Cadha's Rogue (The Highland Renegades Book 5) (9 page)

Empty, dark, and impossibly long, the stone hall stretched out past his room in both directions. He could no longer remember how the old priest had brought him, except that they had come through a door into the hall.

He couldn’t very well try every door. Who knew what might be behind some of them.

Valc walked to the end of the hall one way and found a dead end. He walked the other way and found another dead end. And now, his door was closed, and he had forgotten to count in either direction.

Blast it all.

With a shrug, Valc slid open one door. It was an empty room very like his own. The next was the same. And the next. He continued to slip doors open, with no luck.

He finally found one that led to a stairwell. He remembered the old priest saying something about a maze, but if he couldn’t remember the door they’d come up, it wouldn’t matter which one he took.

The stairwell was narrow and dark, although light had been coming from somewhere in the hallway. He made his way down and down and finally heard something.

Singing.

A group of men singing in Latin, to be precise. He couldn’t be certain, but he thought he could make out either young voices or women, as well. Would there be women in a monastery?

Valc wasn’t familiar with the exegetical application of canon law. Maybe the Pope was letting women into Cistercian orders these days. Who knew. Then again, he hadn’t met an order of monks who kept a priest among them, either. The Pope could do as he pleased, Valc imagined.

The stairwell opened into a small chapel on what appeared to be the first floor—or a ground floor—of the monastery. The doors in the back had been flung open to nature, and people streamed in with the sun.

Brother William sat beside the door, which was apparently his post. The priest sat behind the altar without moving his lips while the rest of the congregation sang a psalm.

There were two rows of light-robed monks, but behind them was a crowd of men, women, and even children. More entered with every line of the song, and soon, the whole room was full of singing mouths.

The old priest noticed Valc and nodded. When the singing ended, the white-haired man stepped to the altar and made the sign of the cross. A hand closed around Valc’s arm and he looked up to find a young, strong-faced monk with thick brown hair falling across his forehead.

“Come with me,” the young man whispered in English.

Valc followed as the priest began to lead the people in a prayer. He couldn’t help mouthing the words.
In nomine Patri
… the same words he heard from the church in Hoorn. The same words everywhere.

The young man pulled him through the doors and, once they were outside, handed him a dagger. “Take this,” he said. “Father Barric says you won’t have one.”

“Who are you?” Valc took the sheathed weapon without hesitation, but waited for the man’s answer before stowing it.

“Brother Auden.” He turned with a swift gesture and passed Valc a satchel and a monastic robe. “Put this on. We should be going.”

Valc stopped the young monk, pulling his arm until he was forced to stop his progress down the hill. “Where exactly are you going that you expect me to follow?”

Auden eyed him up and down. “You appear to have everything you came with, and more. Father Barric said we should be off for the mainland right away. We must make the tide.”

The monk began walking, but Valc still didn’t follow. He was too dumbstruck to say a word. The man handed him a weapon and turned his back. What kind of man was this?

And where the blazes was Cadha?

“Excuse me.” Valc tried to keep the venom from his tone. “Where exactly is my wife?”

“She’s not here.” Auden continued walking. “Come. We must make for Berwick with all haste.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what you know about her.”

The young monk sighed and turned. He kept his distance, but the note of sadness in his voice was evident. “My brothers searched the beaches, every inch of them, throughout the night. They didn’t find your wife.”

Valc’s breathing was erratic, his heartbeat soaring. “So, what? We’re simply going to leave?”

“This is a small island. Were she here, alive or dead, we would have found her. She either washed up on some other shore, or…” His eyes dropped from Valc’s and he began to walk again.

Valc’s body froze. He nearly dropped to his knees. Cadha. Dead? No. She couldn’t be dead.

He tried to remember the previous night. They had been swimming. She had been behind him. Then he had spotted land in the distance. He showed her where to look and told her to follow.

What had happened after that? He couldn’t remember.

Valc felt his head again. There were no obvious wounds, but several places were still sore. Had he knocked himself on the head and passed out when they crossed the tideline? Or had he slipped and cracked his skull when he tried to find his footing after being washed toward land?

Nothing. All was black in his memory after they found their horizon, and even that was hazy. Everything after that kiss was hazy.

The young monk disappeared over the first rise. Valc tried to put one foot in front of another. But what would he do without Cadha? She couldn’t be dead. She had to be on the shore somewhere.

Once he was at the edge of the road, he could see out over the whole of Holy Island. There was a slip of water and a large amount of beach with some kind of road snaking out between receding waters.

Then, the coast of England. Valc didn’t know his maps well enough to guess where they were, or how far it was to anywhere. He hated having to trust this mysterious Brother Auden.

“What is the matter?” the monk asked, having stopped to look up at him, expectant eyes wide.

“I must know our destination, and I must know whether you plan to look for Cadha once we reach the mainland. Because if you will not, we need to part ways.”

The monk’s face drew into a dark scowl. “Assuming she isn’t dead, for we likely would have found her body on the beaches, then I believe I know where your wife is.”

Valc’s heart lifted. “Good. Then take me to her, immediately.”

“I hope you brought money with you.”

Valc touched where his pocket would have been, more to throw the young monk off the scent of his heavy purse than anything. “I have some. It should be enough for us to travel a piece, and then I can get more when I find my ship.”

“Oh, this money isn’t for travel.” The monk began walking on his pathway once more and Valc followed, a bit quicker in the step than he had been.

“What is it for?”

“To buy your wife.”

Cadha’s wrists hurt. The bastard had tied them so tight, the rope had rubbed them raw while they were wet, and after they dried, the skin had been scraped away. She couldn’t see them. Truth be told, she couldn’t see anything after he blindfolded her.

The man who had fished her out of the water was talking outside of the box he’d thrown her into. She couldn’t tell who he was talking with, and she couldn’t understand anything he said. It didn’t sound like Gaelic, in any form, and it wasn’t a language she recognized. Not French or Dutch. Flatter, and less pronounced in its hard sounds.

Papa had taught her to let others speak first, and never to give herself away, so she hadn’t said a word. Not when the man caught her, not when Valc had kept swimming into the dark water. She hadn’t dared call out, in case the dirty man hadn’t seen him. At least Valc could get to safety.

When the fisherman had pulled her onto his small, smelly boat, she’d been able to better see the land Valc had spotted, and knew he would make it. The man had immediately tied her up.

Cadha had focused on the things she loved in order to center herself. She thought of Mama and Papa, of her sister, of Maas… and yes, of Valc and his kiss. It had been her first kiss, and it had fuelled her so, she had been buoyed forward, even through the darkness, knowing that she had so much love to return to.

Her captor had tried putting her in a box with his fish at first, but it had been so rank, Cadha had vomited up seawater, which had angered him. He left her on the deck after that, and sat on her back to keep her from escaping.

When he’d pulled her to land, he had a cleaner box in his wagon, but it still reeked. At least there was nothing in her stomach to let loose, and no rotting fish around her to bring it up.

The long journey had ended in a loud, unceremonious stop, with people around her everywhere, yelling in the same foreign language. She imagined it must be English, though she wasn’t sure.

“Flowers! Flowers for sale,” someone called in French. The two men outside the wagon stopped talking. The voice picked up again, “Beautiful flowers, all imported, straight from the fields of Calais.”

Cadha took a long breath and considered calling out in what little French she could speak. But if there were two men guarding her and only one woman speaking French… or if she misspoke… or if she was wrong about her surroundings… she wasn’t certain she could survive in a foreign country with no money, no shoes, and no ability to communicate.

Another voice, farther away, shouted in Gaelic, “Fresh sheep’s milk.”

A market. That was the reason for the multitude of voices, at least. Could she trust her Gaelic well enough to get the farmer to save her? She’d always been better at translating than speaking.

Every wriggle of her hands brought some fresh pain. Her feet were free, at least, but the end of the box was far enough from them, she couldn’t use it as leverage. The box was flat, which prevented her from easily turning over, and she wasn’t certain she could even fit on her side. She brought up her knee and found the top of the box again, before she’d moved far. Not deep enough.

The woman selling flowers engaged the men outside in conversation and before long, Cadha felt the wagon start to move again. One of the men climbed into the seat behind her head and the pace seemed to increase a bit.

When they stopped, the noise of the market had died away. Their wheels echoed in the quiet, and Cadha tried to listen for something distinctive to tell her where she was.

Something pounded on the ground outside and a different man spoke to her captor. A heavy clanking sound, which might have been a gate opening, drowned out the rest of their words.

Forward motion once more.

They were inside a building or walled area, because the echoing continued, and Cadha breathed in and out through her mouth, trying to concentrate on other things, as she had been all the previous hours.

She’d been thinking of her father, her family, of Maas. But mostly Valc. She couldn’t stop thinking about him.

A thousand times, it seemed, she had relived that kiss. She had always wanted to be kissed like Valc kissed her—like he was breathing in her very essence.

She licked her lips and imagined his mouth on hers once again. Her body came alive, as though she could feel every tiny promise of every possible future. Cadha ran her thumbs across her fingertips, reminding herself of the feel of his skin, wet and warm.

If only she could get her hands free, and get out of this box, and find Valc again.

When she set sail from Hoorn, she never imagined there would be another man vying for her affections. She had felt so safe with Greta, and as soon as she saw Valc’s true face, she knew she should be afraid of him. Knew he was dangerous.

But she hadn’t known just how dangerous he was until he kissed her. There were parts of her body alive now that she never even knew existed. Pieces of her that cried out for his touch that she hadn’t known had a will of their own until last night.

She’d thought she was dying, and she wanted to be kissed and held, and somehow, she’d let Valc’s affection overtake her reason. And now, her idle mind continued to roll over the sensations of him in her arms.

The wagon halted and the man’s steps were loud near her ear. He jumped over her box and landed on the other side. Then, the box was open, and he was speaking to her.

Cadha still couldn’t understand the man, and it appeared he didn’t expect her to answer. She tried to be compliant and didn’t kick him this time. Last time, he’d punched her.

She’d learned not to fight back. For the moment.

The man pushed her across a hard, cold surface. Her toes caught on the uneven stones. A door opened, more words, and then Cadha felt them strip off her shift—the only thing remaining to cover her virtue.

Each hair on her body seemed to be alive, and the shame of her nakedness weighted her shoulders. She jumped when a soft hand touched her arm and someone pulled a piece of material over her head.

This was the strangest kidnapping she’d ever heard of.

The same soft hand began to wash the exposed skin of her neck and face, and then washed at her arms and hands. Cadha couldn’t help jumping with each touch.

Two voices began speaking over her, one female and then the man who’d captured her. He still smelled of fish—although Cadha probably had a more pronounced odor, after laying on rotten carcasses, then in her own sick, then in a cavern of stink.

The soft hands applied something to her neck that produced a sharp, floral scent. It must have been some sort of oil, but it relieved some of Cadha’s desire to gag.

They applied more oil to her arms and before long, the stink of the fish was gone, or at least covered with something stronger and more pleasant. Over her head came another piece of material, then shoes onto her feet.

The woman said something to her, placing a strong hand on her arm. Then, she tried another language. Cadha did not respond.

“Don’t try to fight us, girl.” French this time. “Ah, so you are from our great enemy.”

The man interjected and the woman shushed him.

“French girls get the best prices,” the woman cooed. This time, Cadha couldn’t help the fact that she flinched. Prices?

The woman touched Cadha’s cheek. “You will be a good girl for me, won’t you? You won’t try to fight Stephen again.”

Stephen. Her captor had a name at last. Cadha shook her head.

“Good. I need to put gloves on you. No need to damage the merchandise any more than we already have.”