silvery cobwebs from her eyes and she dizzily sat up.

  “Are ye all right?” he asked, his voice tense.

  “I will be if ye’ll cease beatin’ me,” she bit out.

  Her complaint evidently spurred great relief in him, for he let out a shuddering sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his being.

  “I feared…” he began.

  She waited, breathless. She knew what he feared. He’d feared she was dead. She prayed he wouldn’t say it.

  “I feared ye’d steal all the air with your snorin’,” he said. His words, so unexpected, so knavish, took a moment to register.

  “Snorin’!” she cried. “I don’t…”

  She shoved in his general direction and successfully toppled him. But the sweetness of her triumph was nothing compared to the sweetness of his laughter reverberating in the cave. It was a low rumble, deep and rich, like well-ripened mead. And though he offered only a sip of it, she curiously longed to taste more.

  She had to remind herself that he was the enemy. Sir Claw would surely turn her over to The Dire Dragan as soon as they were free.

  If they ever got free.

  She swallowed at the sobering thought.

  Yet, until they escaped, they were jailed in this prison together, helpless, fighting for the same liberty. For the moment he seemed civil enough. He wouldn’t harm her. He had no cause to harm her. At least not yet.

  And, she realized with a sudden trip of her heart, Sir Claw was not unpleasant, for a foe. Actually, he was rather congenial, warm, and chivalrous…except for that remark about her snoring. And even that brought a smile to her lips. The man was obviously no lack-wit.

  Aye, she thought, Sir Claw had given her comfort and brought a twinkle to her eye. He hadn’t mocked her for weeping or fainting, but had gallantly offered her what comfort he could.

  How could she despise him?

  She could not. They were allies waging a war against a common enemy. So she’d fight beside him.

  For now.

  Giric was shaking like a newborn pup. It was absurd. Aye, for one terrible moment, he’d thought Hilaire was dead. The dull thud as she hit the ground and her awful stillness when he flung himself to her side had driven his heart up into his throat, where it seemed to lodge until he heard her breathe again.

  But they were dying anyway. What did it matter if she fainted now? Sleep might spare her the unbearable thirst and lethal lethargy surely to come.

  Yet what he’d almost said to her, what he’d almost admitted aloud was not that he’d feared she was dead.

  It was that he feared she’d left him.

  As hardened as he should be to his own curse, to his own failings, he couldn’t bear to lose another woman. Damn the Fates—if he did nothing else before he died, he’d at least redeem his soul by fulfilling this final vow. If it wracked his body and broke his spirit, he would see her out of this hell.

  With renewed vigor, he attacked the wall, pounding and scraping as if demons chased him. To his astonishment, in a moment Hilaire joined the battle, fighting aggressively beside him. Soon the sounds of their frayed breathing filled the cave, punctuated by blows of rock on rock and grunts of exertion.

  They might have gone on silently, wrapped up in their own thoughts, digging away until they either broke through to freedom or ran out of air. But an overwhelming need to enlighten Hilaire gnawed at Giric like a rat. For pride or honor, he simply couldn’t let her believe what she believed about her betrothed.

  “He
’s not a beast,” he murmured between blows, before he had the chance to think better of it.

  “What?” she said, panting. “What did ye say?”

  “The Dragan.” He continued to dig. “He’s only a man. He wouldn’t harm ye.”

  She sniffed. “He drowned his first wife and child.”

  The image came to him unbidden—his darling Mary and their four-year-old daughter, Katie, frolicking upon the daisy-strewn lap of a May meadow. Katie had been the light of his life, Mary the first woman he’d ever loved. And the last.

  That year, the river had run high, swollen by spring rains till it swept and whirled toward the sea with delirious speed. The grasses and trees had grown green and lush on the bounty.

  Wee Katie had called him a big black bear. He’d growled and stomped after the giggling pair—his wife and his daughter—and they’d dashed off to hide among the thick hedge and saplings along the river’s edge.

  That had been his last happy memory with them.

  In the next painful moments, the two of them, his precious ladies, simply disappeared.

  A crofter found them hours later, pulled them from the river. By then their faces were as pale and lifeless as linen. Their long hair, bedecked with bits of twigs and leaves and weeds, was wrapped around their drenched bodies like fishing net.

  Giric’s voice grew husky with the memory. “They were drowned. But not by his hand. ’Twas an accident. He tried to save them. He did everything he could to…” To his horror, a wretched sob stuck in his throat. He swallowed it down like tough venison. “He tried to save them.”

  Hilaire made no reply. He wondered if she believed him. He wondered if he believed himself.

  He’d gone over the events a thousand times in his head. He’d chided himself for chasing them that day, for letting them out of his sight, even for allowing them out of doors. He’d searched wildly for them afterward, diving into the icy water time and time again, bellowing their names till his voice grew hoarse and he could call them no longer.

  Yet he was still racked with the harrowing obsession that he could have done more.

  “Ye seem to know The Dragan well,” she said quietly.

  “Nay. I’ve only heard what others say, those who knew him…before.”

  “Before?”

  He thought of the lad he’d once been, and an ache filled his throat, like the profound longing for a departed loved one. He’d been happy once, full of life, eager and ambitious and brimming with young dreams. He’d made men laugh and maidens sigh. Now he only inspired fear.

  “Before…he was cursed,” he grumbled.

  He wrenched a stone from its earthen bed. There was no point in dwelling on the past, on dreams that were long dead.

  Hilaire bit her lip. Somehow she’d offended Sir Claw. She could tell by the violence with which he tossed bits of stone aside. He obviously didn’t wish to talk ill of his overlord. He clearly bore some loyalty for his beastly master. Perhaps he was irritated with her for threatening to break her betrothal. Or perhaps he was only angry with her for talking when she should be digging.

  She frowned. She was doing her best, considering the wall was as hard as marble and she could only dig with one hand. As for squirming out of marriage, she supposed it was not very worthy of her. But contrary to what Sir Claw believed, there must be a kernel of truth in the gruesome tales about The Dire Dragan, and she had no intention of discovering it at her own peril.

  So she redoubled her efforts, using a pointed rock to chip away at the soil. And she kept quiet, neither wishing to disturb her rescuer nor draw undue attention to her own shortcomings.

  They worked side by side for what seemed like an hour, the only sounds their driven breathing, the dull thud of rock on earth, and the low rustle of his chainmail.

  Earlier she’d shivered in the passageway. Now she was drenched in sweat. Salty drops rolled down her brow and stung her eyes, and her bandaged hand throbbed in pain.

  The air felt thick, and yet it was hard to draw enough of it into her lungs. She wondered what it felt like to suffocate. She was frightened. She didn’t want to die.

  Tears brimmed in her eyes again. She refused to shed them. After all, the man already considered her a coward for running from her betrothed. She’d be damned if she’d let him believe she was a spineless, weeping milksop.

  “Ye need to rest,” he said, startling her.

  “Nay, I’ll be…” Her voice caught.

  He wrapped his fingers around her forearm and gently pulled her away from the wall.

  “Ye need to rest,” he repeated. “Besides, ’twill save the air.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut tightly. It was as she feared. Already they were running out of air. Already they were dying. She reined in her panic only by force of sheer will. And still a great sobbing gasp escaped her.

  Suddenly both of her arms were clasped in his hands, and she could feel the weight of his blind gaze upon her.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, cursing her rogue tears.

  He bit out a quiet oath. Then to her astonishment, his hand crooked around the back of her neck, and he pulled her to his chest. The manly scent of him filled her nose as he held her against his hauberk. Yet his arms—his enemy arms—lent her strange comfort.

  He wasted no breath in chiding her, nor did he ply her with words of solace. He only held her, stroking her hair with one hand while she buried her sobs against his wide chest.

  She should have felt shame, she supposed, blubbering her salty tears all over the poor man’s armor. Yet he gallantly made no mention of it.

  Indeed, she felt so calmed by his embrace—the strength of his body, the gentleness of his hand, the warmth of his ragged breath upon her face—that she forgot for a short while that he was her foe.

  Giric felt the stone rampart surrounding his heart shudder as the lass nestled closer to him.

  As if she relied upon him.

  As if she belonged there.

  What had made him reach for her, he didn’t know. It was no concern of his if she wept. She’d likely weep a loch’s worth of tears before the ordeal was over.

  Yet taking her in his arms had seemed the right thing to do.

  Now he was certain it was a mistake. She brought back too many memories, too much pain. Her soft sobbing snagged at his heart. The sweet scent of her hair insinuated its way into his soul. And the feel of her body against his—warm, innocent, trusting—was almost more than he could bear.

  How long had it been since someone—anyone—had given him such trust, such belief?

  Oh aye, his men believed in him. They believed The Dire Dragan was a fierce and fearless warrior. They wagered daily on that belief with their lives.

  But no one had trusted him, Giric, for a long time.

  Nor should they, he thought bitterly. No woman should welcome his cursed embrace, and if Hilaire knew what was good for her…

  Yet she felt so perfect in his arms. For one greedy instant he closed his eyes and imagined she was his, all of her—her silken tresses, her soft voice, her pliant body. The sweet vision nearly crumbled the bastion of his heart.

  And then he let her go.

  If by chance her soft moan was one of protest, he didn’t wish to know. He set her gently aside.

  “Tell me…” he croaked, barely able to speak across the empty space her sudden absence created. “Tell me about your family.” If he kept her talking, she’d be less likely to dwell on the troubles at hand. And perhaps her chatter would distract him from his own foolish imaginings.

  “My family?” Her whisper was rough, groggy, as if she’d just awakened. He didn’t want to think of the sensual image it conjured.

  “Aye,” he said, turning again to delve at the wall and trying to lighten his tone as he spoke over his shoulder. “What is your father like when he’s not a commander o’ men?”

  “He is a good man,” she said, “honest and fair. Just, but very firm.”

  “Ah. But I’d wager ye have hi
m suppin’ from your fingers.”

  “Sometimes.” Her low giggle surprised him. “How could ye tell?”

  “I had a daughter once.”

  “Ye said ye had no family.”

  “She…died, along with her mother.”

  She gave a wee gasp. “How awful for ye.”

  “’Twas a long time ago.” Not long enough to erase the pain in his voice.

  “I lost my mother when I was a child,” she told him. “She fell ill. I remember listenin’ to her, night after night, coughin’ and coughin’. ’Twas a horrible sound.”

  Giric remembered that sound. Four years had passed, but he could still recall his second wife’s wheezing breaths as she struggled to find air in the fluid drowning her. “But not so horrible as the night it ceased.”

  “Aye. I blamed myself. For years afterward I thought I’d caused her death by prayin’ she’d stop coughin’.”

  Her words struck a familiar and dissonant chord in him. He, too, had prayed for an end to Elaine’s suffering.

  “Did ye ever blame yourself for her death?” Hilaire asked, startling him with her candor.

  “Nay,” he lied. “The physicians did all they could—bled her, gave her poultices to draw out the sickness.” He blew out a tired breath. “I even summoned a healer the chaplain claimed was a handmaiden o’ the devil.”

  “Ye must have loved her well,” Hilaire whispered.

  “I…cared for her.” He hadn’t dared to love Elaine, not after losing his first wife. She’d simply been the king’s choice, a political alliance. Though he’d treated her with respect, he’d stubbornly closed his heart to her.

  Until she’d taken ill. Then, forced to watch her face an agonizing death with courage—her sweetness unwavering, her faith undimmed—he grew to care for her deeply. Which was the cruelest blow of all. For when she finally succumbed, it was as if a piece of him had been torn away.

  Worse, while he knelt, stunned with grief, beside her fresh grave, vicious tongues began to wag. And before long, the rumor grew legs.

  The Dire Dragan had struck once more. He must have poisoned his wife.