His Woman (Zebra Historical Romance) Read online

  Then Lord Monceaux would make the prudent decision. She wanted to believe that as King Edward's adviser to the Scots, he would not hang a clansman when incontestable evidence of his innocence existed.

  As her only hope, she had to try.

  Isabel levelled her gaze on Frasyer. "I will tell you naught."

  Disgust soured his face. "Then rot where you belong." Frasyer dragged her to her feet and shoved Isabel into a guard's arms. "Lock her in the dungeon."

  "The dungeon!" Horrified, she fought to break free. She'd expected to be left guarded in her chamber as was common for gentry-held captives, not locked within the vile confines Frasyer had constructed below ground. To her knowledge, no one had ever escaped from there.

  At least not alive.

  "Frasyer!" Isabel pleaded.

  He didn't turn or stop to listen as he headed outside. The clatter of hooves upon dirt and rock sounded as Frasyer, leading his men, rode past.

  "Come." The guard dragged her toward the door.

  Frantic, she glanced toward her brother. "Symon!" She tried to jerk free of the knight's grip. He tightened his hold and hauled her outside.

  As the fading shards of sunset greeted her, brilliant in their red- gold streaks across the sky, she caught one last glimpse of her brother's limp form.

  A deep keening tore from her soul. Symon's blood stained the earthen floor in a crimson puddle. In his left hand, sprawled open, lay the delicate embroidery of Wallace's arms she'd gifted him with but moments before.

  Leaning against the stone wall, Duncan MacGruder stared at Alys haloed in the red-gold of the waning sunset. Her full mouth begged to be kissed, but her eyes were ripe with hesitation.

  His body hardened nonetheless. Both knew why he was here. He'd tasted her charms many times before. Her ploy as an innocent was a game they both enjoyed.

  A cloud slid over the fading sunlight, casting the woman in shadows. He blinked as her eyes grew more intense, her hair darkening to the spellbinding shade of aged whisky.

  Isabel.

  His breath caught in his throat at the wash of betrayal and longing her image evoked.

  Sunlight spilled free as the cloud moved past and the image faded.

  Be damned. Why had he thought of Isabel now? The very memory of her threatened to destroy his mood. Would he ever forget her? In an agile move, he leaped to the ground before Alys. Aye, he'd bloody well erase every trace of Isabel from his body, mind, and soul.

  "Just one kiss?" He allowed his smile to deepen into a dimpled curve.

  "Me mum is expecting me." Alys made no move to leave.

  "I will not keep you, but my heart would be breaking without a taste of your lips." He placed his hand over his heart. "You would not leave a man begging you for a wee kiss, would you now, lass?"

  She hesitated a playful moment. "One then."

  With his body thrumming with anticipation, he nuzzled her neck, savouring the silky skin of her throat. She shuddered, and he slid his hand up to slowly caress the back of her neck.

  "Duncan?"

  He nibbled his way along her jaw. "Aye?"

  "I thought you were going to kiss me?"

  "I am getting to that." When she wrapped her hands around his neck and drew him closer, he backed her farther into the cool shadows. He edged her against the stone wall until he could press the entire length of his body against hers.

  At her moan, he cupped the swells of her breasts. Blessed simplicity. A soft, warm body to lose himself in without the complications of love.

  Or betrayal.

  Hoof beats pounded in the distance.

  He pulled away and whirled toward the sound. A rider was heading straight toward them. Friend or foe? With the English scouring the countryside for Wallace or any rebel supporters, one could never tell.

  "Duncan?"

  He glanced at Alys, the desire hazing her eyes made him curse the interruption more. Still, he had no choice.

  "Be off with you now."

  A pout formed on her lips. "But I thought—"

  "I will be returning to your house later tonight. We will be finishing."

  The echo of hoof beats increased.

  A frown touched Alys's forehead as she glanced toward the incoming rider. She faced Duncan. "I would be liking that." With a blush on her cheeks, she slipped around the stone wall and disappeared.

  At the thud of hooves upon tufts of grass, with his body still raging its demand, Duncan glared at the incoming rider. He curled his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  The lone man was slumped in the saddle. As he drew closer to Duncan, recognition dawned.

  Symon?

  He bolted toward his friend.

  The horse cantered without guidance, its reins loose over the saddle and tossed about in the wind.

  A dark red line stained Symon's left side.

  Wild-eyed, the horse shied away at Duncan's approach.

  "Steady there, lad." He snagged the bridle, the scent of blood strong. "Symon?"

  His friend groaned and fell forward.

  Duncan caught Symon and laid him on the ground as gendy as possible. By God, the wound in his left side was an ugly, angry gash. It would take a needle and thread and a miracle to heal.

  Why wasn't he hidden with Wallace in the bogs west of Selkirk Forest? What had occurred for Symon to risk exposing himself? Duncan tore a strip off his tunic and pressed it to Symon's side. "What has happened?"

  Symon's eyes flickered open. "Frasyer."

  Though whispered, the name exploded in Duncan's mind like oil tossed in a fire too hot. "The bastard. I will—"

  Symon coughed and blood trickled from his mouth. "Save Isabel."

  Isabel? His heart kicked for an entirely different reason. She was in danger? "Where is she?"

  A shudder racked his friend's body. "Frasyer has locked her in his dungeon." He worked for his next words. "Get her out."

  "I will," he said between clenched teeth, "after I murder him with my bare hands."

  "No. With your ties to Wallace, Frasyer would gladly use any excuse to kill you. You must sneak in." Symon grasped Duncan's tunic, his body trembling with visible effort. The despair in Symon eyes chilled Duncan's blood further. "Promise me you will see her

  free."

  He'd loved Isabel, and she'd betrayed him. Everything in him screamed to keep his distance from a woman who'd seemed so pure yet was poison to his soul.

  "You need a healer," Duncan said.

  Symon's breathing faltered. His hands fell limp to his sides. "It is too late for me."

  'Twas true. His friend's voice had eroded to a harsh whisper, his skin decaying to a chalky sheen. "Symon—"

  "Save my sister."

  Duncan's heart tore apart. He loved this man like a brother and despised Symon's sister like Satan's curse.

  Symon's gaze burned into him with fury. "Your vow!"

  Duncan curled his hand into a fist and damned the words. Damned himself. He could do no less for a friend. "I swear it."

  A flicker of peace touched Symon's face. "Give her this." His hand trembled as he slid a finely woven cloth stitched with Wallace's arms into Duncan's hand. "Tell Isabel.. .tell her I love her." He exhaled sharply. On a ragged breath, Symon sagged back, lifeless.

  Chapter 2

  With his body wedged against the cold stone walls of Moncreiffe Castle's latrine shaft, Duncan's muscles screamed their outrage. Bracing his boot in another slippery crevice, he pushed upward. With each step, he cursed the woman he'd come to rescue.

  "You had better be appreciating this," he muttered to himself. He tugged the cloth secured around his nose tighter, then reached for his next hold. As if Isabel would. He needed wealth and status before she'd grant him her favor.

  Such as she had done with Frasyer.

  The thought curdled in his gut with the impact of the stench surrounding him.

  The worn, worsted wool sack hanging from Duncan's shoulder snagged on a rough stone as he pulled himself up. He grumbled a
curse under his breath as he untangled the bag holding the disguise for himself and Isabel.

  Duncan wrapped his fingers tightly around the next stone. "And what did bedding an earl buy ye, lass?" His muscles bunched as he inched up. "The dungeon. And it is the why of it I will be learning when I reach you."

  Above him, the dim flicker of light sifted through the portal. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. The insult of having to scale the latrine chute at dusk was humbling. With Frasyer's castle well guarded and after two attempts to sneak in having failed after his solemn vow to Symon two days past, Duncan had been left no choice but to slip inside using this dank entry.

  As he stretched for the next indent, his fingers slid against the slimy surface. With a scowl, he wiped his hands on the thin cloth he'd wrapped around his waist to protect his trews. The stench was worse than fouled bog moss.

  In the waning light, he searched for another hold. As much as he disliked Isabel, it would bring him no pleasure to inform her of her brother's death. His chest squeezed with a suffocating ache as he remembered his friend. At least he'd seen Symon properly buried.

  So where was Symon's father, Lord Caelin? Of the many people Duncan had asked, no one seemed to know. He'd keep inquiring until he found him. As a close family friend, it was his duty to inform Symon's father of his son's death.

  At the top of the latrine chute, he peered through the opening. A single torch lit the barren chamber. Mould clung on the lower walls.

  Rats squealed as they shot past, stirring dust motes. In the far corner near a poorly crafted bowl lay a pile of old rags. He scrunched his nose. The stench within rivalled that which clung to his garments.

  "At least it is empty." With a grimace, Duncan squeezed through the hand-chiselled opening.

  Men's voices echoed outside the door.

  "Blast it." He hauled the bag up and dropped it to his side. Turning toward the door, he withdrew his sword.

  Seconds passed.

  Nearby, water dripped from a crack in the ceiling. Wind from the loch tunneled up the opening with an unsettling moan. Thankfully, the voices faded.

  Relaxing, he secured his sword, tore off the protective cloth from his nose and garb and used both to wipe away any evidence from his climb.

  Disgusted when he did no more than spread the brownish stains, he threw the soiled linen on top of the corner pile where it blended in. If his clothes reeked of dung, so be it. Without water to aid his efforts, he'd done all he could.

  He tugged the priest's robe from the sack and shook his head at himself. "It is a sad day, lad, when you dress as a man of God for

  your enemy's mistress." But he'd made his promise—a promise he would keep before washing his hands of Isabel and her smouldering eyes and lying tongue once and for all.

  He donned the garb, drew up the hood to cover his head, and headed down the corridor. At the entry to the stairs, voices echoed from below.

  Duncan hurried down the spiral steps. As he moved into the shadows untouched by torchlight, two knights rounded the corner.

  Nerves slammed home and Duncan slipped his hand inside his robe, clasping his hidden dagger as a precaution.

  "Father," they greeted in unison.

  He nodded. With his free hand, he made the sign of the cross. The knights moved aside in deference, and Duncan walked past, his grip easing on his dagger. He'd descended but a few steps when one of the knights called back.

  "Father?"

  Duncan halted, his senses on alert. Slowly, he turned to face them. "My son?"

  One knight murmured something to the other, who then continued up the stairs. Once the other man had disappeared from view, the knight walked down and paused a foot away.

  Relief edged through Duncan. If trouble started, at least the odds were even.

  "It is about a lass," the knight said.

  Duncan nodded, his grip upon his dagger firm. "We can speak of this in the chapel on the morrow if it serves you best." And by morning, he would be several leagues away with Isabel in tow.

  The knight cleared his throat. "If you have time, Father, I would like to speak with you now. It will take but a trice."

  "Of course." As if he had a choice. Trussed up as a man of God, it might raise suspicion if he turned the knight away.

  A gust down the turret sent torchlight into a wild dance, exposing the man's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "I have bedded two sisters and.. .they have each found out about the other." Guilt clung to his voice. "I am not sure what I should do? Or how to explain?"

  Duncan almost laughed. Only a fool would bed sisters individually. Unless he was glib of tongue. Then he would bed them both at the same time.

  "Father?"

  He cleared his throat. "It is a serious sin you have committed. One not to be taken lightly."

  The knight bowed his head with chagrin. "Aye. And that is why I have come. For my penance."

  "You will be saying ten Our Father's and sweeping the chapel floors for the next fortnight," Duncan commanded. "The prayers will cleanse your soul of the sin and your labour will rid the church of the aged rushes."

  "Thank you, Father."

  Duncan made the sign of the cross. "Go then."

  With a humble nod, the knight started to turn away, then paused. He sniffed. "Do you smell something foul?"

  "Foul?" Duncan cursed silently, aware the hideous odour could only be a result of his climb from Hades. "Aye, it would be my cloak. One of the blasted dogs mistook it for a post and relieved himself on it." He shook his head with disgust. "I have aired it outside for the past three nights and still it reeks to the heavens."

  The knight shrugged. "I have said myself the beasts should stay outside once the meals are over, but Lord Frasyer insists they remain within the keep."

  "He is a stubborn man," Duncan agreed, "but one whom I serve through our Lord's guidance." He was surprised God didn't strike him down for that blatant lie. It'd take more than the Lord to achieve Duncan's forgiveness or acceptance for Frasyer luring Isabel away from him.

  Or of Frasyer murdering Symon.

  "Bless you, Father." The knight departed.

  Duncan started down the steps. As he passed an arrow slit, he noted the sun had set and blackness was eroding the last fragments of the day. He had to hurry.

  In the great hall, he avoided several more requests for his time with excuses of being needed at the chapel posthaste. At the dungeon's entrance, Duncan slipped past a guard busy charming a wench for a romp. With the caste secured for the night, the sentry had obviously dismissed any possible threat.

  The trickle of water echoed from below as Duncan made his way down the steps Frasyer had shown him years ago, a time when they were friends. A lone torch impaled at the top of the steps illuminated the tufts of moss clinging in patches on the rough stone wall, lined with spider webs.

  With quiet steps, Duncan rounded the last bend, only to collide with the ripe scent of the poorly kept cells. "God in heaven." Isabel lived in this? Had Symon known, he would have urged Duncan to kill Frasyer outright.

  At the first door, he squinted through the tiny peephole.

  Empty.

  A tormented groan, he recognized as male, echoed from inside the next cell. Despite his assurance that Isabel meant nothing to him, his blood iced. Please, God, let Isabel have been spared such brutality.

  Duncan moved on. Meagre rays of light filtered through the small, narrowed windows. He couldn't make out if a prisoner was inside. After listening for several seconds, he concluded it was empty.

  Frustrated, he hurried down the corridor. If possible, the stench grew worse. He almost heaved. Aye, he and his brothers had taken prisoners, a casualty of battle, but they'd ensured the men were treated with basic decency. This filth, that of rotting food and unkempt cells, wasn't fit for a maggot.

  Whatever Isabel had done to upset Frasyer, she didn't deserve this.

  "Where are you, lass?" His whisper melded with the echo of men's groans. Was Isabel hurt? Sick? Lyi
ng helpless and unable to yell for help?

  If he didn't find her soon, with daylight fading, he might never be able to. With his mind steeped in emotions he'd rather not feel, Duncan moved to the next cell.

  He peered inside. Wisps of the waning light embraced the profile of a woman standing near a pathetically small window. It outlined her slender body, the soft curve of her jaw, the paleness of her cheeks, and the lush whisky-coloured tresses that settled over her shoulders like dying embers.

  Isabel.

  The years peeled away. Her laughter rushed over him, deep and warm. How her fingers had trembled as they'd skimmed across his chest with a nervous touch, and the need that had exploded between them as he'd stolen his first kiss.

  Duncan smothered memories of their past, angry he could still be moved so deeply when it came to her. He removed the bar that bolted the thick wooden door and shoved it open.

  Torchlight spilled into the dank chamber.

  At the scrape of metal against wood, Isabel turned, her amber eyes wide and unsure. She frowned. "Father?"

  Duncan glanced behind him, half expecting to see a priest. He muttered a curse and shoved back his hood. "Nay."

  Isabel paled. "Duncan?"

  "Quiet, lass." He kept his voice soft. "The guards will be making their rounds soon, and you will be giving us both away." With one last glance toward the steps, he jumped into the cell and landed on the stiff bed of stale straw. "Hush."

  "But—

  Duncan stepped forward and caught her arms.

  A mistake.

  He was close. Too close. The moment was too familiar, as if no time had passed. As if he could blink and make the nightmare of the last three years disappear.

  Her full lips had parted in surprise, but wrapped within the soft luminescence of moonlight, all he could think of was her taste. Of how she had once responded to his touch. Except he'd never claimed what was rightfully his—that she'd given freely to his enemy. Nay, even worse, a false friend, as Frasyer had been during their youth.