Juliana Garnett (42 page)

C
EARA TRIED NOT
to breathe. She spaced her breaths, drawing air deep into her lungs before letting it out slowly again. But she felt dizzy. It was a test of endurance, she told herself, and she would wait. Luc would come for her. He had to come.

She closed her eyes. A sword cut on her side ached, but the blood had stopped flowing. Now, her gown was only damp with it and growing stiff as it dried. Time passed so slowly. Was it still night? Or had morning dawned? She thought of her wolf although she tried not to. The vision of Sheba sprawled lifelessly on the stones brought tears to her eyes, but she could not afford the luxury of weeping when air was so close.

Then she thought of Hardred, and the hatred he had nurtured for her all these years. He had been only a thrall in her father’s service, and less than that for the Normans. And he could not abide that she had given all to Luc that truly mattered. For she had. It had happened slowly, so that she did not realize how much she had yielded until it was done. But she did not regret it. Luc was a worthy lord, and worthy of her heart.

She thought of the vow she had once made never to yield
willingly. In a way, she had kept that vow. It had been a reluctant surrender, but it was now complete—and willing. Since Luc had gone, she had thought much about what he had said, and knew that he was right. If he did not control the barons, he would lose everything. Oswald should have yielded, as had Leofric and Eadwine. It shamed her that she had protested Luc’s seeming cruelty. He had known better than she what should be done.

Pressing her face against her drawn-up knees, she tried to envision Luc’s face. The dark eyes fringed with black lashes, the often mocking curl of his mouth, the faint scar that stitched his jawline … she could almost feel him kiss her, feel his strong, sturdy body pressed against hers.…

It was so close, and she could not breathe. The chest seemed to grow smaller. It was crushing her, collapsing in on her until she wanted to scream but dared not use the air. Her hands curled into claws, and she drifted into a dreamless haze, anything to escape the confines of the chest.

There was a ringing in her ears, and her trapped breath whispered over her folded arms. She was dying. They would find her too late. Her air was almost gone, the holes in the chest were much too small.…

A loud noise rumbled. She could barely breathe. Only a little air now. So stuffy. Her lungs ached, and her chest began to hurt. She wanted to die quietly, but her body would not allow it. Deprived of air, she arched involuntarily, arms flinging outward, clawing at the walls of her tiny prison. The noise again, barely discernible now over the thundering beat of her heart. It pounded in her ears, a dreadful din, and she made awkward noises that hurt her throat. She pushed against the ceiling of her prison with both hands, desperate for air, and tried to hold on to her slipping awareness. She thought then of Luc, and tried to visualize his face. But it was growing so dim.…

•    •    •

T
HE KEY COULD
not be found to unlock the vault. Luc stared at the solid iron door. It had been built with the hinges inward, so none could remove it from the outside. Heedless of the congealing blood on the floor, he paced in front of the vault while Remy and Kerwin searched for another key.

Finally, he ordered the door smashed, and men came with heavy staves and axes. The blows dented it heavily, but it did not yield. Remy sought to comfort him.

“There is air aplenty in the vault, my lord. She may be hungry and thirsty, but no harm will come to her.”

Luc nodded grimly. He surveyed the door closely. Bolts held the iron strips overlaying wood. If all the bolts were undone, then the wood could be splintered or burned, and thus yield entrance. God in heaven, it would take so much time to accomplish, but as Remy had said, the vault was spacious.

A yelp rent the air behind him, and Luc turned, frowning when he saw a young Saxon being dragged toward them with blood streaming from his head and mouth.

It was Kerwin who thrust him forward brutally, a fist gripping the young man’s collar. “This is Hardred, my lord. He betrayed you, I fear, by giving Oswald’s men entrance to the gates. He has all the keys.”

Hardred was pushed to his knees in front of Luc, his face white but still defiant. It was obvious he had received rough treatment, for one eye was swollen shut, and there were cuts etched on his face.

Luc eyed him without pity. “You have bought yourself a harsh death, Hardred.”

Hatred gleamed in the Saxon’s eyes. “Yea, I may well have done so, but the wolf will rule here without his mate.”

Something in the man’s face chilled Luc’s blood, and when Kerwin cuffed the prisoner, Luc put up a hand to hold the next blow. “Is the lady in the vault, Hardred?”

“Aye, that she is. And there she will die.”

Luc gazed at him dispassionately, though fear had spurted in
his breast at the certainty in Hardred’s voice. He gave a careless shrug as if disputing the claim. “There is air enough for her to survive until we break down the door. The vault is large.”

“Yea, Norman, the vault is large.”

Kerwin shook the man viciously. “Give us the key.”

“I threw the key down the well.”

When Kerwin drew back his fist, Luc halted him. “Wait. There is something he has not said. Tell me, Hardred, what you know.”

Triumph settled on the battered face, and Hardred’s lips drew back from his teeth in a snarl. “Your lady is indeed in the vault, as I said. She rests most comfortably in a prison of wood and iron.”

Luc knelt in front of him, and there was hoarse menace in each word as he said softly, “Tell me the rest, or you will beg for death long before it releases you from your pain.”

Their eyes were level, Hardred’s one open eye a pale glitter as he smiled. “As your greatest treasure, I put her safely where you keep your finest silks. She is where no rain or damp can mold her, nor musty air tarnish her treacherous hide.…”

Luc looked up, and saw his own horror mirrored in Remy’s eyes at the implication. He rose swiftly then, ignoring Hardred’s wild shriek as Kerwin dragged him away.

“My lord,” Remy began helplessly, “if she is in one of those chests—”

“Bring men to batter the door.”

“My lord—”

“Curse you, Remy, bring them! Ah, God, if he has killed her I will flay him alive and wear his skin as a cape … no. Wait. Remy, bring me a small piece of metal. Perhaps … Ah, fool that I am for not thinking of it already. It must be slender and sturdy. Hurry, Remy, for every moment we waste is precious to her.”

Marshaling all his concentration, Luc knelt in front of the dented door and took a deep breath. This was no simple lock such as those he was accustomed to picking as a boy. No, this
was a lock made of intricate tumblers that he had devised himself. Remy put into his open palm a slender wand of metal, and Luc turned all his fierce attention to the lock.

Sweat stung his eyes, and twice he had to still his hand from trembling as he slowly maneuvered the steel pick into the lock, fingers aching with strain. A tumbler clicked softly with metallic crispness, and he paused, then moved the steel with painstaking slowness.

When another tumbler clicked, he tried the door, but it still held. Slowly, his breath harsh in his throat, the rasping sound of it filling his ears, he moved the steel wand again. This time when he tried the clasp and depressed the handle, the door creaked loudly on its hinges and swung outward. Luc stumbled back, regained his balance, and lurched to his feet.

Silks and linens were strewn on the floor, and he moved to first one chest, then another, calling Ceara’s name. Remy and the others ranged behind him, flinging the chests open.

“This one is locked, my lord!”

Luc swung around and seized a heavy mallet from one of the men. One blow, two, and then the padlock sprang open. He grabbed the lid and flung it up, his heart in his throat as he saw the lifeless form curled in the bottom of the trunk.

Tenderly, he scooped her from the tiny prison and held her against him, hardly daring to hope that she was still alive. How long had she been in there?

Luc went to his knees on the stone floor and laid Ceara gently atop a pile of discarded silks. He felt for a pulse in her throat, then her wrist, and detected a faint flutter that heartened him.

“Wine, Remy. Bring wine. Stand back and give her air, for the love of God. Ah, Ceara, Ceara … what have I done to you?”

Her kirtle was torn to her waist, blue folds falling from her slender thighs, and her bright hair was matted beneath her head. Her face was so pale and still, her chewed lips bloody, and he
took her hand between his and rubbed, not knowing what else to do.

Then a soft breath lifted her chest, and her long brown lashes fluttered slightly. He slid an arm beneath her shoulders to hold her up, and when Remy brought a goblet of wine, held it to her lips. Red liquid cascaded over her mouth and down her chin to her throat, bright as blood. He winced at the sight.

“Drink,
chérie
. Drink, my love, my heart. Ah, God, will you ever forgive me?”

She coughed as he pressed the wine to her lips, and pushed it feebly away. “No,” she said in a cross voice, “not if you drown me.”

Startled, Luc did not at once move the goblet. It was Remy who reached over his shoulder and took it from his hand, murmuring that perhaps she needed air more than wine.

Ceara opened her eyes, blinking a little at the light and faces around her. Then she turned her gaze to Luc, rasping, “It was Hardred who locked me in here. Oh, Luc, he betrayed us all!”

“I know. Shush, my heart. Do not worry about Hardred. I have a notion that Kerwin will give him his just reward for what he has done.”

Her hand curled into the sleeve of his linen tunic, and she shook her head weakly. “Nay, I want vengeance on him. He has caused so much pain … he slew Sheba, Luc.” Her voice broke slightly. “He killed my beloved Sheba, and one of Oswald’s men has taken her to make into a pelt—”

“Do not distress yourself. The last time I saw the pelt it was chewing with amazing vigor on the leather gauntlet of the man I set to guard her. No doubt, when we next see your wolf, it will be wearing poor Pierre as a pelt instead.”

To his surprise, the glad tidings did not make her rejoice, but undid her. She collapsed with shuddering sobs in his arms, and he held her to him tightly, rocking her back and forth as if she were a small child, crooning soft words to her in French and English, endearments and words of love, wild promises that he
would always make the sun shine for her, he would never let it rain on her, and anything else he could think of to say to comfort her. It was not a familiar emotion to him, and he felt clumsy and awkward, but could not stop the spate of words that poured from his mouth and his heart.

It was several moments before he noticed that they were quite alone, Remy apparently having gathered the men and given them their privacy. He made a mental note of where such an elusive thing could be found, but doubted that Ceara would want to come here again after her close brush with death.

“Are you better, my heart?” he murmured when her sobs ceased and she clung to him quietly. She nodded.

“I have never been better. Luc, did you mean all that?”

He flinched, embarrassed and more than a little reluctant to confirm all the flowery phrases he had uttered. But he dragged in a deep breath and nodded, looking down at her as she lay in his arms.

“Yea,
chérie
, I meant every word. Save for the part about the sun and rain. I fear my influence does not extend to the heavens.”

She laughed softly. “Oh, I would not be surprised if it did. But I meant the part about loving me. Do you?”

“Yea. I love you, Ceara. With all my heart and soul, and with every breath. I will not disappoint you again.”

“You have never disappointed me, Luc. You are my rock, my strength, a man of honor who keeps his vows. Nay, you have never disappointed me, but I fear I have you.”

He shrugged. “Annoyed me at times, but nothing worse. When you make a vow, you hold to it, and I know that well.”

She smiled up at him, and he wiped away the traces of tears on her pale cheeks. After a moment he took a deep breath, and said regretfully, “Now that you are safe, I must leave you again, but it is necessary. I will leave you Remy and Kerwin as guards, and there will be none here who are not loyal.”

“Leave—no, Luc!” Her fingers clenched around his wrist,
and her eyes were filled with panic. “Do not leave—are we not safe here?”

“Yea,
chérie
, more safe than ever you have been, for now we know who we can trust. But news was brought to me of Robert and Amélie. They are being held hostage by Niall and my step-mother. They beg my aid.”

“Your stepmother! Dear God. Niall lures you there to kill you, so he can take Wulfridge. Do not go—send word to the king, and he will—”

“Ceara. I cannot forsake Robert, for he has long been my friend. I must go.”

She moaned softly then, and he held her close, a faint smile on his mouth that she would worry so for him. After a moment, he rose, and carried Ceara to the solar they shared, staying just long enough to be certain she was well guarded and would rest.

Calling only a few trusted men to him, he mounted Drago and rode from Wulfridge to rally others to march on Niall and rescue Robert and Amélie. He only prayed that he was in time to save them.

C
EARA FRETTED
. L
UC
had been gone near a fortnight, with only one message from him, and that more for Remy than for her. Every morning she went up to the battlements to gaze past the inlet to the road where he would approach. She did not stay long, but returned often.

Sheba was so weak, but her strength was slowly coming back. She had been carrying pups when Hardred attacked her, and she had lost them. Now thin and frail, the wolf wanted to follow Ceara everywhere, and set up a great howl when she was forced to stay behind. Often, Remy would send a man to carry the wolf to the hall for her, as Sheba would drag herself there if left in the solar.