Nicole Jordan (46 page)

He found himself in a narrow, craggy tunnel. The ceiling was low and jagged, as were the walls, although the wet rock floor had been worn somewhat smooth by centuries of seepage.

The air smelled damp and musty, and by the time he had crawled a half dozen yards, the temperature had dropped significantly and the light had completely disappeared, turning the tunnel pitch black.

It was like being buried in a cold, dark tomb. With no torches, Thorne had to trust his instincts, feeling blindly along the rock. After another twenty yards, by his count, he was suffering from aching knees, scraped palms, and a gash on his forehead where he’d banged into a sharp protrusion. Yet he forged onward.

In the blackness, the journey seemed endless, the minutes stretching like hours. The increasing tension knotting Thorne’s muscles was only exacerbated by the uncertainty of not knowing what they would find when they finally reached the castle. And every passing moment merely heightened his awareness that Sir Gawain’s time on earth was likely ticking away.

Thorne estimated they had been in the tunnel perhaps a quarter of an hour when he felt a surge of air on his face. He quickened his pace, and then regretted it when his head collided with a rock wall, sending a lance of pain spearing through him.

“Bloody hell,” he swore roundly, realizing they had finally come to the end of the secret passage.

Behind him, Verra gave a low chuckle. “Surely you can be more inventive in your curses, my lord. Try this….”

A string of foul expletives in Spanish followed, some obscene enough to blister the chill air of the tunnel.

Despite himself, Thorne found himself grinning as his fingers searched for the opening that had to be there. He found it low on the wall. A stone slab had been positioned to block the entrance to the tunnel, but when he shoved hard, the slab gave way.

Pushing again, Thorne made the opening wider and wormed through, into what he knew was a small cave.

It was just as black here, but if memory served, rag torches and a flintbox had been staged a few yards to his right. Fumbling, he found what he was seeking and managed to light a torch in only two tries.

The brilliant flames were temporarily blinding, but showed they were in a low, jagged cavern—secreted deep in the castle dungeons, Thorne knew.

Verra was already standing and offering him a hand. Clasping it, Thorne climbed to his feet and bent to cross the cavern.

With light, the going was much easier and more rapid. On the far wall, they found a miniature wooden door but had to spend several more precious moments searching crannies for the key to unlock it. The door opened into the dungeons proper—vast, cold stone chambers that boasted a score of iron-barred cells for holding prisoners forgotten by civilization, as well as rooms filled with medieval armor and chain mail and even instruments of torture.

Ascending a narrow stone stairway, Thorne found another hidden key and unlocked a heavier door. This one spilled into the castle storerooms and cellars below the keep, and they quickly moved through the warren to another steep flight of steps and yet another door, which was unlocked, since it provided direct access to the kitchens.

After hanging the torch in a wall holder, Thorne drew both pistols from his belt, as did Verra. Then Thorne furtively pushed open the door.

He was unsurprised to find the vast kitchen chamber empty. All the servants—cook and scullery maids and pot boys—would have immediately gone to the castle’s defense. A cauldron still bubbled in the massive hearth, while a haunch of beef had been left charring on a spit, suggesting the room had been abandoned in haste.

“We should split up,” Thorne murmured. “Double our chances of finding Sir Gawain.”

“Sí,”
Verra agreed.

“I’ll take the great hall first, then head outside to the bailey. You start with the rest of this floor, then make your way upstairs.”

Nodding, Verra turned around and silently melted away.

Thorne crossed the kitchens and slipped through the open door. He heard no gunfire as he advanced along the stone corridors. The castle was eerily quiet. But when he came to a narrow window, he risked glancing out and saw a seaman armed with a long rifle manning the walls. Forrester’s brigands continued to be in control of the bailey, Thorne concluded with a sinking heart.

As he came closer to the great hall, he heard the angry hum of voices. Pausing, he felt his pulse jump with relief when he recognized the familiar deep voice of the Guardians’ leader.

Sir Gawain was still alive for the moment, at least.

Thorne crept forward silently. The great hall—the center of activity of any castle—had several entrances, and he was coming from the rear. When he finally reached the arched doorway and eased inside, he crouched in the shadow of a massive column to take stock of the situation.

To come to this pass, the delay he’d prayed for during his time in the tunnels must have occurred…a temporary standoff between Forrester’s men and the castle defenders. But Forrester had obviously managed to gain the great hall with three of his ruffians.

Halfway down the cavernous hall, a tall man with dark red hair stood training a pistol on Sir Gawain. The baronet had his back to the wall, which was hung with weapons and armaments as well as ancient tapestries.

The elderly Guardian was speaking with great eloquence, evidently playing for time. Yet from the aggressive responses, Forrester’s frustration and anger were growing with every moment.

Inhaling a short, steadying breath, Thorne burst into the hall, shouting at Forrester as he ran, intent on attracting attention to himself.

His unexpected action had the desired effect, making Forrester turn instinctively toward the threat and aim his pistol at Thorne.

Instantly Sir Gawain spun and reached up to grasp a knight’s shield, yanking it down from the wall. By the time Forrester comprehended enough to shift his focus back to the baronet and fire his pistol, Sir Gawain had brought the shield up in front of his chest. The exploding bullet lodged harmlessly in the polished steel.

Cursing, Forrester pulled a second pistol from his belt, but Sir Gawain threw the shield at him with enough force to send him staggering backward, so that the gun slipped from his grasp to discharge loudly on the stone floor, while the shield skidded, clanging, in Thorne’s direction.

Undeterred, Forrester lunged for the wall, grabbing the hilt of a heavy broadsword and tugging it free.

Thorne registered the events in only one corner of his mind as he raced toward the attackers, for he was forced to deal with Forrester’s cohorts. One of the ruffians leapt into Thorne’s path and received a bullet in the shoulder for his pains.

A second man shot at Thorne and barely missed.

Lowering his shoulder, Thorne threw himself at the brawny seaman, his forward momentum carrying them both crashing to the floor. Thorne ended on top, but unluckily, his remaining pistol skittered away. Raising himself slightly, he drew back his fist and delivered a fierce blow to the jaw of the man beneath him, rendering him unconscious.

Regretting the delay, Thorne looked up in time to see Forrester charge the baronet. Snarling in deadly rage, Forrester raised the broadsword and, aiming for Sir Gawain’s head, brought the wicked blade down in a whooshing arc. The aging Guardian barely leapt away in time.

“Forrester!” Thorne shouted again.

Swiveling, Forrester shifted his full attention to Thorne this time, possibly because he considered the younger Guardian a more immediate threat. Raising the broadsword in a savage grip, Forrester rushed his new target.

Unarmed, Thorne rolled to one side and managed to grasp the shield and heft it up to protect his head as he rose to one knee. When the blade struck the polished metal surface, the impact shuddered all the way along his arm and shoulder to his chest.

Forrester pressed his advantage, hammering at the shield in violent fury.

“Thorne!” Sir Gawain suddenly shouted. He had pulled another sword off the wall, although this one was not so broad or heavy. Swiftly he tossed it to Thorne, who caught the hilt deftly and surged to his feet.

“Give over, Forrester!” Thorne advised. “You’re finished here.”

“Never! I’ll have your heart on a spit first. Just as I had that damned Lunsford’s. And then I’ll kill this whore’s get, Olwen.”

Rage surged through Thorne at the reminder of Nathaniel’s senseless death, while Forrester’s taunting tone made him see flaming red. When he heard the clatter of boot heels as Verra ran into the great hall, Thorne jerked up an imperative hand.

“Stay back!” he ordered. “This bastard is
mine.
”

Verra complied, merely training his pistols on the one remaining ruffian, who immediately threw up his hands in surrender.

Tossing the shield aside, Thorne lifted his weapon, preparing to do battle. Instantly Forrester engaged swords, the steel clashing with a loud clang.

From the first blows, Thorne could tell his opponent was a skilled swordsman, since no doubt he’d spent years training to enact his revenge. It was also an uneven match because Forrester’s blade was significantly heavier. And from the bloodlust shining in his eyes, he wouldn’t stop from killing with his bare hands if necessary.

But Thorne was just as determined. He stood his ground, blocking the powerful blows and nimbly fending off the attack.

Suddenly changing tacks, Forrester made a quick feint and lunged, nearly slipping through Thorne’s guard; he would have been skewered had he not parried at the last instant.

Disengaging, the two men circled each other. Then Forrester charged again, his eyes fiery and blazing, his sword swinging.

When their blades came together again, sparks flew from the clashing steel.

They fought for what seemed an eternity, with neither man able to achieve the advantage. After perhaps six or seven minutes, Thorne’s sword arm had begun to ache, but he could tell Forrester was tiring also, and the sneer on his face was not so obvious.

It was a few moments later when Forrester stumbled.

Thorne pressed the attack, advancing with a flurry of two-handed blows that kept the man off balance and finally sent him sprawling.

Forrester scrambled to right himself, turning onto his back, only to find Thorne standing over him, pressing a deadly sword tip into his throat.

“Surrender or forfeit your life,” Thorne hissed.

“You can rot in hell,” Forrester spat back.

Evidently prepared to die, he let out a shrieking cry and swung his blade wildly at Thorne’s head.

When Thorne jerked back to save himself from decapitation, Forrester leapt to his feet. Rather than continue the battle, however, he turned to flee, sprinting toward the rear of the great hall.

Thorne immediately gave chase. There was nowhere for the traitor to run, but there were countless weapons strewn all over the castle, including the armory and gallery where the Guardians frequently held fencing practice.

Thorne followed closely, yet surprisingly, instead of heading toward the depths of the keep, Forrester suddenly changed course and took the stone stairway that led to the upper reaches of the castle.

Thorne was right behind him. By the time he’d raced up four flights, he was breathing hard and could hear Forrester’s ragged breaths, as well.

Staying hard on his quarry’s heels, Thorne burst through the door at the top of the stairs and found himself on the wall walk of the keep.

The golden sunlight was overly bright after the cool dimness of the great hall, and it made him blink as he quickly scanned his surroundings. The crenellated parapet to his right was perhaps waist high. Squinting, Thorne looked down, eyeing the long drop to the bailey below. They were directly above the stone courtyard of the stables, he realized.

Beyond the castle walls, he spied the men he’d left to guard the drawbridge, plus a dozen others who were likely the reinforcements Verra had summoned. Just then another fleet group of riders rode up to join them.
Diana,
was Thorne’s first thought, before he wisely returned his attention to his opponent.

Forrester had turned to face him, looking crazed, his broadsword raised high. He wasn’t entirely cornered yet, but he had to know there was no escape.

Just then Forrester threw down his sword with a clang. Bending low, he gave another wild, shrieking cry and ran full tilt at Thorne.

He hit with the impact of a battering ram, his red head striking the center of Thorne’s chest and sending him reeling against the parapet wall behind him.

Thorne crashed into the wall, the air knocked from his lungs, then tumbled backward as Forrester’s maniacal dive carried them both over the edge.

Twenty-three

H
orror closing
off her throat, Diana stared up at the castle battlements as she watched Thorne fall backward over the parapet.

Yet somehow his downward plunge was checked, even as Forrester flew past him, keening the unearthly wail of a man plummeting to his death.