Conquer the Night (5 page)

“My lady?” the man said.

“How does he know the tower room?” she whispered. “No one has been there since my father—”

“My lady, in better days, he knew your father.”

“He never knew my father!”

“Lady, he did.”

“I would have remembered—”

“You were very young, and in London, serving at the queen's court. You see, my lady, we would have remembered you as well, had we ever met, I am certain. Will you accompany me?”

“My father was no friend to outlaws.”

The tall warrior smiled at her. “We were not outlaws then, my lady. For Edward of England had not seized this country that is not his.”

“But your leader is—”

“Not a savage, uncivilized barbarian out of the Highlands, my lady. Though he's kin enough among a rugged breed! I swear to you, my lady, he did meet your father, and does know the castle, and was welcomed here once.”

“Sir, whatever the past, you are rebels and outlaws now!”

“Now will you please accompany me?”

He seemed a decent man for an outlaw. She gazed at him, studying him. He was young, with handsome features of a gentler nature than those of his leader, who seemed a rough-hewn, ruthless savage, no matter what this man had to say in explanation.

Aye, if he was savage, he had just cause!

She was not to blame, yet it seemed she would pay the price. There was nothing to do but fight them….

As long as she was able.

“And if I do not do as you say? Follow your orders?” she inquired. “Will you skewer me here and now? Perhaps I should allow you to do so. I will die an easier death—and you'll not have your barbarian minds taxed in determining a more imaginative end for me.”

The dark-haired man smiled, giving her the first breath of hope she had felt since knowing they had come. “My name is Jay, lady. Will you accompany me, please?”

“Why should I cooperate with you, sir, with men who will decimate my people and destroy me when they see fit? Why should I make things easy and accompany you?”

“Because you have far too much mercy in your own soul to make me go to him with the words that I cannot do so much as accompany an unarmed young woman to a different room within a castle. Then he would come back for you himself….” Jay allowed the implied threat of his words to linger on the air; then he shrugged. “As it is, unless I must admit to my incompetency, he may be occupied for hours.”

“Lead the way, sir. I will follow you.”

“Nay, lady, you will go before me.”

She arched a brow. “Do you think me dangerous, too?”

“It's best never to trust the enemy.”

“The unarmed enemy?”

“My lady, if you will …”

He bowed, indicating the door. She exited the chapel and walked down the second-floor hallway, tempted to stop and stare down to the great hall below to see for herself what damage might have been done to the hall and to the folk who worked there. Yet she kept her spine stiff, her chin raised—and walked. From the corner of her eye she tried to see what was happening below; she could not.

She turned around, facing Jay. “Will you tell me, sir, if my priest has survived? His name is Father Michael Corrigan.”

“It's not my place, my lady, to tell you anything.”

“What of the captain of the inner guard? A brave man named Tyler Miller.”

“Lady, what has become of your people is not for me to say.”

“You cannot answer simple questions?”

“Again, I say it is not my place.”

“Are you a puppet then, sir, nothing more than a plaything for a greater man?”

She was startled when he smiled. “My lady, you will not goad me into betraying Sir Arryn in any way.”

He stood steadfast, not at all perturbed, and she was dismayed by the loyalty she saw in his features. She turned and walked again, suddenly half-blinded by tears. This would have been far easier if the man who had set out in vengeance against Darrow were more clearly a monster. Thus far, though they might mean to destroy her, they prepared to do so with courtesy. They were well-spoken and apparently well educated, for barbarians. Their Norman French was as good as their Gaelic.

She stared at Jay for a moment, weighing her chances to at least know the fate of the two men who had stood by her most loyally—Tyler, who would have fought to the death without her command to seek mercy, and Father Corrigan, who had believed that he had left her hidden in the burial vault of her father, with Ingrid to take her place until he could placate the man who had come for vengeance. Father Corrigan had seemed to think that this man would not bother with Ingrid, that he would set her free, or perhaps force her to do manual labor for his men. She didn't think that Father Corrigan began to understand the depths of Sir Arryn Graham's anger.

Somehow she must defend the people who had defended her. Or die trying.

She would not go meekly to the tower room.

She spun again, tearing for the stairs with mercurial speed. She heard Jay's startled, sworn exclamation behind her, but ignored it, racing down the stone steps to the great landing below, turning to the left, then, to the vast expanse of the drafty great hall.

Several men were there, warriors who had now cast off their helms but remained in their heathen armor—armor not near so grand as that afforded her own men here at Seacairn, but deadlier in its rugged, simplistic style. They were not clad in tunics that proclaimed one great lord or household, but rather in chain and leather protection with metal plates covered by the mantles and colors of their own families, simple plaids that conveyed their allegiance to family and name, rather than to a commander. Four were seated at the large, long planked table that stretched from the area of the hearth; a few were seated upon it. The hounds that supposedly guarded the castle had already given over to the new regime; they lay about in the rushes near the hearth and slept easily—or nuzzled the hand of a conqueror as he drank ale from her storerooms and ate heartily of the smoked meats and fresh bread that had been brought on large trenchers to the table. Already the servants served new masters.

And dinner had come for famished warriors, so it appeared.

She stood still, staring into the room, digesting the sight of the invaders sprawled so comfortably about. Arryn Graham was here. He did not sit with his men as yet, but stood by the hearth, arms leaning upon the mantel as he stared into the flames.

He turned and stared at her. She felt the cold assessment of his deep blue gaze once again, and once again found it chilling.

There had been talk in the great hall—men boasting and laughing, she thought. Now it was suddenly all silence, and like Arryn, they all stared at her.

“Arryn—” Jay began awkwardly, coming to a halt behind her. She could almost feel the rush of warm embarrassment that encompassed him. He had, after all, failed at the simple task of escorting a lone woman from the chapel to the eastern tower room, the isolated master chamber that rose another flight of steps from the second-floor chapel and guest rooms, storerooms, library, and office.

“Aye, Jay, I see—Lady Kyra has come to meet her new … guardians,” Sir Arryn said. He left the hearth, walking toward her. She felt the frantic beating of her heart as he approached. There was something in him, an energy and a hatred tightly leashed, that frightened her more than all the threats against her life, person, and sanity. It was as if he might, at any second, snap, and then the violence done her would be swift and terrible. Yet suddenly he reached out to her, taking her arm. She felt the strength and tension in his grip, like the lightning of his eyes. She longed to wrench free, to violently shake off his touch, yet she thought better of it—for the moment, at least.

“How rude of me. I failed to ask you to join us for dinner.” So saying, he slipped her arm through his own, a hand upon hers as he led her down the hall to the head of the table. “Men, this is the Lady Kyra of Seacairn, daughter of the late Lord Hugh Boniface and Lady Mary MacGregor of Dumferline—now pledged to one English lackey known as Lord Kinsey Darrow. Lady Kyra, you have met young Jay MacDonald; the fine fellows to my left are Nathan Fitzhugh and Patrick MacCullough. There, to my right, Thane MacFadden and Ragnor Grant. Those strapping lads at the rear of the table are Roger Comyn and Hayden MacTiegue.” The men nodded to her as they were introduced. She and Arryn had reached the head of the table. He pulled out one of the heavy, finely carved chairs for her. A hand upon her shoulder, he pushed her down. “Do sit and join us—Lady Kyra.”

She sat, having no other choice with his hands on her shoulders, aware of the faces staring her way. Arryn did not sit. His booted foot landed upon his chair. His hands left her shoulders, but he remained close, nearly touching her, as he reached for the tankard of ale in front of her. He drank from it, and pressed it toward her. “Drink, Lady Kyra. Drink with us. We were just about to toast our victory here.”

She ignored the tankard.

“Where is my priest?” she demanded curtly.

“Your priest, my lady?”

“My priest. What harm have you done him?”

One of the men at the end of the table made a snickering sound. She bit her lower lip, trying to keep from bolting in a wild panic and amusing them further, for surely they would attempt to stop her, and the attempt would not be gentle.

Arryn's head lowered toward her own. “Surely you are not feeling the need for last rites so soon, my lady?”

She managed to push back the chair and rise, yet found herself hemmed in by him. Still, she found the courage to speak again. “I demand to know what you have done with him!”

“You demand?” he inquired, unruffled, only the dark blue eyes so fixedly upon her betraying any inner turmoil.

“Aye, sir, I demand to know—”

His hand landed on her shoulder. “Perhaps, with all in attendance here, I should fully explain your situation. You will make no demands. You—like the hounds by the fire—will receive whatever courtesies and kindnesses we choose to bestow.” He spun her around to see the faces of the warriors in the hall. “Look around you, lady. Every man here had kin at Hawk's Cairn. You have heard of Hawk's Cairn? Ancestral manor and estates of my line of the Graham family. Aye, you know what happened; you know it well. We have established that fact already, haven't we? You say that none of your father's people here had a part in that barbaric act of inhumanity. But you knew of it, by your own admission. You knew that your betrothed was out riding against the Scots. You didn't carry a sword into that battle yourself—or did you? God knows, you handle the weight of a weapon with much greater talent than many a poor man sent to his death on a king's business. It's no real matter here and now. This stronghold will again be held by Scotsmen.”

“Aye!” Roger Comyn shouted.

“Roger is one of the Comyn family, a distant relation to John Balliol—the Scottish king forced by Edward to abdicate, my lady,” Arryn explained.

“Sir!” she interrupted. “Horrible events have occurred; aye, there is no denying that. But, you should recall, Edward was brother to Alexander's first wife, and the great uncle of the Maiden of Norway. Negotiations were under way for her to marry King Edward's son and heir. He did feel obligated to Scotland—”

“Obligated!” Arryn roared the word in such a fury that she had to fight to keep from falling back when he pressed toward her. “Obligated to wrest Scotsmen from their legal positions and thrust the English in upon us?”

She was shaking, but there were a few matters she had to set straight. “My father was here when Alexander was still alive; he was an Englishman, but he was chosen lord here under King Alexander—”

“Because of your mother. Because of the Scottish blood that flows in your veins—which you seem to have forgotten in your quest to help your intended rise to power in a land he would destroy to conquer, for a king who desires nothing but to destroy and subjugate a people as well.”

“Aye, that's the truth of it; you've said it as well. I have forgotten nothing! This land is mine through my mother. Mine! And you—”

“So the land is yours, and not Darrow's! It matters little. By Scottish law then—this land is seized from you, my lady, and from your master, the wretched king of England who would style himself king and overlord here. You have but one function left, lady, and that is to suffer what insult comes your way.”

She picked up the tankard he had earlier attempted to thrust her way and slammed it on the table, staring at him, so infuriated by his speech that she was ready to fight again. “At my father's death, I was claimed lady here through the king of Scotland—John Balliol—rightfully chosen king, whom you say you honor, a direct descendent of the ancient kings through his mother's line—”

“Aye, John Balliol had the right and legal claim!” Arryn agreed. “But though he was legal heir, he rots in prison in England, and even his most ardent supporters here”—he paused, glancing at the man Roger—“realize that he tried to be a good king, but hadn't the strength to stand up to Edward.”

“You are outlaws, nothing more!” Kyra shouted. “What you don't seem to understand, sir, is that the king of Scotland had agreed that he owed feudal duty and homage to the king of England—”

“The king of Scotland was forced to pay homage—as were all the Scottish lords and magnates who so foolishly tried to hold on to their titles and their wealth!”

She stepped away from the table. Arryn seemed both angered and amused, and not in the least afraid that she might take flight.

How could she? She realized that his friends had risen, that they formed a circle around her. Jay MacDonald guarded the rear, toward the steps that led up the tower. Ragnor Grant, another heavily built, very tall man, veered to her right. Thane MacFadden, darker, leaner, stood to her left.