Haunting Warrior (23 page)

With a deep breath he moved to the hidden door. The latch popped quietly and he opened it. He took a candle from one of the sconces and poked his head inside the dark cavern. The tunnel was small and tight at the entrance, but up ahead it seemed to fan out and become wider and taller. Saraid might be able to stand straight at that point, though it looked like he would have to crouch the whole way.

“Come on,” he said, moving aside so she could enter first.

Saraid hesitated, and he caught the shadow of fear in her eyes. Was it the dark and closed space or was it Rory that scared her? He didn’t ask. Where was the point? It was this way or no way.

Silently he handed her the candle.

“You’ll have to crawl at first,” he said. “Just for a while.”

She gave a short, jerky nod and went down on her knees. He could hear her breath coming in short bursts, almost feel her heart pounding with fear as he waited.

“I’ll be right behind you,” he said softly.

She looked at him over her shoulder, her eyes round and frightened, making him wish there was another way—but there wasn’t. It was this or nothing. “I don’t like small spaces,” she said, her voice hitching.

The confession seemed to pain her, but even now, defiance glittered in the mahogany depths of her eyes.

He smiled gently and crouched down beside her. “I’m not so crazy about them either. But I’ll take this tunnel over what Cathán has planned. How about you?”

“Yes.”

But she didn’t move. Didn’t start down that dark and winding passageway. He brushed his fingertips over her brow, down the satiny softness of her cheek. Her lashes fluttered for a moment and it seemed she leaned closer. He forced himself not to test the waters, not to reach for her. This wasn’t the place. There wasn’t the time. But she was like a trip switch in his head, blocking logic and flooding him with thoughts that went no further than the feel of her, the taste, the need.

“I’ll be right here,” he said, his voice deep and husky, even to his own ears. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

She licked her lips, drawing his gaze with the small gesture. “It’s not that . . . it’s . . .”

She looked into the gaping hole, and a shudder went through her. He felt the vibrations of it and wanted to hold her, reassure her. He moved his hand to the tense muscles at the back of her neck, rubbed softly, waited for her to reject his comfort.

Instead she looked at him with those velvet eyes and whispered, “What if we can’t get out?”

He hadn’t wanted to think of that—of what would happen if they got to the end of the line to find a rock wall waiting. By then turning around and coming back might be just as wrong. And if Cathán realized what they’d done, where they’d gone, he’d need only to close up the tunnel exit and let them die a slow and torturous death sealed inside until they rotted away. . . .

“I told you I’d get us out of here,” Rory said, trying to sound confident. He couldn’t tell if he failed or succeeded. “And I will.”

Her eyes seemed huge and endless as they scanned his face. She wasn’t convinced, but she lifted the candle and with a deep breath, crawled into the tunnel. He joined her in the cramped space, hesitating a moment before pulling the door shut behind them. Only the weak pool of candlelight broke the thick wall of darkness that descended. Saraid sucked in breath that sounded harsh and thick with anxiety.

“Easy girl,” he murmured. “Just start moving. It’ll be all right.”

“I do not think I can,” she said, her tone angry and helpless at once.

He touched her shoulder, feeling the stiff posture, the rigid muscles frozen with fear. She wasn’t going anywhere.

“Okay,” he said. “It’s okay. Look, why don’t I move around you, go first? Would that make it better?”

She didn’t answer, but he thought she gave a small nod. Her skin looked pale and waxy in the flickering gloom. A fine sheen covered her face and the hand holding the candle trembled, splashing the walls with a writhing glow.

Carefully he moved forward. The space was tight, barely wide enough for one of them, let alone both. He had to pull her into him, wrap his arms around her quivering shoulders and shift, inch by inch, to get by. He could feel each ragged breath she took, smell the heat of her skin, her fear, her awareness of every shifting shadow. It seemed to take a very long time to maneuver around and all the while he was aware of how close to the door they were, how at any moment his father might yank it open and catch them. And then what would he do? Skewer them like a couple of pieces of meat? They were wasting time—time they didn’t have.

“Cool it,” he muttered to himself, trying to keep his head. Now was not the time to freak out.

Saraid almost set him on fire with the candle as he finally eased his body around—and wasn’t the idea of burning in the coffin-sized space enough to make him panic—but somehow he managed to reverse their positions without dying a terrible death.

“There,” he said, still speaking low, as if to a wild animal caught in this trap. He shot an anxious glance past her to the door. “We’re all good, right? Give me your hand.”

He felt her startled gaze, her embarrassment, her discomfort with her terror. She was used to being strong, in control. But the clenching black of the tunnel had reduced her to jangling emotions. She put her hand in his, her trust in him, and the weight of that small gesture settled uneasily on his shoulders. He wasn’t used to people depending on him. He was Rory MacGrath, the hell-raiser who’d been banished from his home, not the guy you turned to when you were in trouble.

He crawled awkwardly, one hand reaching out to feel what was ahead, the other reaching back, holding hers. His shoulders and body blocked the candlelight from reaching the crevasses in front of him, so he moved blindly, trying to remember the path he’d seen when he’d looked in. The tunnel floor was rough, with sharp edges and hard surfaces. His hands and knees were raw by the time they’d made it to the place where the twisting tunnel sloped sharply down before leveling out and becoming bigger. He’d been right. Saraid could stand straight here, but he had to bend to keep his head attached to his shoulders. Still, it beat crawling, and he was grateful to get off his knees.

He rose, pulling her up with him, bending to brush off the pebbles that clung to her skirts. She held the candle between them, watching him with eyes that seemed to have swallowed her face.

“You all right?” he asked, when he finished.

“Yes. Thank you.”

He smiled at her and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Good. Let’s keep moving.”

They could walk side by side now, but Saraid kept hold of his hand. Her fingers were as small and fine-boned as a bird, and more than once he caught himself running his thumb over the softness to the erratic pulse at her wrist. The caress felt as natural as the heat between their palms. Did she feel it, too, that current that seemed to travel between them when they touched? Or was she oblivious to it, to him?

Feeling like a fool with his first crush, he turned his thoughts back to the banquet hall, to his father’s eyes as he’d watched him. Cathán knew something wasn’t right, just not what. How long would it take before he pulled back the curtain and discovered them gone? And what would he do then? Where would the attack come from? Behind them, in the tunnel? Or ahead, where it came out? Both? His tension increased as he worried it, playing in his mind possible scenarios. None ended with him the victor, though. Finally he shut down his thoughts altogether and focused only on putting one foot in front of the other, making sure Saraid did the same.

He couldn’t have said how long they were in the tunnel. It felt like days of straining to hear anything beyond the sounds they made themselves, anything above the hammer of his heart in his chest and the roaring of his blood in his ears.

After what seemed an eternity, Saraid said, “I smell fresh air.”

Surprised, he paused and took a deep breath. It was there, a breeze, redolent and fecund, thick and damp. Hunching to avoid whacking his head on a low-hanging stone, he pulled Saraid forward, and at last, the pale glow of moonlight hovered just ahead. They’d hit the other side.

He wanted to whoop with relief, but caution kept him silent. He inched closer to the end of the tunnel, feeling the brush of cool air against his skin—the relief of knowing he wouldn’t have to face Saraid’s worst nightmare with her.

A few feet from the opening, he suddenly stopped, putting a hand out to still Saraid before she bowled him over. Slowly he touched her lips with his finger and shook his head. A playful breeze blundered into the tunnel and doused their candle.

Without the hiss and flicker, they both stilled, straining to hear beyond their isolation. Chirping crickets mingled with the creaks and groans, and rustling leaves. The seesawing harmony went on, unbroken until the howl of a wolf pierced the night. A second later the clatter of rocks skittering against one another cracked the quiet, but the tunnel distorted the sound and they couldn’t tell if it had come from near or far.

Then silence settled again, hushing even the crickets.

“What did y’ hear?” Saraid whispered, her lips to his ear, her warm breath a fan against his skin.

He wasn’t sure, but something had triggered a flush of adrenaline and rush of tension inside him. He shook his head, alert and listening, straining to dissect the silence. And there it was. A soft jingle, so faint it might have been imagined except for the deep exhalation that followed.
A horse?
Instinct told him he was right.

So was it Cathán’s men, then? Waiting to pick them off as soon as they stepped out?

He made a hand motion for Saraid to stay put and quietly pried her fingers from his own. He slipped from the tunnel into the deepest shadows, crouching and rolling under a bush as he did, bracing himself for the slicing pain of a sword piercing his body. Surprised when it didn’t come.

Slowly, carefully, he peered out from the concealing foliage. Ahead was forest, dark and intimidating as anything God had ever created. The trees stood like giants, branches twisted and stark in the moonlight, trunks twice again the span of a man’s arms, roots thick and bubbling up from the ground. To the left and reaching out behind him was a wide swath of dirt road cut into the forest. And there at the edge was a horse standing placidly beside a jutting boulder.

The horse snorted and shifted its weight with restless boredom. It had been here a while. Rory knew it with bone-deep certainty, but he couldn’t say just what made him sure. It felt like more than a guess, but there was nothing to back that up, just the weird feeling that he was right.

Warily Rory lifted his head to see over the bush, looking for a rider. As far as his eyes could penetrate the moonlit darkness, nothing moved but the branches swaying with the breeze. He ducked back down, turned, and looked in the other direction. Nothing there either.

What did that mean? That the rider was off taking a leak somewhere? Or that he was hiding, waiting for the idiots in the tunnel to step out? The second seemed most likely, and Rory looked again, scanning every shape, every shifting shadow. Not a damned thing moved.

He eased silently back into the tunnel where Saraid waited.

“What did y’ see?” she asked in whisper.

“There’s a horse, but no rider.”

She pulled her brows together, thinking. “Just one?”

He nodded.

“And what color is it?”

The question caught him by surprise. What did that matter? “Brown.”

“Does it have markings? White stockings?”

Yes, it had four white socks. He nodded again. “Why?”

“That would be Stephen’s horse. Left here to take him away after . . .”

After he murdered Ruairi the Bloodletter.
She didn’t have to finish the sentence.

It made sense, and he should have thought of it himself. But hell, this world had him turned inside out—literally. He was lucky to be thinking at all.

“That’s good,” he said, giving her a weak smile. “Good thinking.”

She looked flustered by the lame compliment, and he found his smile stretching. It was cute how tough she played and how easy it was to ruffle her feathers. In another time, another world, things between them might have been so much different.

She took two steps toward the tunnel opening, instantly wiping the smile off his face.

“Hang on,” he said, stopping her just before she made it into the open. Good thinking didn’t make her right for God’s sake. “You wait here.”

He strode out a little bolder now, but still expecting that bite of metal cutting through his skin. The memory of being gored like a pig was too fresh not to worry about a repeat performance. The horse looked up with interest when he appeared and whinnied in greeting, but nothing else moved save the leaves in the trees and the second hand ticking away in his head. As if waiting for a cue, the crickets began to chirp once more.

“It is his horse,” Saraid said, standing at Rory’s elbow.

“I told you to wait.”

She raised her brows, back to her cocky and defiant self now that he’d saved her from the tunnel monsters.

“And why would y’ be thinking I’d take orders from the likes of y’?” she asked, brushing past him with a haughty tilt of her chin.

He caught up with her as she approached the horse. It was agitated now, dancing on the end of its tether, eyeing Saraid with distrust. Making soft hushing noises, she reached out and took the reins that were looped around a low branch.

“Shhhh, Pooka. ’Tis just me,” she murmured, stroking the horse’s neck.

“How do you know this is Stephen’s horse?” asked Rory, more than a little ticked off but not sure if it was because of the woman, her attitude, or his own timidity, which seemed like cowardice now that they were out in the open without any immediate threat materializing.