Dark and Stormy Knight (32 page)

Two uniformed soldiers met the elves on the other side and escorted them into the castle. She hurried after them, staying hard on their heels. Once inside, she continued to follow the foursome through a labyrinth of corridors. To her astonishment, they passed several naked men sporting erections and a handful of women in togas as sheer as her own.

Holy smokes. She could see everything they owned. So could the elves, who clearly enjoyed the view. Each time one of the scantily-clad faeries passed them in the hall, both turned to ogle her. Not that Gwyn, who did her share of rubbernecking when those naked men appeared, blamed them. Only a saint wouldn’t look when they put it out there like that.

When the soldiers took the elves through a pair of red lacquer doors, she slipped in after them. A runner spanned the distance between the doors and an ornate golden throne, upon which sat a woman with long blond hair. Queen Morgan, presumably.

The soldiers turned and went out. She dodged one of them to avoid a collision. The elves waited until the queen gestured for them to approach. As they did, Gwyn hung back, curious to know what their business might be.

They bowed to the queen and exchanged a few words before Morgan loudly clapped her hands together twice. Seconds later, two female faeries came in. Both were stark naked. The elves looked them over as if they were animals at a livestock auction. They checked their teeth, squeezed their breasts, stroked their hair, groped between their legs, and made them bend over.

The elves seemed pleased with the faeries. One of them produced a leather pouch and, with a deep bow, set the offering at the queen’s feet. From the jangling sound the bag made, Gwyn deduced they’d given her money.

Each of the elves took one of the faeries by the arm and led her toward a side entrance. As they went out, a fat man came in. Like the guards, he wore the military uniform of a bygone era, only his frockcoat was fancier and his knee breeches the same shade of red. Underneath, the buttons of his golden waistcoat strained to cover his immense girth.

The long hair framing his bloated features was curled, powdered, and queued. His complexion was pale and putrid, his deportment enormous and menacing. He approached the queen without waiting to be summoned. As he began his addresses, Gwyn strained to hear what he was saying.

To her great frustration, no more than murmurs reached her ears. She crept closer, noting that the fat man spoke with a refined English accent. When Leith’s name pricked her ears, she moved still closer, eager for the context.

“He claims to know nothing of the drone he sired.”

“We shall learn soon enough if he’s lying.”

They could not be talking about Leith because he was waiting for her on the other side of the veil, safe and sound. At least she hoped he was. Otherwise, she’d have to save him as well as steal the cup. Both tasks seemed unmanageable on their own, let alone when linked together.

The queen pulled from her robes a gem-encrusted golden chalice and handed the cup to the fat man.

Gwyn’s pulse quickened at the sight of what had to be the Cup of Truth.

When the fat man took the cup and strode toward the side exit, Gwyn hurried after him, hoping he’d lead her to the man they’d been discussing. If it was Leith—and she prayed it wasn’t—she’d need to come up with a plan to save her knight as well as steal the cup.

She followed the fat man for an exasperatingly long time before he arrived at the entrance to the dungeon. Along the way, they’d passed a few guards, more than one naked drone, and one couple going at it like a couple of feral dogs.

Forgetting at times she was invisible, Gwyn dove back around corners and flattened herself against walls with a hammering heart. Then, remembering the cloak of mist, she’d hold her breath and slink past them as quietly as a cat.

All the guards they’d passed saluted the fat man, confirming he was their commanding officer. They all wore uniforms like the sentries guarding the gates. Red coats with buttoned-down blue lapels over matching white vests and knee-breeches with tall black boots.

She hung back when the fat man stopped before a heavy door. On the other side was a downward-leading bedrock staircase. Images flashed of the dungeon at Glenarvon and the naughty things she and Leith had done down there. Doing her best to ignore the desire the memories engendered, she crept down the steps, staying close to the wall for balance as well as security.

The corridor at the bottom was cold, creepy, and dimly lit by flickering wall-mounted torches. The smell of dank and fetid straw rushed out to greet her. A miserable chorus of muffled moans echoed all around.

Please let Leith’s not be one of them.

There were several large doors lining the corridor’s weathered stone walls. Each had a small viewing slit through which she could glimpse the cell beyond. The first two were empty. Inside the third she spied a woman sitting against the back wall. The cell was inhumanely small and insanely dark. Not until the woman rattled her chains, did Gwyn realize she wore manacles.

The fat man turned into a room opposite the cells—his office, probably. Rather than follow him inside, she went back to the cell with the woman inside. Two eyes peered out of the dark.

“Are you okay?”

“And who might be speaking to me from the ethers? The banshee come to presage my death, I suppose.”

“I’m a friend of Sir Leith’s. Under a cloak of invisibility.” Afraid the fat man might overhear, Gwyn kept her voice low. “Is he here?”

“Aye, he is, the damn fool.” The woman shook her head. “But who couldn’t say the same about me?”

Gwyn neither knew what she meant nor cared. She just wanted to find Leith. “Where is he?”

“The next cell over.”

This was the last cell in the row and the one next door was empty. “I’ve looked. He’s not there.”

“Then they’ve taken him.”

Alarm accelerated Gwyn’s already racing pulse. “Who’s taken him?”

“The duke’s guards.”

She must mean the fat man. Gwyn shrugged it off. She couldn’t care less about his rank. She only cared about finding her knight without getting caught.

“Where has he taken Leith? Do you know?”

“I do. But you’d be wise to wait until they return him to his cell.”

Gwyn’s heart flared in protest. She was not about to wait around twiddling her thumbs while that grotesque tub of lard tortured the man she loved.

“I have to help him,” she insisted. “Please tell me where he is.”

“First, set me free.”

Gwyn would rather not waste the time, but could see no way around it. Besides, the faery had helped her, so it only seemed fair. “How?”

“There should be a ring of keys hanging on the pegs just behind you.”

Gwyn turned around. The long board of pegs, reminiscent of the one in Leith’s dungeon playroom, held whips, shackles, and tricorn hats, for the most part. Her heart leaped when her gaze landed on the ring of keys.

She grabbed the keys only to drop them the next second. Holy smokes. They’d burned her fingers. As she tried to work out how to handle the keys, a man’s blood-curdling scream assaulted her ears.

Her blood pressure shot higher. Was it Leith? Taking a deep breath, she wrapped her hand in the fabric of her skirt, and stooped to retrieve the keys.

The ring held a dozen or so large skeleton keys and numerous smaller ones. She opted to try the larger keys first. The keys jangled like tattletales as she inserted one after another into the lock. A few curses and a couple of singed digits later, she managed to spring the lock.

Another piercing scream covered the groaning hinges as she pushed open the heavy door. Dim light filled the tiny cell, providing a better view of the shackled faery within. Her dark hair was a tangled mess and her skin shone with grime.

With trembling hands, Gwyn tried one key after another until she finally found one that fit. Hastily, she set about unlocking the rusty manacles. Underneath the cuffs, the faery’s flesh was blistered and oozing. The second Gwyn freed her last limb, the faery shifted into a rat and scurried out of the cell.

Gwyn, dropping the keys, charged after her only to crash full force into a red-coated guard. The man reeled backward, staggering to keep his balance. Thrown off balance herself, she fell back against the door, which, in turn, slammed into the wall with a resounding clang. The guard looked around, eyes wide, mouth agape. Before he could put the pieces together, she recovered her bearings and slipped past him.

Another heart-stopping scream shattered the quiet. She set off down the hall in the direction from which it seemed to have come. After a few steps, she pulled up. Invisibility alone wouldn’t be enough to save Leith. She needed a weapon of some kind. Turning back, she scanned the row of pegs for something to suit her purpose.

Only the coiled bullwhip held promise. As she moved to grab it, a plan began to take root. Just as she tucked the whip under her arm, the guard she’d bumped into raced past her. She hurried after him with a knife in her heart.

Leith had stopped screaming.

* * * *

“Where is the bastard you begat with Belphoebe?”

Leith looked down with a churning mixture of feelings at the familiar golden chalice the butcher held under his nose. The enchanted cup was the key to his salvation in more ways than one. If only he could grab it and run. If only he wasn’t locked in this bloody pillory.

“I don’t know,” he bit out.

The cup remained whole.

Cumberland had just come in with it—a mixed blessing. Until he’d entered, the guards who’d locked him in the stock had been taking turns punching and kicking him.

“What do you know? You’re telling the truth.” The duke sounded genuinely surprised. “You may be the first of your worthless breed ever to do so.”

Leith gritted his teeth against a searing surge of hatred. That fat fuck had some nerve calling the Scots a worthless breed after what his lot did to Clara. Sir Axel saw King Edward’s men do the same to another woman during the English raid on Berwickshire. The two royals might not hail from the same bloodline, but they were bloody well cut from the same sadistic cloth.

“Who told you of his existence?”

“That I won’t tell you,” Leith ground out. “Whatever you do to me.”

The cup did not break because he’d spoken the truth. He would not rat out those protecting his son. His death would be nothing compared to Finn’s. If indeed his offspring was the drone of the prophecy, Finn would rid the Thitherworld of villains like Morgan and Cumberland.

Though the irony of the situation wasn’t lost on Leith, he couldn’t bring himself to laugh at it. He was giving up his life to protect Callum Lyon’s. Once again, fortune shone down on its golden boy while cruelly fucking with its whipping boy.

Why?

That one seemingly small question gnawed at Gwyn as she trailed the guard down the tunnel-like corridor.

Had Leith stopped screaming because the torture had stopped or was he too far gone to cry out anymore? The thought tore her heart in two. When the guard turned abruptly into the office, she slowed her pace and approached with caution.

Breath held, heart hammering, she stepped into the doorway and scanned the small room’s interior. The fat man was nowhere in sight. Neither was the Cup of Truth. When the guard started toward her, she scooted out of his path. She couldn’t afford another collision. Ducking around a corner, she waited until he was out of sight. Luckily, he’d gone in the opposite direction.

The corridor she’d turned down curved around another corner. Without Leith’s screams to guide her, she had no idea which way to go. Not that she wished him more suffering just to act as her compass.

Taking a stab in the dark, she followed the corridor around the bend and stopped to listen. Dead silence, but at least there were torches. Flickering light bathed the stone block walls. Smoke swirled in the air like lost souls. Shivering, she went on, bullwhip still snug in her armpit. She tiptoed past the doors of more cells. A quick glance through the viewing slots told her all were unoccupied. The vacant cells, musty smell, and clinging cobwebs suggested this part of the dungeon hadn’t been used in a while. The lit torches told a different story.

Light shone from the slot of the next door in line. As she approached, the door swung open. Heart in throat, she stepped back and pressed her back against the wall. The duke came out, carrying the cup. She considered tripping him and grabbing the cup before deciding against it.

He’d just get up again and call the guards. Then, they’d know she was here. Right now, they didn’t, and invisibility was her only real defense.

She sucked in her breath, making herself as thin as possible. He nearly grazed her as he passed by. She waited until he’d rounded the corner before dashing into the room he’d just exited.

With blood thundering in her ears, she peered through the slot in the door. Holy crap on toast. The room could have been a museum of medieval torture devices. Leith was inside, clapped in a stockade. Angry red welts covered his bare back and buttocks. Was he conscious?

“Leith!”

He didn’t as much as twitch in response. Panic blooming in her chest, she squeezed the latch. The door was unlocked, thank God. She pushed it open, cringing when the hinges squealed. She glanced behind her, breath held, and listened. No one was coming. Still breathless, she closed the door behind her as quietly as she could.

She hurried to Leith and searched his torn up back for a place to touch him. Finding none, she went around the stockade to his face. His eyes were closed, his jaw was slack, and his face was as pale as death.

Please, God, let him not be dead.

“Leith!”

His eyes opened part way, but he didn’t seem to see her. Then, she remembered. He couldn’t.

“It’s Gwyn, under a charm that makes me invisible.”

He looked awful. Dark stubble, sweaty sheen, tousled hair, cracked lips. The room reeked of sweat, vomit, and other things she’d rather not think about.

“Gwyneth?” he muttered, coming around. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question.”