WE’RE ALMOST THERE, Fiona thought, nudging her heels into her pony’s sides with a growing sense of urgency. Her stomach was knotted with worry. She had to get back to the cottage—and quickly. She had to see if Gil had gone there.
Her throat tightened at the thought, and she prayed he hadn’t.
Please, no. Please don’t let him be there with Cade. I’m not sure . . . Until I speak with Sir Henry I can’t be sure . . .
She’d spent the day at the hut of a farmer whose wife was enduring a difficult labor, and after six brutal hours, she had managed to help the woman survive the breach birth of a bawling baby boy.
His soft cries, and the weak smiles of the woman and her husband, had filled her with relief as she began the ride home—until she’d ridden to Sir Henry’s manor to check on Gil and see if Sir Henry had returned, only to learn that he had not. He was now gone two days longer than he’d expected. That was not so great a time, but Fiona was uneasy. She desperately needed to consult with him. Her distress grew when the seneschal, Desmond, informed her that young master Wynn had the sniffles and had been confined to his bed by the orders of the boys’ old nurse, who was feeding him a diet of hot broth and honeyed wine. Gil had apparently slipped away on foot when no one was looking, and had most likely gone exploring in the woods as he liked to do. Though Desmond had dispatched a groom to find the boy and keep an eye on him, so far neither Gil nor the groom had returned.
What if he’s at the cottage? she wondered, her heart in her throat. What if he’s visiting at this very moment with Cade of the Hill Country beyond Nevendale?
Smoke-gray clouds were drifting in, blotting out the sun, giving the sky an overcast hue that added to her sense of foreboding.
Gil’s fine, she told herself, trying to stay calm. Cade would not harm him. Ariel sent him—she must have . . .
Yet the small inkling of doubt was enough to make her heart thud as she rode. Today the healing broth had already begun to show its good effects on her patient. Cade had seemed much stronger when she left the cottage this morning, and by now he must feel even more restored. The broth had done its work—though he was still in some pain, he was no longer an invalid, and it would be no trial for him to overpower a boy if that were his intent.
Oh, why hadn’t she taken Gil with her to the village today? Why hadn’t she warned him to stay at home? But what excuse could she possibly have given that wouldn’t have made the young scamp even more eager to head outside?
By the time the cottage came into view, Star was racing along at a full gallop. They flew over the ridge, past the twin oak trees and the furze bushes and the winter grass. Fiona slid from the saddle almost before the pony had reached a complete halt.
“Gil!” she cried, running toward the cottage, her cloak billowing behind her. “Gil, are you—?”
She broke off as she pushed the door wide and saw Gil and Cade of the Hill Country sitting opposite each other on the floor. Before them, placed at odd spots, was spread an assortment of spoons and small jars of herbs and some twigs and stones. As Fiona stared, Gil lifted his smiling, eager young face to her, scooping a spoon into his hand.
“Lady Fiona, look! We are planning a great battle. This stone here is Conor’s castle, and the spoon is me leading my troops. We come from the north and Conor said if I am to station five hundred men here where this jar is, at the ford—”
“C-Conor?” Fiona interrupted his words, her gaze swinging in fear to the man she had rescued in the forest. Not that Conor, please God, not him, she thought, terror surging through her as her former patient came all too steadily to his feet, looming above her at his full height of well more than six feet. His gaze pierced her, grim and watchful and entirely too purposeful for her peace of mind.
“I thought . . . your name is Cade—”
“He is Conor of Wor-thane, a great duke, of a kingdom even larger than Urbagran,” the boy piped up, pride and excitement shining on his face. “He is my friend. He wants to know Wynn, too, and Father—when he returns, of course. He came here looking for the lost prince of Grithain, and I’m going to help him find him—”
“Gil—go home! This very moment, go. Run!”
She dashed forward, pulling the boy to his feet in one swift motion, pushing him toward the door.
“Fiona, don’t do this. Listen—” The man who’d called himself Cade began.
But she planted herself between him and the boy and shrieked, “Wynn needs you, Gil—his life is in danger. Run home to him now! Run!”
But even as her words rang in the air, another sound, a low roaring sound, made everyone in the cottage turn toward the open door behind her.
In the distance, a troop of men could be seen riding hard across the gray rock ridge. Their horses thundered down toward the open land—straight toward the cottage.
“Those are my men, Gil.” Conor spoke quickly. His tone was firm and commanding. At the same time, he moved forward with stunning speed for a man still suffering from injuries. Though pain shadowed his face, he lost no time in planting himself between Gil and the door. “You must stay now and meet them. I will explain—”
“No, Gil, run! Wynn needs you. Go to him—run!”
Snatching up a poker from the hearth, Fiona swung it wildly toward Conor. He ducked adroitly aside and grabbed it, but in that moment of distraction the boy leapt past him and bolted out the door.
“Run, Gil!” she shouted, and grabbed for another poker. Conor seized this one in midswing and yanked it from her grasp, tossing it aside with the first.
“Damn it, what the hell are you doing?” he shouted, anger darkening his lean face. He dashed toward the door and bolted outside to see Gil streaking like a young deer toward the two trees and the furze. His men were galloping in from the opposite direction, coming fast, with Tor bounding behind the horses’ heels, and he waved an arm, signaling them to turn toward the trees. But just then another sound made his jaw clench.
He whipped around toward the trees at the same instant that Fiona dashed out beside him.
Together they saw the troop of men, forty strong, emerging from the wood. They bore directly down upon the small boy running toward them.
“No.” Fiona breathed the word in horror and agony as she recognized the black-and-scarlet banners of the Duke of Urbagran. “The duke’s men. Oh, no . . .”
Before her anguished eyes, Gil froze. Then he spun around, glancing back uncertainly toward her and Conor, then toward the troops closing in from the north, and finally once more toward those bearing down on him from the wood. He went perfectly still. But even from a distance, Fiona could see the fear and confusion on his pale young face.
Conor charged toward the boy, sprinting headlong, and she took off after him, but she couldn’t keep up with him, even hampered as he was by his injuries. She tried desperately to catch him, but he widened the distance between them, running straight for Gil.
But the boy veered east, trying to dodge both sets of troops chasing him. It was a clever move, but it was not enough. The foremost of the duke’s riders reached him.
It was Reynaud, Fiona saw, a sob catching in her throat. He leaned from the saddle and scooped Gil up before him like a rabbit, then wheeled his horse with a shout. Taking up the cry, the rest of the duke’s men followed him, turning their horses and thundering back toward Raven Castle.
“What the hell have you done?” Cade—no, Conor—rounded on her, fury in his eyes. There was no pain on his face now, only anger and a fierce frustration as he seized her by the shoulders, his hands clamping tight.
“You’ve killed him, you know. Are you satisfied now? If my men don’t catch him, the duke will butcher him without a moment’s thought.”
“And your men wouldn’t?” she cried, her eyes brimming with tears of grief. “Do you think me a fool? Everyone knows Conor of Wor-thane covets the throne himself, has always coveted it. Maybe the duke’s men seek only to protect him.” This idea brought a sliver of hope. “They must have known you came here planning to kill him yourself!”
“The hell I did.” He swore savagely then, a string of oaths that she’d never heard all together before. Then he shook his head, took a breath, and let her go. He stepped back a pace from her, very deliberately. She had the impression he was exercising utmost self-control.
The man who faced her now was nothing like the patient she had nursed from death’s door. If he felt pain, he didn’t show it. A roaring power seemed to infuse him, and fury vied with reason as he raked a hand through his hair. He turned from her then as if she wasn’t even there, addressing his troop of riders as they swarmed around them.
“After them!” he ordered the men before they could even completely halt their horses. “They have the prince—try to overtake them before they reach the castle gates. Tor, stay,” he commanded the enormous wolf-hound whose hind leg was roughly bandaged with blood leaking through. The animal limped to his side and sank down onto the ground, panting, laying his head upon his master’s boot even as Conor’s soldiers galloped off in pursuit of the duke’s forces.
“Here’s a patient for you—you’d best take as good care of him as you did of me, for he was wounded at the same time,” he told her in a more level tone, as one hand dropped to rest upon the dog’s shaggy head.
“I wish I’d never touched you!” Fiona’s voice shook as she gazed at him in helpless rage. “I wish I’d never gone out to rescue you. I should have let you die in the snow.”
He scowled, and his green eyes glinted hard and bright as marbles in the sunlight. “If you want to see Gil alive again, you’d better thank your lucky stars you saved my life. Because I’m going to get him out of Raven Castle alive and see him crowned king. Yes, Mortimer is dead, and Gil is my half brother. But I don’t want to take his place, and I damn well don’t want him dead. I haven’t for a long time now. I’ve spent the past five years of my life trying to assure his safety. And now,” he said, his gaze nailing her with icy clarity, “in a matter of moments, you’ve ruined everything. Now he is in more danger than ever before.”
As his words penetrated her anguished mind, a fresh horror struck her. “No! No, it can’t be true.”
“Believe what you want.” He turned away from her and spoke to the wolf-hound, a word of command in a tongue she didn’t understand. The beast clambered to his feet and limped along at his master’s heels, as Conor of Wor-thane headed back toward the cottage.
Fiona stood alone in the cold, fading light, watching the two troops of riders retreating into the gray distance and the man and wolf-hound making their way back toward her home. Her home, where only a short time ago Gil had sat upon the floor, amid spoons and jars, his eyes eager, happy.
“What have I done?” she whispered into the thin, icy air. “Oh, Hynda, by the stars and moon, what have I done?”