TWILIGHT STOLE ACROSS the sky. Soon the ancient forest and all of Urbagran would be cloaked in darkness.
In Bitterbloom Cottage, a golden fire blazed in the hearth as Fiona sliced potatoes into a pot of water and set out thick slabs of dark rye bread. The wild goose Conor’s men had killed roasted on a spit over the flames, filling the cottage with the savory aroma of meat. Conor’s great wolf-hound lay sprawled on a horse blanket in the corner, resting from his journey, his wound freshly tended and bandaged. Though the dog appeared exhausted, his ears perked up at the merest rustle of branches outside the cottage, or at the low murmur of Conor’s voice as he and his lieutenant, a thick-necked man named Dagnur, conferred in the corner.
“So that’s all of it. We must go in tonight. He may well wait for Plodius to arrive, but we can’t take that chance.” Conor’s eyes narrowed. “From what I know of Borlis, he won’t kill the boy instantly. He is like a cat—he likes to torment his prey, to savor the anticipation of the kill. But he may not be able to control himself for any length of time, and he may choose to double-cross Plodius.”
Dagnur grunted in contempt. “He has betrayed his own cousin, and he’s intent on murdering a boy no bigger than a gnat. There’s not a rotten thing I’d put past him, not if it’ll gain him the throne.”
“That’s why we’ll find a way in. Tonight.”
“I know a way in.” Fiona turned from the pot of potatoes and met his eyes, her own filled with anguish—and desperate hope. “Let me help you,” she demanded.
Conor’s cool green gaze studied her briefly, but Dagnur couldn’t hold his tongue.
“We don’t want any plan you have to offer,” he snarled. “You’re the one who sent the prince running away from us and straight into the duke’s clutches.”
Conor saw Fiona flinch as if the hurled words were a blow. “Dagnur, that’s enough.”
“But—”
“I won’t have you speaking to her in that tone.”
“Even though it’s all her fault? You know it as well as I,” the red-haired man said roughly. “If it weren’t for her, we’d have him safe—”
“Enough.” Quiet steel rang through Conor’s tone as he sent the other man a warning glance. “The lady Fiona meant no harm. She has saved my life, against all odds. And she protected Prince Branden for years.”
“Until today,” the lieutenant muttered, with a dark look, but Conor’s arm shot out and gripped his shoulder, and Fiona saw a flicker of surprise and pain in the burly man’s face at the powerful grip.
“It was my fault, Dagnur. Mine. Not hers. Do you understand?”
The lieutenant glared back at him, then winced again as Conor continued the pressure on his shoulder. “I understand,” Dagnur grunted, and Conor’s arm dropped.
“Leave me your sword, then,” Conor ordered in a milder tone. “Arm yourself with another when you set up camp in the forest. And stay on guard for a surprise attack,” he added. “Now that they know we’re here, they might decide to root us out.”
Dagnur nodded as he handed over his sword. “We’ll be ready.”
“Good. Return here an hour after sundown. By then I’ll have your orders.” His gaze flicked to Fiona, his eyes unreadable. “And a plan of attack.”
The moment Dagnur was gone, Fiona turned back to the potatoes and began to stir the bubbling pot. Yet she heard Conor set down the sword and cross the floor to her. She sensed his lean, powerful frame behind her even before he touched her shoulders and turned her around.
His hands, she noted, with a wrench of her heart, were unexpectedly gentle on her flesh, yet they seemed to burn right through her amber gown.
“This is more important than the meal. Tell me the way in.”
“First you tell me something, Cade of the Hill Country. Why did you lie to me?”
“If I’d told you I was Conor of Wor-thane, you’d either have let me die or gone running to hide the boy from me, and I was too weak then to stop you. I needed you, needed your help, your trust, until my men arrived or my strength returned, whichever came first. It wasn’t such a bad lie. Only my name. The rest is true. What I told you about the king, about Ariel, all true.”
Could she believe him? Heaven help her, she wanted to. She needed to. She searched his face.
“Even what Ariel said about . . . Hynda? That was the truth as well?”
He nodded. “I swear as I stand here before you.”
A tremor ran through her. “But how can this be, that you are here to protect Gil? Everyone knows you hate the king. You swore ten years ago that Prince Branden would never sit on the throne. We heard the story even here—how Mortimer ordered you from Grithain, how you shouted that as eldest son of the high king you should have Grithain—”
“I don’t deny my words. I am the eldest son of the high king. But I was born a bastard, and a bastard I remain to this day.”
Silence fell but for the crackle of the fire, the bubbling of the pot.
“Because King Mortimer never . . . married your mother,” she said softly, prepared for his fury at her statement of this widely known truth, but to her surprise he continued to regard her calmly.
“No, he did not. She was a widowed noblewoman when they met—and when they lay together. And he had been pledged to another already, to Branden’s mother. It had been agreed upon by both families, for political reasons, and my father was a political man. Oh, he provided for me, and for my mother, until she died—though we didn’t need much. My uncle came to live at our keep and he helped her to govern, and Wor-thane prospered, even without the high king’s ‘gifts.’ But Mortimer never thought of marriage to her. He kept his promise to wed the princess of Albanon, thus ensuring the larger expansion of his kingdom—and a legitimate heir.”
“You were . . . are . . . bitter?”
“I’ve left bitterness behind me, along with my childhood.”
Shadows played across his face. Or were they merely the flickering reflections of the fire? “When I was young I was angry and hotheaded. I was eighteen when I had that famous fight with my father, when I said those things—about Branden never sitting on the throne. I came to regret them. Even,” he said, his voice rueful, “to feel great shame about them. It wasn’t long before I realized that Mortimer had not really wronged my mother or insulted me. He was behaving . . . like a king, thinking of his kingdom first and foremost. And I realized something else—I had no real desire to be a king, especially one unsanctioned by his own father. I have no taste for politics. My abilities, my instincts, lie on the battlefield.”
He met her gaze steadily. “I decided I could put them to good use by helping my brother rule Grithain rather than tearing him and the kingdom apart.”
Fiona searched his face, that leanly handsome, dark-stubbled face she’d come to know so well these past days, the face of the man who had called her “angel” and promised to protect her from the duke, the face of the man who had played games with spoons and rocks on the floor with Gil while she was gone, instead of killing him. It suddenly struck her that if he’d wanted his half brother dead, he would have seen to it and disappeared long before her return to the cottage.
So—it was true, all true. Conor of Wor-thane had come here to protect Gilroyd, and she had instead sent the boy running blindly from him—and straight into danger.
Her throat ached, and her heart had never felt so heavy in her chest. “I . . . misjudged you. I’ve ruined everything!” she choked out.
“You had help. My lie pushed you to the wrong conclusion. I meant what I said. We’re both to blame. But don’t despair. We’re going to get the boy back. I won’t let the duke harm him even if I have to burn down Raven Castle and everyone in it. Now will you tell me the way in?”
“On one condition.”
He made a sound of impatience, and his hands suddenly tightened on her shoulders. “Egad, you’re a stubborn woman. What now? What more can I do to prove myself? You are wasting time—I need to get to the prince—”
“Let me help you. Let me go with you.”
His jaw tightened. But his tone was even as his hands fell from her shoulders and dropped to his sides. “Impossible. It’s too dangerous.”
“I know the castle, and you don’t. Hynda and I have been called there to tend to injured servants, wounded knights, and noble visitors who fell ill. I know the staircases and the corridors and the private chambers. I even know where the staircase to the dungeon lies,” she breathed, although she shuddered inwardly at the thought that Borlis might have imprisoned Gil in that dreadful place. “And I know the secret tunnels that allow you to bypass the guards and the gates,” she finished quickly. “We have been ushered quietly inside more than once. And I know both of the secret ways.”
His gaze sharpened. “You little minx.” A wicked grin split his face. “Out with it, then. Tell me all you know—everything about the castle. I’ll use it to find Branden . . . your Gilroyd—and bring him to safety. I swear it.”
“He is in there because of me, Conor. I’m going too.” Her delicate jaw locked. Looking down into her eyes, which glowed like warm polished silver in the firelight, he saw that her expression was resolute. More resolute than any he’d ever encountered, even considering all the men he’d seen fighting for their lives and families on the battlefield.
How could anyone so small and fragile-looking possess so much courage?
And suddenly he realized that her knowledge of the castle could well prove invaluable and it made perfect sense to bring her. If only it wouldn’t bring her to danger—
Yet that shouldn’t weigh with him. The prince was the only one who mattered now. His well-being came before all others in the land. Still . . .
Conor’s chest ached at the thought that something might happen to her. That she could be injured, perhaps even slain in the perilous mission that lay ahead. Gazing at her, at the way her dark hair shone in the firelight, the way her vivid eyes gazed determinedly into his, he knew an almost overwhelming urge to take her in his arms and kiss her, to vow to her that he would keep her safe.
But he refrained from doing either. This was no time for softness, for sweet words, or promises he might not be able to fulfill. No time for even a friendly kiss, much less a dalliance with this woman who would fit so lushly in his arms.
Dalliance? Where had that come from? He obviously wasn’t thinking straight. It wasn’t even as if that word described what he was feeling now. It didn’t, but he couldn’t explain what word might. He didn’t understand the heated emotions surging through him as he stood so near to her, the heaviness in his loins, in his very heart. It wasn’t simple lust—that much he knew. Lust was part of it, but not all. He wanted more than that sumptuously feminine body. He wanted—
Enough. Forcing such strange—and thoroughly inconvenient—thoughts away, he cleared his head, then took a deep breath.
“You may come along, but you’ll follow my orders, every one of them, instantly and with no arguments.”
“I will. Unless you tell me to do something utterly stupid and against my better judgment—”
“Damn it, Fiona!” He seized her arms and yanked her toward him, intending to give her a little shake—he swore he intended merely to shake some sense into her. But instead he pulled her close and found her sweet rosebud mouth no more than a breath away from his and her lovely breasts jammed up against his chest.
“My men follow my orders to the letter, and if you go on this mission with us, I expect you to do the same,” he told her angrily, trying not to be distracted by the smooth creaminess of her skin, by the way she fit against his body.
She was peering up at him, her eyes flashing, stubborn as always. “Your men are required to follow your orders,” she pointed out breathlessly. “But you see, I am my own person. I am Gilroyd’s protector and . . . and a healer and I’m not one of your men—”
“No, you’re not—you’re not a man at all, damn it—and that’s the problem,” he growled, then wished he could bite off his tongue.
“What do you mean—problem? What problem might that be?”
Suddenly, staring into her eyes, all too aware of the delicate warmth of her body pressed against his, he saw something more than stubbornness, more than wonder and that slight flash of alarm. He saw hope. Hope of . . . what?
“I’m not going to kiss you,” he heard himself saying thickly. Thunder and lightning, why had he said that? Surely she had bewitched him.
“I don’t want you to,” he heard her murmur, her voice soft as angel’s wings. But that look of hope, of excitement and—was it invitation?—still glistened there in her beautiful silver eyes.
Her lips were parted, trembling a little. He could almost swear she wanted him to kiss her.
“It wouldn’t mean anything even if I did,” he added darkly, and she gave a tiny nod.
“I . . . don’t suppose it would. So . . . if you’re not going to kiss me, you really ought to let me go.”
Yes. He ought to let her go. He ought never to have drawn her this close. She was too beautiful, and damn it, she smelled like flowers. Like rare, exquisite summer flowers, the kind he’d found only at the highest peaks of Moryian on the Island of Dome.
He wondered how she would taste, how she would feel . . .
Suddenly, the urgency of the mission before him somehow became mixed up with the urgency he felt to taste those innocent pink lips, and he heard himself say in a hoarse voice he didn’t even recognize, “I’ll let you go. Soon . . .”
Then Conor of Wor-thane did something he never did. He acted on impulse. He kissed the woman in his arms before either one of them could think about it or do anything to stop it.
He’d meant it to be a quick kiss, one which would merely satisfy his curiosity about how those lips would feel, how they’d taste. But instead the kiss changed, exploded, becoming long and hot and deep, igniting an even more powerful hunger within him.
Her mouth burned against his. Her arms twined around his neck as he took the kiss deeper, and she gave a moan, a moan of pleasure and surprise so sensual it sent desire roaring through him. Their hearts slammed against one another, frantically, wildly, pounding in unison.
The desire that surged through him was more potent than a jug of spiced wine, and Conor, for all his worldly experience, had to struggle to keep himself from tearing at her gown, from throwing her down on the rug before the fire. Her slender arms tightened around his neck, drawing him ever closer, and the eager wildness of her mouth as she kissed him back made him burn with a savage need for more. His hands moved over her, quickly, hungrily, and time stood still.
Amazement pounded through him. Kissing her felt far better, far more powerful than anything he’d expected. Anything he’d known. He lost himself in the softness of her, in the flowery perfume of her skin, the sweep of her throat. Everything about her stunned him, from the strawberry taste of her mouth to the willing way she opened herself to him, heart and soul, in that simple cottage lit by firelight and candle flame in the shadow of the ancient forest.
Then a sound tore their lips apart—the sound of the wolf-hound growling, roaring.
In a flash Conor pushed her away and spun around at the same moment that the beast sprang toward the cottage door. At the exact same instant the door burst open and four armed soldiers rushed inside.
Fiona screamed. Reynaud was in the lead, charging toward Conor, his sword leveled, but with a flying leap Tor crashed into his chest and knocked him backward into the man behind him, and they both went down.
In the next moment everything happened at once.
Conor swept up the sword Dagnur had left for him, and steel rang against steel as two soldiers thrust their weapons toward him simultaneously. From the corner of her eye, Fiona saw Tidbit sail in a blur of black fur past the fallen men in the doorway and disappear into the twilight. But she had no time even to call out to the fleeing cat. She grabbed the poker she’d raised only hours before against Conor and ran toward one of the men attacking Conor, striking him across the back. He yelped in pain and wheeled toward her, but Conor leapt between them, blocking the man’s advance with his own body.
“Get back, Fiona. Stay out of this,” Conor ordered her crisply. She had no time to argue, for both men moved in against him once more, and the three engaged in a vicious thrust and parry, just as Reynaud hurled himself to his feet. Leaving his companion to wrestle with the growling wolf-hound, he seized Fiona’s arm and spun her around. Harsh anger blazed across his face.
“You—you are helping this swine? You’ve betrayed the duke!”
“You’ve betrayed the high king!” Fiona countered even as her heart leapt into her throat, for Conor had narrowly escaped a cut, and in the next instant his sword grazed his opponent’s chest.
“The Duke of Urbagran will soon be the high king,” Reynaud retorted and made a move to drag her toward the door, but she flinched away from him and braced her feet, raising the poker.
“Stand back!” she warned.
His eyes narrowed to slits. “You little fool, as if that will stop me!” The words had barely left his mouth before he launched himself at her.
Heart pounding, Fiona swung the poker at him, but he dodged the blow and then seized her arm, wresting the poker from her grasp. She screamed as he raised his arm to strike her, but the next instant he collapsed like a sack of rocks as Conor’s fist slammed into his face.
Trembling, Fiona met Conor’s eyes. They seemed to burn into hers, but she couldn’t read them. Couldn’t see beyond the hard green blaze of ruthlessness that had wiped all trace of gentleness from his face. Dazedly, she looked past him and saw that the men he’d been fighting lay dead on the cottage floor, crimson blood pooling beneath them.
“Tor—down!” Conor ordered, as the bloodied man the wolf-hound had attacked tried to crawl away.
Suddenly Dagnur and a handful of other men appeared at the cottage door and hauled the wounded man on the ground to his feet.
But when they started toward Reynaud, Conor stopped them.
“Leave this one to me.” He glanced over his shoulder at the dead men. “Bury them, and take the Lady Fiona back to your camp. Guard her well while I question the prisoner.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Fiona pushed past Dagnur to Conor’s side. “This is my home, and I want to speak to Reynaud as much as you do.”
“Fiona—” Conor broke off. He recognized that set look in her eyes. He was learning better than to waste his breath arguing with this particular woman.
“Stay, then,” he said grimly. “But don’t interfere.”
In a very short time Reynaud’s arms were bound with rope and he had been thrust onto a bench. Dagnur and the others had left the cottage, and only Fiona, Conor, and Tor remained, each of them staring at the handsome, pale-haired prisoner, who peered from one to the other with trepidation.
“You’re going to stand by and let him beat me—torture me?” Reynaud demanded at last, fixing his gaze accusingly upon Fiona. “There was a time when I thought you cared for me. As I cared for you.”
“You didn’t care very much, did you? Not enough to defy the duke.” She stepped closer to him. “Once you knew the duke didn’t approve of your courting me, you disappeared like a rabbit down a hole.”
He had the grace to flush. “Fiona, please—”
She held up a hand. “None of that is important now, Reynaud, and I’m not going to hold it against you,” she said softly. “If you tell me this instant where Gilroyd is, where the duke is holding him, I won’t let Conor lay a hand on you.”
“I don’t know, Fiona, and that’s the truth. But even if I did, I wouldn’t tell this bastard—”
Conor’s fist crashed into his face once more, and he crumpled onto the bench. Fiona gasped, and felt the color draining from her own face, but she managed to refrain from crying out in protest.
“Where’s the prince?” Conor demanded, his tone hard as iron. “If you want to live, you’d best answer me quick.”
“I told you, I don’t know—”
Conor hit him again, and Fiona’s stomach twisted. She hated this. She was a healer. Her instinct was to protect Reynaud from injury, to heal his bruises. She had to stop this. She couldn’t just stand by and let Conor hit him again. But what about Gilroyd?
“Tell me, Reynaud.” She jumped between the two men and put her hand soothingly on the soldier’s sweat-soaked brow, as blood oozed from a bruise on his face. “He won’t touch you again if you tell me the truth. I promise. But if you don’t tell me . . .”
She took a deep breath. “I’ll leave now and let him do what he will.”
Reynaud stared at her in shock.
“Please, Reynaud—tell me now, for your sake and for Gil’s. He’s only a boy, and the duke wants to kill him. If you don’t tell me, I’ll walk away and Conor”—she glanced over her shoulder at the tall Duke of Wor-thane—“well, we both know Conor will kill you.”
Silence fell in the cottage, but for the low growl of the wolf-hound and the crackle of the fire’s dying flames.
Reynaud stared blearily into her eyes. Tor snarled. Reynaud blanched as Conor took a step forward and loomed over him.
“Leave now, Fiona. He won’t talk unless it’s beaten out of him.”
As if in approval, Tor growled again.
“Reynaud . . . this is your last chance!” Fiona whispered, and he suddenly turned to her imploringly.
“The boy is locked in a secret room off the duke’s private chamber. Now tell him to let me go.”
“Has he been hurt?” Fiona asked.
“No. He doesn’t understand what’s happening, but he’s unharmed. At least he was when I left,” he added, the words pouring out of him as if he couldn’t unload them quickly enough. “Duke Borlis is following Lord Kilvorn’s advice. They are waiting for King Plodius to arrive. Now you tell him, Fiona! Tell him to let me go. Now!”
“How do we get into this secret room?” Conor demanded, grabbing Reynaud’s shoulder, glaring down into his panicked face.
“I don’t know. That’s the truth. Only the duke knows—and Kilvorn. I saw the door open, saw the boy inside for an instant, then they sent me away.”
“You’re lying,” Conor muttered, and the dog stood up, a low snarl in his throat.
“No, I swear, ’tis the truth. Fiona—”
“I believe him.” She turned to Conor. “Duke Borlis would not share such a secret with a soldier. Reynaud is not a chief lieutenant, he is not the duke’s confidant.”
Conor nodded. “Agreed.” He took her arm and led her away from Reynaud, to the opposite corner of the cottage. “Pack up what food you can. We must start for the castle at once. We’ll have to hide and wait for our opportunity to get in. Do you know where the duke’s private chamber is?”
“I have never been there, but Sir Henry has, and he told me about it. I’m sure I can find it.”
“Good girl.”
“Do you think Gilroyd is safe? At least for now? That the duke is indeed waiting for Plodius before he—before he—”
“I think that the Duke of Urbagran is capable of anything—including changing his mind.” Conor’s face was more grave than she had ever seen it. “And I think we need to get Gil out of there tonight. If you’ve changed your mind, if you don’t want to come, my men will keep you safely guarded at the camp. You need only tell me exactly what you know of the castle’s layout and passages and—”
“I am going, and that is that.”
The simply spoken words, the quiet determination in her eyes, filled him with a surge of admiration. He fought the urge to take her into his arms, to hold her for only a moment more before they left the relative safety and shelter of the cottage. He had to think of Branden—to ride swiftly, move secretly, and fight without mistakes. He couldn’t afford a moment’s distraction, including giving in to these damn feelings churning inside him—these feelings that were surfacing at the most unexpected times and in the most unexpected ways. For a most unexpected woman.
He steered his thoughts to the matter at hand and turned from her, trying not to think about the kiss they’d shared, the sweetness of holding her in his arms.
“Reynaud will live—for now—as my prisoner,” he said curtly. “Dagnur will take charge of him. And Tor will stay to guard him,” he added. As if he understood, the wolf-hound let out a low, quick bark.
Conor dropped a swift, friendly hand to stroke the beast’s head, then turned toward her again as the man on the bench sagged in defeat. “I’ll saddle the horses, Fiona. You gather what you will. We leave at once.”
“I am ready,” the angel who had saved his life said simply. “Ready for whatever must be done.”