A Perfect Knight For Love (35 page)

“I’m going with you.”

“You are?”

“Are all MacGowans as dense as you?”

“Dense?”

“You are na’ escaping without me.”

“I’m escaping?” Thayne must have slept too hard. The MacKennah dungeon didn’t have an escape route, and faeries such as this slight thing didn’t exist. And maybe, if the throbbing in his head would cease for just one small moment, he could ponder out why all of this didn’t just disappear.

“If you doona’ put some speed into it, you’ll na’ be going anywhere. Now move!”

She yanked on his hand, as if that would do more than tickle. Thayne thought of laughing, but that would just hurt too much and he was already handling as much pain as he could bear.

“Cease that and move aside. I canna’ stand if you’re in the space.”

“Finally! I truly thank the fates I’m rid of you.”

That didn’t make any sense, but nothing else in the benighted hole seemed to. She’d stepped back, taking her light with her, though, and that meant he had to stand. Thayne narrowed his eyes, pulled in a breath, held it, and forced his legs to support him. He’d been right about her stature. The lass was so slight she barely cleared his waist, and stood looking up at him expectantly. Thayne shoved the breath out and stretched warily, working movement where numbness still lingered through his limbs. That was odd. He’d been injured before. He’d slept on stone before. He must be getting old.

“Verra well. I’m up. Awake. What more do you wish of me again?”

“Haste would be nice,” she replied and put a hand on her hip as if to augment her dissatisfaction with him.

“Haste? To where?”

“Holy—! You MacGowans are a dense lot. You’re escaping. . . and you’re taking me with you!”

“I doona’ think I . . . can do that.”

“You think I’m setting you free without penalty? I’ll be cast from my clan. You ken that, doona’ you? Now, come. Follow me. And try to be silent and small, rather than a great hulking loud beast. Can you manage that?”

A great hulking loud beast
. That was a new descriptor. Thayne would’ve smiled, but he was afraid it might hurt. “I’ll do my best, Faery Maiden.”

She had the door cracked open and looked out into a dimness that still hurt his eyes. Thayne blinked and tried to focus.

“My name is Mary. You hear? I’m nae faery and if you call me that again, I’m leaving you to rot.”

Thayne groaned. This was a dream. It had to be.

“What is it now?”

“Your name is Mary.”

“So? You have a problem with that, too?”

“Surely you have another name I can use?”

“Margaret Beatrice.”

“Verra good. Lead on, Margaret Beatrice. I’m at your heels.”

Unfortunately, the last was true. She tripped as his boot clamped on a cloak that was way too large for her, and consequently dragging on the floor behind her. He reached for her to keep her upright. And then had to back away from the instant reaction.

“You touch me again, MacGowan, and I’ll carve on you!”

A little skean appeared in her free hand, aimed right for his groin. He didn’t doubt her familiarity with it, either.

“Verra well. Next time, I’ll let you fall.”

“If you’d keep your great big feet to yourself, it would na’ be of issue. Now come. Follow me.”

He’d been wrong. It wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare. Light from their torches speared his eyes, making a colorful circle about them, and that created even more havoc in his head. She turned away from the brightest section, and Thayne nearly thanked her. That was before she led him into a tunnel with dirt sides and a ceiling that didn’t clear his head.

The thump of his forehead on a beam sent him to his knees, with both hands about his head, while his belly retched in waves of sickness that each felt like a blow slamming against the back of his skull. Then, it was over. Thayne was on his side, curled into a ball, and weeping dry sobs. He didn’t even care who saw. He’d rather be in his cell.

“Get up.”

His tormentor knelt at his side, disgust clear on her features. Thayne rolled his face back into the damp earth smell beneath him. “Go away.”

“What’s wrong with you now?”

“I’m injured, lass.”

“Where?”

Was she blind? He couldn’t even use his right side. “Arrow shot . . . and then ax hit. I should be dead.”

“Who would do that to you?”

“Your clan.” Anger tempered the words and motivated more than it hurt. That was odd. He spent a few moments evaluating. His head no longer felt like it wanted to fly off. He felt weak, but the agony of hammering had cleared. He ran his tongue over his teeth, testing for pain and got none. It was a miracle . . . exactly when he needed it. Thayne pushed into a squat, and rolled his head atop his neck, reveling in the lack of pain.

“Impossible. I heard them. You’re much too great a prize. They would na’ hurt you.”

“Verra well. I imagine the wounds.”

She’d moved to a stand. Thayne went to a stoop to match her, and ran his hand along the top of the cavern to test height. Not enough and it was getting shorter. And it was slimy with wet.

She made a sound resembling another curse.

“I’m injured, lass, but I’m na’ dense. Where does this tunnel go?”

“Outside.”

“Along the moat?”

“I doona’ ken. I’ve never taken it.”

Thayne swallowed the instant retort. It didn’t truly matter if his escape was poorly planned and worse executed. What mattered was that it worked. And hopefully, she had food packed somewhere. And a horse.

She had neither.

She’d resorted to taking his hand the deeper they went. Then, they’d been forced to a crawl, and before they reached the opening, he’d had to shove rocks and mud aside for access. He’d also taken the lead. She also failed to mention the shale ledge they reached when finally he shoved a boulder in front and heard it careen into empty space.

Then he was out; on his back and breathing in huge lungs of rain-moist air that tasted of such freedom, he nearly crowed the delight. He’d have stayed there, reveling in it, if she hadn’t gone to her feet, pulling sodden cloak about her, looking at him with such an exasperated air, it instantly deflated his joy. That’s when they began the climb. It felt like hours later they reached the top of the drum, dealt with the lack of a horse, dry clothing, and food. All the lass claimed was an oatcake that she tore in half and shared with him. If it wasn’t for a burn of icy-cold water they happened across that he used to fill his belly, he’d have howled the despair and damn the consequences.

There was nothing for it. They started walking.

Amalie didn’t believe in prayer anymore. She hadn’t since Edmund. Prayer was for the weak, the frail. The helpless. Prayer never solved much. All prayer netted was sore knees and an aching head. Nobody knew about it, though. Amalie still prayed. She gave it lip service, especially on the Sabbath. Anything else would be sacrilegious and heretical. So, she prayed . . . but her heart wasn’t in it. Not since the night Edmund had died and prayer hadn’t done a thing to stop it.

She hadn’t told Maves what the duchess said, despite the prodding and beseeching, and then bullying. The maid would only argue it. She’d counsel Amalie to await her reply from the earl. Hold tightly to everything she felt. Have faith.

Wait, when any moment could be Thayne’s last? Have faith, when she knew exactly what these Highlanders were capable of? Hold tightly . . . to what? Perhaps if it was her life they threatened, it would all be so different. But it wasn’t. It was Thayne. And she loved him.

What looked so clear in the daylight hours, got indistinct and ragged when pondered deep in the night, with nothing to defray it. Nightmare visions of suffering warred with her attempts to sleep, and praying did little to mute them. Amalie didn’t dare wait for her father’s reply, or even if he’d give one. To do so, meant she toyed with more than their stupid pride. To wait meant she played with something more precious to her than her own life: Thayne’s.

Amalie watched the glow of fire embers reflecting on the ruby ring she held, trying to decipher meaning from the mesh of red and purple hues. Then she blinked, sending tears down her cheeks. It was probably nearer dawn than eve. She was exhausted and yet still sleepless. She’d walked her limbs into a state of exhaustion that had them twitching, she’d drunk the potion Maves had brought; she’d even tried to find the oblivion of sleep in Thayne’s enormous bed. Nothing worked. And nothing muted it. Even the hours she’d spent on her knees hadn’t done a thing to dent the emotion seeping into her every limb.

It wasn’t worry that dogged her every breath now. It was much worse.

Baby Mary slept peacefully over near the bed. Amalie looked over at the cradle and felt her features soften before another tear blurred the image. She already felt the heart pain that would be empty arms. She suspected it would multiply as the effect of losing Thayne added to it. Her only hope was to pretend it didn’t exist. Bury it. Falsify it. And fear it to the point she daren’t close her eyes.

She didn’t know why she still hesitated. She’d been pondering it all night already, through prayers that didn’t change anything, and tears that did less. Maves might grieve her departure, but everyone else would be glad to see the end of her, especially if it meant the return of their laird. She didn’t need to question it. Every look betrayed them.

I love him.

Amalie bowed her head to the needlepoint-covered chair seat again, her mind blank and her lips still. Love didn’t seem much of a blessing. It had too much agony attached. First when she’d lost Edmund, and now this. Seems she was fated to be heart-sore. Strange thing about fate. Why . . . if the post carriage had been running a half hour late, none of this would have happened. She wouldn’t have tripped, or if she did, no Highlander would have caught her and altered her existence. Her second-class room would have been empty and bare, or if there was anything of Mary Dunn-Fyne left in it, Amalie would probably have taken the innkeeper to task over it and found other accommodations. She’d have gone blithely about her journey to the MacKennah household, been ensconced in the schoolroom, and by now she’d be counting her luck she’d managed to escape.

A half hour of time, perhaps less. Such little time separated the almost giddy sense of self-confidence she’d felt then from what was turning into a depth of heartbreak and loss she didn’t know how to absorb. The combination filled her, leaching into her very soul, touching the place prayer didn’t penetrate, making her feel old and feeble and weak. She must not have suffered enough after Edmund. She hadn’t learned her lesson well enough. Loving someone meant you’d do what you had to for them. You’d sacrifice. You’d do whatever it took. You’d do what you had to, even if it killed every bit of you. That’s what loving meant.

And that’s why she was still here; attempting prayer. She was girding up for what she was about to do. Thayne MacGowan wasn’t going to spend another moment in any dungeon cell, injured; perhaps dying. Not when she could change it. What she wanted didn’t matter. What they felt mattered even less. The ruby in the ring winked at her, granting her the tiniest measure of courage. She should probably thank the woman for giving her this lifeline, allowing her back into a sham of life. But she wouldn’t. She wasn’t ever going to think of this place or this time again. She was going to cut it out of her life and watch it disappear over her shoulder, and do her best to bury it.

I love him.

A sob escaped before she could halt it, and Amalie clenched her hands together on the chair, asking this time— not for a change from her fate, but for the strength to see it through without one person guessing what it cost her. The words were jumbled and indistinct, and filled with anguish as she begged for a small measure of courage to do what she had to do.

The baby began whimpering, the sound blending in with Amalie, so that, at first, she didn’t even hear it. She tried ignoring her, hoping the babe would cease. She’d need all her strength to leave Baby Mary. It was already ripping her heart from her breast just thinking of it. She didn’t dare lift her to comfort her. The cries got louder and more strident, and more heartrending in their intensity. Amalie lifted her head and looked across at the cradle, watching the little fists flail above the carved wooden rim. And then she sighed, and got to her feet.

There was nothing for it. She’d have to see the child comforted and asleep again, or she’d never be able to leave. She put the ring on the table, was at the babe’s side, lifting her, and then cuddling her, and feeling such a swell within her breast as the babe cuddled into her, that she staggered against the bed. The babe went to hiccoughs, while both hands wound about locks of Amalie’s hair, as if the child knew of her decision.

But that was foolish. Impossible. Imaginative. And yet no matter how calm and asleep the baby looked, every time Amalie attempted to put her back in her cradle, she’d awaken and start wailing again. Each time took longer to soothe her too, making it an exercise in patience to jiggle, then rock, and then pace, and then jiggle some more, until finally Amalie climbed into the enormous bed with the babe, and held her close, breathing deeply while the babe snuggled. That’s exactly when she knew she couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t leave. Not when there was hope.

Amalie settled into the mass of pillows at her back, pulled the linens up to cover them, and yawned with a force that stretched the side of her mouth. She felt replete and aglow, as if something momentous had occurred that was beyond her scope of understanding. If she could get her fogged mind to ponder, perhaps she’d gain meaning. For now, it was enough that her arms felt as full as her heart. And for the first time since the ordeal began, she slept dreamlessly and soundly.

Chapter 25

Dawn brought a sun that tried to penetrate the fog-covered ground, pierce the drizzle, and send some warmth onto any occupants out in such dreary conditions. All it really managed was to illuminate every bit of why Thayne felt so cold, wet, weak, and miserable. Each step slogged with the wet slurp of mud, and then got accompanied with shivers. They were an easy mark, not only for pursuers but for any clan wretch intent on making his name. Taking a MacGowan plaid of this quality would be a coup. Taking it from the MacGowan laird’s brother would be even better.