Adrienne Basso (34 page)

She studied him then, stroking his hair, committing to memory every angle of his features, every line of his handsome face. If God was merciful, she would see him again. And if not . . .

Nay, that did not bear thinking. She would savor these final moments with joy in her heart, basking in the richness and wonder of Ewan’s love.

Time passed. Ewan slept and Grace remained at his side until the very last moment. Then she reluctantly pulled herself from the bed. With shaking fingers, she dressed in her plainest gown, thankful she owned at least one garment that laced up the front. She covered her hair with a dark veil, fearing a white one might be more easily seen, and fastened her cloak around her shoulders.

She turned her back on the bed, yet unable to resist, Grace risked a final glance at her beloved before pinching out the candles. Her breath hitched with emotion and unshed tears, but she refused to cry.

Love required sacrifice and sometimes that included making the difficult, unthinkable choice. Ewan had not hesitated to place his own life above hers, because he loved her. She owed him the same dedication.

Grace muttered a short prayer for him as she hurried out of the chamber, pulling the door closed behind her. Roderick’s siege had brought far more than the usual number of people inside the keep. The great hall was near bursting with sleeping folk, but Grace slipped past them all. She hurried across the bailey, startling when she heard a sharp bang.

At the sound, Grace felt her heartbeat quicken. She twirled, pressing herself against the wall and forcing herself to count slowly to fifty before taking another step. Her fingers ached from being held so tightly fisted, but the pain kept her mind alert.

Holding her breath, she listened intently. Hearing nothing but the usual sounds of the night, Grace walked forward. As she reached the stables, Lady Moira stepped from the shadows. Though she was expecting her, the movement startled Grace and she nearly screamed.

“Quiet!” Lady Moira hissed. “Or ye’ll ruin all.”

Grace felt the edge of panic close her throat. She swallowed hard and tried to speak. “Will I be making this journey alone?”

When Lady Moira had proposed this daring plan, she had said she would try to find an escort for Grace. But she had not guaranteed that she would be successful.

“Garrett will accompany ye. He’s just a lad, but he knows the roads better than most and feels confident he can eventually find his way to McKenna land.”

Grace nodded, though the words were hardly encouraging. “How will we get past the gate?”

“Leave that to me,” Moira whispered. She fumbled in the pocket of her gown, brought out a small leather purse, and pressed it into Grace’s hands. “There’s some coin and a brooch inside. It will help pay yer way, at least fer a time.”

“Pay my way?”

Moira snorted. “If ye keep to the foothills, ye’ve a fair chance of escaping. But if ye are caught, ye might be able to bribe yer way to freedom. I dinnae believe that all of Roderick’s men are unquestionably loyal to him.”

“Which way should we head?”

Moira hunched her shoulders. “North would be safer, but it is a wild and untamed land. Go west and then south. If ye are pursued, they will expect ye to be going to yer brother, so ye must take a different path. Cross into England if ye must, then find a convent and seek sanctuary. Tell no one of yer true identity.”

“What will ye say to Ewan?”

“Nothing. He’ll not be pleased to find that ye have fled from the keep. I shall be as shocked and horrified as all the others when they discover that ye are missing.”

The answer made sense and yet Grace detected something else in Lady Moira’s voice, a speck of warmth, a tinge of regret. Was that possible? “I must ask, milady, are ye doing this only fer Ewan’s sake?”

Moira huffed. “Are ye a witch?”

Grace gasped. “What?”

“Ye heard me. Are ye a witch?”

“No!” Grace cried adamantly.

Moira nodded. “Then ye dinnae deserve to be burned alive.”

It was hardly a declaration of affection, yet for some odd reason the pressure in Grace’s chest seemed to ease. With Lady Moira’s assistance, Grace mounted the mare. She leaned low over the animal’s neck, tucking her veil close to her face.

Lady Moira led the horse away from the stable and the tension once again began to creep through Grace’s body. They had gone but a few feet when the snap of a twig made both women jump. Heart pounding at a frantic pace, Grace turned to find Ewan standing behind them, a lit torch in one hand.

He loomed over his mother, his eyes as hard as the ground he stood upon. Then he glared at Grace.

“And just where do ye think ye are going on this fine night, my dearest wife?”

There was a gasp, followed quickly by a muttered curse. The gasp was from Grace, the curse from his mother. How fitting. Though the light was dim, Ewan could see that both women had gone pale.

Lady Moira pushed herself forward. “’Tis best this way, Ewan. We all know it.”

“Is that so, Mother? Ye send my wife off to her death and ye believe that it is fer the best?”

His mother actually shrank beneath the tone he used, but his rage was too focused for him to care.

“Better my death than yers, Ewan,” Grace interjected, her voice quivering with emotion.

“Not while my heart still beats.” Ewan ground his teeth and let loose several choice curses. “Now get down off that horse.”

Head bowed, Grace obeyed. The moment her feet touched the ground, Ewan hooked her upper arm and dragged her toward him.

“I wasnae going to Roderick’s camp,” she said quietly. “I was escaping to the south, hoping to make my way to Brian’s castle.”

“Escaping? A woman alone? Ye would have been attacked within the hour.”

Grace huffed out a long breath. “Garrett was to be my guide and escort. I wasnae traveling alone.”

“A lad of fourteen and a woman.” Ewan placed his hand on his hip, bowed his head and shook it. “How were ye going to avoid Roderick’s soldiers?”

“We planned to circle around the encampment.”

Ewan barely suppressed a snort of annoyance. “Making yerselves a prime target fer any hungry animal prowling fer a meal.”

But Grace did not back down. “I’ve no time to placate yer manly pride, Ewan. We both know that my brother is the only man powerful enough to save me. And if I am gone from here, then all of ye will be safe.”

It rankled that her words were true. The McKenna could offer her greater protection. Ewan would have sent Grace there himself, if he believed she could arrive without coming to great harm. But the very idea was fraught with danger.

“Ye put us all at great risk with this stunt, Grace,” Ewan said. “Roderick would not have simply packed up his soldiers and left if I told him ye were gone from the keep. Nay, he would have pounded our walls and attacked, showing no mercy, giving no quarter. Once he had destroyed us, he would have left in pursuit of ye.”

Her face registered surprise and then dismay. “Forgive me, Ewan. I dinnae realize—”

“Yer heart is in the right place, lass.” Ewan looked beyond Grace’s bowed head and glowered at his mother. “I know this was not yer idea.”

His mother glowered right back at him. “I did this to save ye, to keep ye from being hacked to pieces by that brute Roderick.”

Ewan threw up his arms in frustration, swinging wide the torch he held. The light danced in a wild frenzy. “Christ Almighty, does no one in the castle believe I can fight?”

“Dinnae shout at yer mother fer loving ye, Ewan,” Grace lectured. “She cared fer ye while ye were ill. She knows how much of yer strength the sickness stole.”

Ewan’s chest burned with indignation. Aye, he had been gravely ill and was not yet at full strength, but did they have to remind him of it every waking minute? ’Twas enough to rattle a man’s confidence and make him second-guess his abilities.

“Well then, since I’m such a weakling I’d best be off to my bed. Ye are coming with me, Grace, so I can keep an eye on ye.” Ewan glared at his mother, then dragged a hand over his face. “Lord knows, if I dinnae get some rest, then ye both will have no cause to worry about my strength, since I’ll be asleep on my feet when I face Roderick in the morning.”

Ewan stood in the doorway of the great hall, Alec by his side, waiting for the signal to enter the bailey. It took all his willpower not to pace with restless agitation, but instead to stand still and composed. The ale he had drunk and the meat he had eaten earlier to give him strength churned in his stomach, and he swallowed hard to keep down the bile that rose in his throat.

“Advance!” Father Harold shouted to be heard among the gathering crowd. Most were Ewan’s people, but some of Roderick’s soldiers had also been allowed in to witness the trial.

Taking a deep breath, Ewan strode out into the sunlight and through the outer fringes of the mob gathered in a circle. He raised his eyes to where Grace was positioned on the small tower rampart, flanked by the monk on one side and one of Roderick’s guards on the other. She looked tiny and vulnerable, her eyes moist with emotion.

Ewan’s heart leapt and he felt a sharp pain seize him. “If I fall,” he muttered to Alec.

“Ye’ll not be defeated,” his friend insisted.

“Aye, but if the unthinkable happens . . .”

“I willnae be able to save her,” Alec said regretfully, speaking the truth they both knew.

“I know.” Unable to utter the words, Ewan stared hard at his friend, willing him to understand what must happen if Roderick prevailed.

Alec slowly nodded. “I give ye my word, I shall not stand by and watch her be burned alive. By my hand, she will have a swift and merciful death.”

“Thank ye.” Ewan clenched his own hand into a tight fist. He had always been an independent man and hated asking anything of others. But he had responsibilities that followed him beyond the grave and he needed to know they would be fulfilled. “My mother?”

“She’ll be too proud to accept my help, but I vow to keep Lady Moira safe,” Alec replied. He grasped Ewan’s forearm and held on tightly. “But enough of this maudlin talk! There’s no need fer it. Ye shall win, Ewan. I’ve fought beside ye fer too many years not to know of yer skill with a sword and yer cunning in a fight.”

“I’m not at full strength,” Ewan admitted.

“Perhaps, but ye’ve battled, and won, when ye have gone days without food or sleep. This is not much different.”

Ewan grunted. He appreciated Alec’s confidence, but this
was
different. Aside from his weakened physical state, his emotions were in turmoil, knowing what would befall those he loved most if he failed.

Alec cast him a sidelong, meaningful glare. “Ye’ve one other thing to consider. There is truth on yer side and justice in yer cause. Roderick’s accusations are false. Lady Grace is not a witch.”

Aye, there was that fact.
Though Ewan knew the innocent often suffered while the guilty went free. Trust in God, and fate, was all well and good, but that was tempered in the reality of the unfairness of life.

When he reached the edge of the inner circle, Ewan drew his sword. A gust of wind howled through the bailey, sending a shiver snaking down his spine. It all seemed so unreal, yet here he stood ready to defend his wife—or die trying.

Roderick entered from the opposite side. The crowds thronged in, each person hoping for a better view. Ewan was pleased to note they did not exhibit the usual bloodthirsty excitement that was often found at these events. A testament to their affection and regard for him and Grace, he hoped.

Or a grave fear over their own fate should he lose.

Father Harold stepped forward. With pompous importance, he unfurled a thick roll of parchment, cleared his throat, and began reading.

“Whereas, the Lady Grace has been charged with the grievous crime of performing acts of witchcraft, specifically regarding the death of her first husband, Sir Alastair Ferguson, and she has refused an examination of her person to verify or deny those claims, by the consent of her accuser, Sir Roderick Ferguson, and in accordance with ecclesiastical law, her guilt, or innocence, shall be decided in a trial of combat.

“Due to the serious nature of the crime, no quarter will be given. This shall be a battle to the death. Noble champions, do ye both agree to abide by these terms and conditions?”

“Aye! I battle fer justice and the church,” Roderick proclaimed.

“And I fight to prove Lady Grace’s innocence,” Ewan shouted forcefully.

The crowd erupted in cheers. Several of Ewan’s men came forward and slapped him encouragingly on the back and shoulders before returning to the sidelines.

“God go with ye, Sir Ewan,” Alec yelled, and the crowd cheered louder.

Cheering ringing in his ears, Ewan followed Roderick into the middle of the makeshift arena. They started cautiously circling, each man sizing the other, searching for a weakness. Ewan immediately noted that Roderick was a half head taller, with a heavily muscled torso and wide shoulders. Ewan hoped the extra bulk would prove a disadvantage, as often men of this size were slower in their movements.

Yet Roderick would be no easy opponent. Ewan was well aware that he would have to employ every ounce of cunning and skill he could conjure in order to defeat him.

Ewan yelled, filling the bailey with a wild battle cry, then surged forward, hoping to startle Roderick by attacking, rather than waiting to make a defensive stand. The crowd cried out as one when swords clashed. At the contact, a sharp, biting pain traveled down Ewan’s shoulder, but he ignored it and pressed on.

The rush of excitement, coupled with a dose of fear shielded him from the worst of his discomfort, but he knew that would soon fade. His only hope was to attack hard and fast, disarming Roderick and striking a fatal blow before his strength completely faded.

To that end he lifted his blade in a quick flurry of thrusts, hammering down on Roderick. The other man successfully blocked the blows, alternating with his sword and shield, then whirled around and went on the attack.

Ewan managed to sidestep the charge, putting Roderick off balance and causing him to stumble and fall to the ground. But before Ewan could press this advantage, Roderick leapt to his feet. He came up swinging violently, catching Ewan on his left side, cutting through the protective leather jerkin he wore down to his tender flesh.