Prisoner of the Flames (Leisure Historical Romance) (33 page)

When they reached the gangplank, Aengus hung back. “Take her aboard,” he said, “I’ll follow after.”

“You feel it, too, don’t you, Uncle?”

“I feel…something. Hurry! Do as I’ve said.”

Robert dismounted, and led Violette on board. Gentle ripples lapped the bulkhead as the galley shifted with their weight, spreading the odor of tar and salt-besotted timbers that creaked under the strain. Still Aengus didn’t follow. With a close eye on him, Robert settled Violette aft, and consigned their mount to steerage.

“Hurry, Uncle!” he called. The seamen were throwing the ropes off. “No, wait,” he said to the three scurrying over the deck making ready to sail, “my uncle comes…”

He’d scarcely spoken, when the thunder of hoofbeats bled into the quiet, and a hail of flaming arrows rained down upon them. Aengus had just begun to lead his mount toward the gangplank, when one of the arrows struck his leg, and he wheeled the animal around.

“Uncle!”
Robert thundered. Violette’s terrified scream ripped through the racket, and he was caught between the horrifying scene along the dock, and the flaming arrows that had fallen all around her.

“Go, Robert!” his uncle called. “My course is run. This is what he meant, your healer. See to your bride, and
go with
God…!”

It was the cardinal’s men.

Helpless to prevent it, the young Scot watched his uncle ride straight toward the line of oncoming soldiers, then veer off, leading them away from the dock. Fanned by the wind that had risen with the turn of the tide and his motion, the flaming arrow imbedded in the old cleric’s leg had set fire to his habit. Robert looked away, grateful for the darkness that would spare him the sight of Aengus Haddock’s last moments.

The deck was alive with crewmen trying to extinguish the fire the arrows had started along the gunwales. Robert ran to Violette, led her out of harm’s way, and lent his hand to the chore.

More arrows rained down, but the risen wind had carried the galley out of their reach, and the flaming missiles sank hissing into the inlet. Bucket after bucket was hauled up over the side and dumped on the starboard gunwales. More was brought up and sloshed over the aft deck that had started to burn before the fire was finally extinguished.

Violette had calmed by the time he reached her, which amazed him considering her blindness, and he took her in his arms and led her below.

“It is over,” he said. “You are very brave.”

“Once I could no longer feel the heat of the flames, I knew there was no danger…that you would not let me come to harm.”

“I wish
I’d
known it,” Robert gritted through clenched teeth.

“Your uncle…?”

“Dead.”

She gasped.

“He sacrificed himself for us—made straight for the cardinal’s men. They must have seen him booking our passage earlier. We rode right into their trap.”

“Are we…safe now?” she murmured.

“We have to be,” said Robert. “I have to believe it, because if we aren’t, Uncle Aengus has died for naught.”

W
hen they set out, Violette had no idea of the length of their
journey. Had she been aware when they left Bordeaux that they must navigate through the Channel and follow the coast of England north in order to reach her husband’s keep in Scotland, she mightn’t have pretended to be so brave.

Once the voyage was underway, Robert told her that it would doubtless take longer than anticipated, given the fickle currents. When wicked autumn tempests weren’t blowing ships off course, staid calms would slow their speed to a standstill. But these reprieves from dirty weather that always seemed to happen during the day, while terrible squalls plagued the nights, grew few and far between, and ceased altogether when they neared the Scottish border. There, wicked maelstroms fraught with white-capped swells and following seas became the order of the day and night until they had nearly reached their destination.

Then, too, there were stops along the way to unload and take on cargo and supplies, further delaying the journey’s progress. In her blindness, one endless day of pitching, rolling terror bled into the next, though Violette would not show her fear to Robert. Except for the terrible retching that she couldn’t hide, she steeled herself for whatever her new circumstance held in store. He had stilled her greatest fear, quelled her most dreaded despair. He hadn’t abandoned her. That was all that mattered. Given that, he would soon see he was dealing with quite a different Violette.

One thing troubled her as the days wore on. Though they
were wed, Robert had not claimed his husbandly rights. They shared a tiny cubicle below deck not far removed from steerage, but despite the closeness, he kept her at a distance. Something was not as it should be. He was grieving for his uncle, it was true, and for the sacrifice seigneur de Montaigne had made giving up his vineyards to aid their escape, but there was something else between them now, something she didn’t understand, and it frightened her.

Finally, the wind held its breath, and on the first calm night since they’d set out, she let Robert lead her on deck for a breath of air that didn’t smell of horseflesh and dung. She inhaled deeply as she clung to him. Even though the seas were calm, she had never gotten used to the pitch and roll of a ship riding the waves, nor would she.

“Are there seas in Scotland…like this…Will we have to travel on them?” she said, gripping his arm as a rolling swell challenged her footing.

“No, lass,” he said, “not like this. There are brooks and streams and lakes, yes, but once we reach Scottish shores our voyaging is ended. Then we travel by land the rest of the distance to Paxton Keep, and but for the moat about it that we cross by bridge, you’ll come upon no body of water for leagues.”

“That…is good,” she responded.

“Ahhh, lass,” he said, “It isn’t long now before we stand on dry land again. You are so clear of mind I sometimes forget that you cannot see. If you could, and I gave you a spyglass to look through, you could see the English coastline we follow. Once we reach Scotland, we travel west, over land…no more than a day’s ride. A high wall separates us from the English, but raiders often cross over, and we must be prepared. We follow the River Tweed, but there is a bridge to cross it, and then we shall pass through rolling hills, forests, and land much like your French countryside before we reach the keep.”

“Will you want me then?” she said, low-voiced. The muscles in his arm tensed under her fingers. She held her breath. When he hesitated, she reached to touch his face with the fingers that were her eyes, but he cupped her hands in his and held them away.

“Will I
want you?”
he said. “Violette, you know I want you. I would take you right now, if…”

“If what?”

“Why can you not trust me just a little longer?” he said, pulling her close in his arms.

“Something has…changed in you. I know you grieve, but it is something…more. I sense things, Robert…I
feel
what others see. I feel a difference in you…in your touch. We lie together below, and yet you will not love me. I’m thinking that you have wed me out of obligation and that once we reach your homeland—”

He shook her none too gently. “You want the truth?” he said. “It will frighten you to hear it, and I need you to be brave.”

“I do not understand…”

“The danger is not over,” he said, his voice soft, and forced. The sound of it turned her blood cold. “I would have had you long ago, if I didn’t fear that something might…happen to me, and then you would be…alone, blind and helpless—possibly with child, and now in a strange land. While Uncle Aengus was with us, we were stronger. Now, we have no allies ‘til we reach Paxton Keep, and there is danger from the English raiders coming from Northumbria, to pillage, and…rape. I am one against God knows how many, should we be set upon. I will not leave you vulnerable. I did not want to speak of this, because I did not want to frighten you. How you have survived this ordeal as it is is quite beyond my comprehension.”

“But we are
wed
now,” she reminded him.

“That matters not to English raiders, Violette.”

“And if you were…struck down—what then?”

Again he hesitated. “Just pray it doesn’t happen,” he said.

Robert couldn’t bring himself to tell her that he’d take her life before he let her fall into the hands of marauding raiders. It was too terrible to think about, let alone speak. They said no more about consummating their marriage, though what was left unspoken festered between them. He hadn’t convinced her that it wasn’t solely out of obligation that he’d brought her with him. They were almost home. Soon he would prove how much she was wanted, but for now, he needed to marshal all his energies, and concentrate on reaching Paxton Keep in order to do it.

He wished Dr. Nostradamus had shed more light on his current predicament. Did the healer’s silence mean that all was well, or was omission his means of sparing him foreknowledge of some calamity yet to befall them? He would not dwell upon it. His mind must be clear. His body must be rested. If all went well, he would be safely reunited with his kin in less than a day.

He led his bride ashore on the banks of the Tweed River at first light. He lifted her up on the horse’s back, mounted himself, and rode west, at last on familiar ground. The day dawned clear after a soft lowland mist that burned off after the sun rose. It was fanned by a gentle breeze blowing down from the Highlands that grew stronger by noon.

“What is that wonderful smell?” Violette breathed, inhaling deeply. “Flowers, I think, but I do not know it.”

Robert smiled. “The last of the autumn heather,” he said. “Even when these wither and turn black, the fragrance lingers. The hills are covered with it here.”

“What does it look like?”

“Small stalks—some white, some different shades of purple. I know that you do not know color, but white, I think, is what you must see when the sun strikes you full in the
face and dilutes the gray. I cannot think of a way to show you purple, else it be likened to the evening shadows.”

“Oh,” she said. “It must be beautiful. Is there heather by your keep?”

“Not close enough to visit on your own,” he told her. “The keep sits upon higher, rockier ground. There is a courtyard, but I doubt it has been planted, what with so much press over raiders, and no wildflowers grow beyond the moat. There are many different species in Scotland. I promise you will come to know them all—even the ones I cannot name. I will see to it.”

Again she inhaled. “In times such as this, I do so wish that I could
see,”
she said with passion.

Robert hesitated. He didn’t want to stop until he reached his stronghold. He looked about. There was nothing moving but the heather, and the tall grass swaying in the breeze for as far as he could see in any direction. Reining in his mount, he set her down among the flowers. Violette squealed in delight, frolicking in the heather. She knelt in it, and picked handfuls, which she tucked into the pocket she wore on a cord over her apron. She tucked some into her cap, her sleeves—anywhere she could fit the delicate, spriglike blooms.

Robert climbed down from the horse and strode toward her. “These are not the last in all Scotland,” he said through a chuckle. “They will come again in the spring. You needn’t ravage the countryside.”

“I think I shall like your Scotland,” she said.

Reaching toward him, she made wide circles in the air. He breached the gap and took her hands. How beautiful she looked with the sun shining on her face. The sight alone aroused him. How could she question that he wanted her? How, when he’d nearly succumbed to her charms at every pass since their odyssey began. As if his fingers had a will of
their own, they began sliding up her arms. She smelled of the heather, and of the sun.

Leaning into him, Violette pulled him close—too close. His posture clenched, and he held her at arm’s distance.

“No!”
he said. “No, Violette, I should not have. It shan’t be long now. We are almost home, where there are others to care for you if I…cannot.”

She looked up at him with those vacant, unseeing eyes, so filled with hurt. All he could think of was that he had put it there. “Violette…,” he murmured.

“I am right,” she cried, breaking away. “You do not want me now, here in your homeland, where you can have your pick of sighted women. I’ve felt it since we left seigneur Montaigne’s. I am not satisfactory.”

He jerked her around, for she’d started to bolt. “Once we reach the keep, you will see how foolish this notion of yours is,” he said. “You are here with me, aren’t you? Did I leave you behind, as you feared I would? I love you, Violette, but my conscience—”

“Conscience, conscience—always your
conscience!
” she cried. “Before—yes, though I did not agree, I could see the reasoning behind your ‘conscience,’ but no longer. There is no more need to keep your distance, else it be that you regret our joining, Robert. We are wed!”

The young Scot stared down at the despair in her sightless eyes, her words an echo in the scented air. Was this the time to tell her what her fate would be if they were set upon by raiders from the south? Was the stark reality that he may have brought her to his homeland only to end her existence at the mercy of his deadly
sgian dubh
to spare her from marauding invaders enough to make her understand the dictates of his conscience—that he see her safely to his kindred, who would keep her, and care for her, should he die in the battle he feared was imminent? If only she were sighted,
there might be a chance of her fending for herself in a strange land—even a land under siege. But
Hindi
It was an aspect of the situation that he’d never taken into account…until now.

Robert Mack was a seasoned warrior. His intuition in such circumstances had never failed him in the past. Even if he hadn’t had word that the English raiders were on the march again attacking the borderlands, he would have known it. The innocent lay of the land before him, with nothing in motion save the last of the autumn heather rippling in the breeze, did not ease his mind. His hackles were raised, and there was a cold metallic taste at the back of his palate, like blood—like death. Those signs were inherent. They were in the ancestral memories of warriors long dead, carried in the bloodline from generation to generation, and they never occurred unless he was in the presence of danger.