His Woman (23 page)

Dropping to the earthen floor, he sucked in air charred by smoke, scraping his throat raw with his every breath.

He searched the flaming debris for a break in the wall, a path he could use to crawl to the door.

Cinders from the beams supporting the roof swirled to the floor, others clung to the walls like demons to ignite a second later.

Another beam directly above him shuddered. The entire hut was going to collapse!

Duncan rolled over and pressed his body against the length of the unlit wall as its charred support began to crumble.

Wood groaned, sagged, then crashed downward.

He closed his eyes and braced himself for the fiery impact.

Heat blasted him as if billowed by a smithy. A thud. The grating of wood. The crackle and pop of burning wood roared in his ears.

Heart pounding, Duncan opened his eyes. Instead of the oak beam falling to the floor, the end nearest him had wedged halfway down the wall, which now bowed out. Soon, the entire hut would collapse.

Another pop. Sparks rained down.

He shielded his face with his garb as he turned away, beating out the embers settling on his clothes in an incessant mist. Each spark burned a hole in his garment, little pinpricks of heat searing his skin.

Yet another shudder rippled through the fire-immersed building. The last of the thatched room stumbled downward, floating batches of flaming straw in the air like the wings of a mythical beast. If possible, the intensity of the heat increased.

Desperate, Duncan jammed his sword into the wedge between the wood of the walls.

Nothing gave.

Heat, raw and blistering, scraped his face. The stench of smoldering hair screamed up his nostrils. He clawed a handful of dirt and scrubbed it on his head and prayed it would be enough.

The horrors of the painful death he faced tore through him, threatening his calm, shattering his thoughts as he fought to think of a way to escape.

An unexpected rush of cool air caught his attention. Duncan glanced over. On the opposite side of the building, with the shifting of the beam above, the corner of the hut had fractured. Now, a slit cut up the wall big enough to climb through.

Duncan scraped the earthen floor to smother flames before him as he inched forward. Smoke thickened, clogging his throat until he was forced to wrap a cloth over his mouth before he continued. Coughing, he pushed forward.

It was simple.

If he quit, he died.

He reached the corner. Exhausted, charred patches marring his garb and scarring his exposed skin, Duncan shoved himself up. His hands screamed as he caught the smoking edge.

The building started to tremble.

He glanced back. The wall to the entry door buckled, then started falling toward him.

Duncan dove toward the opening.

A wave of heat exploded over his face as Duncan’s back slammed against the snow. Heart pounding, he rolled away from the fire-engulfed hut. Wind-tossed cinders stabbed his exposed skin. He scooped snow into his hands, rubbing it onto his face, hands, and clothes, extinguishing the pinpricks of heat.

For a long moment he lay there, his body shaking, his breaths coming fast. On unsteady legs, he pushed to his feet and stared at the scarred remains of the crofter’s hut.

Blazing wood slammed to the earth. The beam propped against the interior wall sagged beneath the onslaught, then speared through the side wall to pile atop the already roaring stack.

He sucked in a cold breath. Another moment and he would have been burned alive.

Panic welled in his throat as he looked toward where Frasyer and his men had rode off. Isabel! He refused to believe Frasyer would harm her. If the earl had meant to kill her, he would have left her behind with Duncan to die.

Instead, he’d ridden off preening of yet another personal victory. Yet Frasyer had erred in the most basic of ways. He’d not ensured his foe was dead.

A mistake, one that would cost the bastard his life.

Hours later, wind rich with the scent of pine churned around Duncan with a lazy spiral. Golden rays reflected off crystallized snow in subtle warning of the approaching night.

Exhausted, determined, Duncan blew out a deep breath and forged ahead. Purpose kept him going, dulling the sting of the nicks from his clash with Frasyer’s men and the burns to his face and the back of his hands.

He’d trailed Frasyer throughout the day, but on foot, he was quickly falling behind. He scoured the hoof-hewn, windswept path ahead. If he didn’t catch up with Frasyer soon, with the drifts slowly filling in the tracks, he would lose the trail.

Duncan quickened his pace, ignoring the protests of his body.

A hawk soared overhead, its screech echoing in the wind. He took in the predator, a powerful mixture of strength and grace.

He scanned the pristine woodland ahead. He needed reinforcements. As if that was an option. On foot, it would take days to reach anyone who could aid him. Not that he hadn’t considered the overwhelming odds he faced should he catch Frasyer.

Muted voices in the distance had him looking northwest. Along the hillside, shadows of movement flickered through the thick wash of fir.

With stealth honed from years of war, Duncan crossed a nearby fallen log and hid behind several boulders covered with snow. As he’d followed the trail broken by Frasyer and his knights, he doubted the men would notice his tracks.

How many were in company? He hadn’t counted earlier when Frasyer had stormed the crofter’s hut. Likely, the earl had more reinforcements outside.

The soft thud of hooves on snow increased. A slap of leather melded with a jangle of spurs.

Frasyer’s men were coming this way.

Hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword, Duncan flattened himself against the cold stone.

The scent of sweat and leather tainted the air.

He held his breath. Waited for them to pass. At least the men were traveling north, opposite the direction he needed to take.

Tense seconds slid by.

“Are you sure you saw a movement over here,” a deep voice asked. “I see no sign of anyone.”

“They could still be around, well hidden,” another man replied, his voice unmistakably English. “They may have pulled back when they caught sight of us.”

“Aye,” a third man agreed. “If the English bastards are out there, we will find them.”

Relief swept Duncan as he stood. A pace away, knights upon their steeds were slowly passing. “Seathan!”

Surprise creased his oldest brother’s face as he turned in his saddle. He halted his mount. “Duncan! Christ’s blood.” Seathan’s obsidian gaze scoured him from head to toe. “You are wounded.”

Duncan stepped onto the trail. “A wee scratch or two.”

“Wee scratch,” his other brother Alexander challenged as he halted his mount beside Seathan. “You have burns on your clothes, face, and the back of your hands.”

Duncan shrugged. “Which will heal.”

“You are alive, thank God for that.” Lord Monceaux’s brow scrunched into a frown as he scanned the nearby trees.

“It is not myself that I am worried about,” Duncan said. “Frasyer has Isabel.”

Somber faces stared at him at the news.

Hardness encased Seathan’s face. “We will find her. Here.” He handed Duncan his water pouch. “Take a drink. After, tell us everything.”

Water cooled his throat in a long slide. Duncan secured the leather pouch and handed it to his oldest brother. Then he explained his finding Isabel at Frasyer’s, their journeying to Griffin’s to deliver the Bible, omitting the fact that he and Isabel had made love.

“He has both Isabel and the Bible?” Seathan asked, dread coating his words.

“Aye, he has the Bible,” Duncan replied, “but it holds naught proof of Lord Caelin’s innocence.”

At his words, Griffin stiffened within his saddle.

Duncan held the baron’s gaze. “You know.” It wasn’t a question.

Griffin nodded. “Yes.”

“Know?” Alexander demanded.

Seathan shot a questioning look from Griffin to Duncan. “By God, we will both be knowing the rest.”

With the sun setting and refusing to waste time, in brief, Duncan explained.

“By God’s steed,” Seathan said as he shook his head in disbelief.

“Aye,” Alexander agreed.

“You can understand why the truth of Isabel’s birthright was kept secret,” Griffin said.

“I can, but it does not make the learning of the fact easier to hear,” Seathan said, shooting Duncan an understanding look.

With his emotions in turmoil, Duncan withheld his comments on the topic. “We will discuss Isabel and her heritage later. First, we must catch them.”

Seathan blew out a harsh breath. “And will.” He shouted an order to his men.

Duncan accepted a spare mount brought to him by one of Seathan’s knights and swung up into the saddle.

Seathan kicked his steed forward in Frasyer’s wake. Duncan, as the others, followed suit.

“If Frasyer knows about the documents within the Bible that hold proof of her blood tie to Wallace,” Griffin asked as he cantered next to Duncan, “why did he not deliver them to King Edward?”

“Seems he wanted to deliver both proof of her heritage and Isabel to the king at the same time,” Duncan replied.

“The bugger would,” Alexander spat, the jostle of leather and hooves upon the snow a steady backdrop. “He cares naught but for himself.”

“Do you think he has reached King Edward by now?” Seathan asked.

Duncan scanned the horizon, his breaths misting before him. “Nay. With the heavy snow, even on horseback, it will take him another day, mayhap two. He rides with a sizable contingent of knights. Though we have but fifteen men, we hold the element of surprise.”

Alexander shot him a grim smile. “Aye, and Frasyer believes you are dead.”

“There is that,” Duncan agreed. “He will not be expecting me.”

“Or the rest of us,” Seathan said. “You made a good distance from the hut considering your injuries.”

Duncan shrugged. “I have suffered worse.”

Alexander grunted in acknowledgment.

Duncan looked at Griffin. “How fares Lord Caelin?”

“He is well,” the baron replied, “but I regret to say he is still within my dungeon.”

“Circumstance forced you to place him there,” Duncan said, aware that as King Edward’s Scottish adviser, Griffin could do naught that would raise suspicion.

“I have spoken with King Edward in regards to Frasyer’s claims that Lord Caelin is supporting the rebels,” Griffin said.

“And?” Duncan asked.

“I advised him that after speaking with my sources, I found no evidence to prove Frasyer’s charge against Lord Caelin to any degree regarding the rebels.”

“But King Edward is far from convinced?” Duncan asked.

Griffin nodded. “Frasyer sent a missive to the king stating that he had evidence, concrete proof of Lord Caelin being a traitor.”

“He was talking about the documents within the Bible,” Duncan said.

“Aye,” Seathan agreed.

Alexander nodded. “We cannot allow Frasyer to reach King Edward.”

“Or for the English king to gain Isabel,” Duncan added.

“If we do not stop Frasyer,” Griffin explained, “once King Edward learns the truth, nothing I can say will save Lord Caelin’s life.”

Or Griffin’s, Duncan silently added. Griffin had risked his reputation to try and save Lord Caelin. If the truth were exposed, with King Edward’s hatred toward Wallace and those who sheltered him, he would order Griffin’s death as well. God help them then.

“If we are to catch Frasyer,” Duncan said, “we need to ride faster. Nightfall will soon be upon us.”

“A point well made,” Seathan agreed.

Duncan kicked his mount into a gallop, as did his brothers. “Aye, we will find the bastard and save Isabel,” he called. “When we do, Frasyer is mine.”

Heartbroken, a tremor whipped through Isabel’s body, then another as emotion again threatened to overwhelm her. After all the tears she’d shed, one would think none would be left.

Yet, images of Duncan trapped in the flames, cinders like a horrific shower falling around him, besieged her mind.

She wrapped her arms around her body, the emptiness inside her tearing through her soul. Oh, God, if only she and Duncan had left the eve before, then he would be alive. Instead, they’d made love.

Now, he was gone.

The only man she would ever truly love.

Frasyer moved nearby, and she stiffened.

Bile rose in Isabel’s throat as she stole a glance toward Frasyer, who after several hours of travel, had installed them in a crofter’s hut. Terrified of his rank, the poor people living within had hurriedly followed the earl’s orders to abandon their home to him. She prayed they had relatives close by.

As much as she’d longed to secretly tell the husband and wife of her plight and ask them to find help, she’d remained silent as the farmers and their children had scurried out. Frasyer had warned her if she tried to gain their help, he’d kill the entire family.

With her heart still raw from Duncan’s death but hours ago, she refused to jeopardize innocent people’s lives. In the fight for Scotland’s freedom, many more lives would be lost, but if she could help spare even one, she would.

Exhaustion weighed heavy on her after this nightmare of a day. Duncan was dead, Lord Caelin was imprisoned and scheduled to be hung, and she’d learned William Wallace was her father. Now, Frasyer planned to hand her over to King Edward, who would use her as bait to draw Wallace in. Then the English king would kill him.

Isabel fisted her hand. She may have lost everyone who mattered to her, but her country would not lose their rebel leader—Scotland’s only hope to lead them to freedom.

Repulsed, Isabel watched as Frasyer preened within the fire-stoked chamber as if he was already before King Edward receiving yet another title. All Frasyer could see was his wealth, of what more he could gain, not the bloodshed caused by his greed or the people he destroyed.

Frasyer shot her a cold look as he shoved another chunk of seared venison into his mouth. “Do not think to escape me.”

“As if guarded by your knights I could.”

He slowly chewed, swallowed.

Disgusted, she turned away.

“Face me when I speak to you.”

Isabel kept her back toward him.

The clank of a blade sinking into wood made her jump. Heavy steps pounded on the wooden floor. Cruel fingers bit into her shoulder and jerked her around. Gray eyes bore into her with malicious intent.

“Defy me again and I will have you whipped.”

Ice chilled her veins. Before she would have held doubts, but since he’d watched Duncan trapped within the flames, something had broken inside him. Now, he would enjoy watching her suffer.

“Or,” he said, “use you for the position you were bartered for.”

His mistress.
She stiffened. “You cannot. An injury has prevented your ability.”

Nostrils flared. Hideous glee framed the anger in his eyes. “But not the abilities of my men.”

She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing the fear his taunt inspired. “I despise you.”

Frasyer’s laughter, deep and cruel, rumbled within his chest. “Imagine, William Wallace bound and forced to watch while his daughter is raped.”

Sickened, she wanted to turn away, the pitiful amount she’d eaten threatening to purge. “My father will not cede to your demands, regardless of your twisted efforts. He will rip out your heart with his bare hands.”

“In that we both agree,” he replied with confidence. “Wallace’s outrage will override his common sense and he will gallantly storm to your rescue.”