Dark and Stormy Knight (33 page)

As she spoke, she studied the contraption holding him for a way to free him. The old-fashioned stockade consisted of two pieces connected by a hinge and a latch.

“I came to help you. If I can get you out of here, will you be able to walk?”

She kept her voice low, fearful of being overheard should the duke return.

“Forget me. Go back to Brocaliande. Warn Belphoebe they know about our son.”

“Not on your life,” she protested, digging in her heels. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

His eyes narrowed to slits and he seemed to go limp. Very gently, she touched his cheek, hoping to bring him around. As much as she hated to inflict more suffering, she had to get him out of the pillory before the duke came back.

Shit, he didn’t rouse. She looked around, hoping an answer would present itself. There was a half-empty whisky bottle on a table strewn with tools. Many were covered in blood and bits of hair. Outrage threatened to strangle her. She could guess what they’d been used for.

“Baby, please.” She touched his face again. “You’ve got to wake up.”

He didn’t. Crap. She stepped to the latch and got to work releasing him. The clamp was stiff with rust and shaking, sweat-slick fingers didn’t make the job any easier. Just as the latch released, the door to the corridor flew open with a heart-stopping bang.

There stood the duke in all his rotund glory. He did not have the cup. He walked straight toward her, nearly giving her a heart attack. Then, she remembered he couldn’t see her.

Stepping out of his path, she nearly tripped over a bucket filled with water—probably to revive his victims when they passed out from the pain.

As she skirted the pail, the duke grabbed Leith by the hair and yanked hard. Her knight’s head came up and he moaned, but didn’t open his eyes.

“There will be no sleeping on my watch,” the duke said.

As Gwyn edged farther away, the duke grabbed the bucket and threw the water in Leith’s face. He came awake with a cough and shook his head like a wet dog. The rebounding cold water splashed over her, soaking her toga. The mist enveloping her began to fade. Panic erupted in her chest. Good God. The fresh water must have broken the charm.

The look Leith gave her told her she was right. Luckily, the duke kept his back to her. As she frantically cast around for a hiding place, he said to Leith, “Time for a change of scenery.”

Leith let out a low groan. Gwyn ducked behind something that looked like an upright iron sarcophagus. Careful not to touch the surface, she peeked around the edge. Despite the drenching, Leith still looked out of it. Fear set its hook in her gut when the duke made to open the pillory. Finding the latch sprung, he turned his head as if looking for the culprit. She ducked behind the iron maiden in the nick of time, but burned her hands in the bargain.

Hinges groaned. Something fleshy hit the floor hard. She cringed inside. Poor Leith. Her hope buoyed a little when her gaze landed on a sledgehammer hanging on the wall. A shudder went through her as she imagined its purpose in this chamber of horrors. She blinked the grisly images away and steered her mind back to what the heavy tool might do for her. Maybe, if she could swing the hammer hard enough, she could do some serious damage to that bloated bastard.

First, however, she’d need to wait for the right moment. There was no hope without the element of surprise on her side. The blow had to be perfectly timed. Stealing a peek around the iron maiden, she bristled at the scene that greeted her.

Leith was now slumped in a chair with his knees apart. His eyes were closed and his chin rested on his chest. The duke stood over him with his back to her. This was her chance!

She gripped the sledgehammer and started to lift it from its place. Despite her supernatural strength, her wrist strained painfully under the weight of the metal head. Her heart sank along with the tool. She’d never wield it with enough force to stove in a skull.

Still, she had to try. She raised the hammer, shaking under the strain, and did her best to keep the unwieldy tool aloft as she crept up behind the duke. Summoning every ounce of strength she could, she hefted that anvil of a hammer as high as she could. Just when she was ready to bring it down with deadly force, something scurried across her feet. The shock threw her off balance. She staggered backward and dropped the hammer, which hit the stones with a jarring clang. The duke turned and looked straight at her with beady yellow eyes.

Shit! He could see her.

Panic fountained inside her. She staggered backward, gaze darting for the dropped hammer, which lay just out of reach.

The duke shambled toward her, arms outstretched, eyes bulging and glazed, lips twisted in a snarl.

On rubber legs, she backed away.

Behind him, Leith half opened his eyes. As the scene before him registered, he started to rise. The duke must have caught the movement out of the edge of his eye, because he began to turn, but not in time. With a sudden lunge, Leith locked his arm around the duke’s neck. The fat man’s eyes bulged like a toad’s, and he made a gurgling noise high in his throat. His bloated face turned from white to red to purple. As he slumped, Leith spun him round and gave him what her father used to call a Glasgow kiss. The crack of butting foreheads made her grimace. The impact knocked the duke to his knees.

Leith raced to her. Relief blew through her as he gathered her into his arms. Reveling in the haven of his embrace, she closed her eyes and inhaled his comforting scent.

A scuffing sound snapped her back to the room, where a red-coated guard stood frozen in the doorway. Mouth agape, he glanced from the hugging couple to his crumpled commander, then back again.

Leith must have sensed the man’s presence because, in one balletic motion, he took up the sledgehammer and turned to face the intruder. The guard, with equal grace, drew his sword with a metallic whoosh that sliced Gwyn to the quick.

The redcoat lunged and slashed. Leith drew up to dodge the blade and let the hammer fly. When the heavy head struck the man’s shoulder, he stumbled and fell backward into the doorjamb. Still gripping his sword, the guard recovered himself and started toward Leith, now unarmed.

Gwyn frantically cast around for anything she might employ as a weapon. Her gaze landed on the whisky bottle. Maybe she could crack it over his head or break off the base and wield it the way men did in bar fights in the movies. Either way, she’d have to get the drop on the guy first, which seemed next to impossible under the circumstances.

Still, she had to try—without delay. Leith couldn’t evade that sword forever. Eventually, the guard would back him into a corner and go for the kill. Her knight might possess supernatural strength, but the duke had put him through the ringer.

That he was on his feet was a miracle in itself, let alone hopping about. She had to reach that bottle and dig deep for her courage. Their escape from Avalon, their very lives, depended upon her not wimping out.

With short, hard jabs of the sword, the guard advanced slowly on Leith, driving him toward the wall. Instead of stepping back, Leith stepped forward into the arc of the blade. The tip sliced a gash in his left side. As blood poured from the wound, Gwyn forgot her fear.

Surging forward, she snatched up the whisky bottle and with lightning speed, brought her weapon down on the head of the guard with a clonk she found at once sickening and heartening. The blow wasn’t enough to knock him out, but was enough to stun him. He just stood there looking at Leith, who now leaned against the wall with blood pouring down his left leg.

Overdosing on adrenaline, Gwyn stepped back. Something caught her foot. The bullwhip. Yes! She’d forgotten all about it. Bending, she curled her fingers around the hard leather handle, caught the tail in a crude coil, and flung the whole thing toward Leith.

He caught the whip and, in a move straight out of
Raiders of the Lost Ark
, shot the tail toward the guard. The small end wrapped around the blade like a tentacle and plucked the sword right out of the redcoat’s hand. The weapon sailed toward Leith, who dropped the whip just in time to catch the sword by the hilt.

He charged, blade leading. The guard regained his wits and started to turn, but not in time. Leith ran him through. Gwyn cringed at the sound of steel impaling meat and bone. As the guard dropped, she met Leith’s gray gaze. The alarmed expression in his eyes sent an icy serpent slithering down her spine.

Fuck! She’d forgotten all about the duke. The defensive stance Leith assumed told her their adversary had recovered his wits.

“Don’t waste the energy, MacQuill.” Behind her, the duke’s voice, though a rasp, was still commanding. “She’ll be dead before your first foot leaves the floor.”

Cold metal grazed her ear and the side of her face before coming to rest just below her jawline. A knife of some kind. The blade burned, but not as hotly as iron.

“Let her go.”

“Why should I?”

“Because she’s meant to be the tithe to the Dark Lord,” Leith said, clearly improvising. “And the queen would be displeased should you deprive her of her offering.”

Leith seemed remarkably in command of himself considering his waxy complexion and the blood spilling over the hand shielding his wound. She sure as hell hoped he had a plan because she could see no way out of this desperate situation.

“The queen is resourceful.” The hot blade pressed harder against her neck, searing her flesh. “She can find another oblation.”

“Aye,” Leith returned, outwardly unflapped. “I suppose she can. But I happen to know she can be scornful in the extreme when her plans are upset. Besides, you can’t kill the both of us. To be fair, you should know I’m as quick as a cat and as strong as an ox. The second your knife draws blood, I’ll crush you like the overgrown cockroach you are.”

The duke laughed, his fetid breath offending her nostrils. “You mean the way you did at Culloden?”

Fury blazed in Leith’s gray eyes just before his gaze shifted to something behind the corpse. In a blink, his eyes softened and a smile curled his lips.

“Your entrance could not have been better timed,” Leith said to whoever had come in.

“Nice try,” the duke bit out. “But if you think I’m daft enough to fall for that old trick, think again.”

Leith’s smile broadened as his gaze slid back to the duke’s. “Suit yourself, your grace. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

A hollow clonk echoed through the room. The blade at Gwyn’s throat jerked abruptly, nicking her flesh. The wound burned something awful. She clenched, bracing for the worst. Instead of cutting her throat, the duke released his grip and crumpled to the floor.

Her hand flew to the wound on her neck. Leith grabbed her other arm and pulled her toward the door. That was when she saw the faery she’d freed earlier. She stood in the doorway, as naked as the day she was born.

Gwyn’s gaze flicked from the faery to Leith. He gaped at the woman, wide-eyed.

“What are you doing here?” Leith asked.

“I could ask you the same question,” the faery returned.

Gwyn’s chest cramped with jealousy. They clearly knew each other.

When the faery turned and fled, Leith went after her.

Gwyn, immobilized by sudden insecurity, stayed put.

“Gwyneth!” The sharpness with which he barked her name broke her trance. He stood in the doorway, arm outstretched, fingers beckoning. “Come, my wee mouse. Before they regain their senses.”

Gwyn, regaining hers, looked around at the fallen men. “Why don’t we kill them before they revive?”

“Because they’re revenants,” he said. “The only way to kill them is a stake through the heart while they sleep in their coffins.”

Gwyn hurried toward him. Taking hold of her arm, he ushered her down the dim passageway, back the way she’d come in. The faery, now wearing a burgundy velvet robe several sizes too large, was waiting at the end of the corridor with something white draped over her arm.

“Here.” She threw the white garment to Leith. “Put these on.”

They were the same breeches the guards wore. He let go of Gwyn’s arm as he pulled them on and hurriedly buttoned the drop-front fly.

“Where to now?” he asked the faery. “Rosemarkie or Brocaliande?”

“Brocaliande.”

“No,” Gwyn protested. “I’m not going anywhere without the cup. The fat man has it, probably in his office.”

She started in the direction of the office, but footsteps stopped her in her tracks. Someone was coming and the faery had disappeared. Literally. The robe she’d been wearing lay in a puddle of burgundy velvet on the floor. Given the acoustics, it was impossible to determine from which direction the footsteps were approaching, only that they were being made by more than one pair of boots.

Leith grabbed her wrist and pulled her back the way they’d come. He towed her along as he jiggled the handle of each cell they passed. The third was unlocked. Its door swung open with a squeal that set her teeth on edge.

Pulling her inside, he did his best to minimize the noise as he shut the door. The footsteps grew louder. There were voices, too. The guards were looking for somebody. The escaped faery, probably. Not that it mattered. They’d discover the duke and the other guard soon enough. And when that happened, she and Leith wouldn’t just be up shit creek without a paddle, they’d be riding the brown rapids without a raft.

* * * *

“Gwyneth? Where’d you go?” He’d turned his back for one second, possibly less, and she’d vanished into thin air.

“What do you mean? I’m right here.”

No, she wasn’t. He could hear her well enough, but could see nothing more than the empty cell.

“Where?”

He swiped the air with both hands, feeling no more than he could see.

“Oh, my God,” she said loud enough to give him a start. “The cloak of mist must have returned after my clothes dried out.”

She was indeed as invisible as she’d been when she entered Cumberland’s chamber of tortures. Talking of which, he could still be seen as plain as day and the footsteps were drawing nearer by the second.

“Leith.” Her unseen hand touched his arm. “Who was that faery?”