Chapter Twenty-Five

“I will kill him.”

Malcolm uttered the words—a vow—as he leaned over the bench upon which his brother lay stretched, in the dispensary. He’d sent the dispenser away, a man he remembered all too well from his visits to the cell down below, determined to tend Mercien with his own hands. Versed in providing rough care in the field, he could do so well enough—all save that one injury upon which he could scarcely bear to look.

“You should no’ be here, brother,” Mercien spoke in a weak voice, rough with pain. “You were well awa’. Why return?”

“You ken why.” Malcolm smoothed the filthy hair back from Mercien’s face tenderly. “You were here.”

“Aye so, and I canna’ fault you. I would ha’ done the same for you. Yet now there are two o’ us trapped…again. And worse—I thought I heard Catha’s voice outside my cell.”

Malcolm wrung out the already stained cloth in the basin and laid it to a burn on Mercien’s shoulder. He said nothing.

“I may ha’ imagined it,” Mercien rasped. “I ha’ imagined many and many a thing while hanging there against that wall. I imagined Mother came to me, and she how many years dead?”

“Too many.”

“Tell me Catha is no’ here. Brother, say you did no’ give in to that bastard’s demands and fetch her to him.”

Again Malcolm kept silent.

“Brother!” Mercien reared up, anger giving him the needed strength. “I endured all I did for her—to keep her safe.”

“I could no’ leave you here, Mercien. You could no’ expect it.”

“You should ha’ respected my wishes. You ken fine what she means to me.”

“Aye.” Malcolm swallowed convulsively. “She means much to me also. But you—”

“I am already lost.”

“Nay.” Instinctively, Malcolm denied it. “Nay.”

A terrible smile twisted Mercien’s lips. “How bad is it, Brother? Look me in the face and tell me.”

Bad. But Malcolm could not tell him that; he did not want Mercien to give up.

Instead he asked, “When—?”

“No’ long after you were released.”

“Why? He already had what he wanted.”

Mercien smiled his terrible smile again. “Why? Need you ask? The man enjoys it. List to me, Malcolm. Is Catha truly here? If so, if you gave in to his demands, we canna’ leave her in that monster’s hands. Tell me now—”

The door of the dispensary crashed open, and a fair-haired blur flew past Malcolm. Clad in a blue gown, it fell to its knees at the side of the bench where Mercien lay.

“Mercien! Och, Mer—”

Catha’s voice died the instant she looked into Mercien’s face. “Och, Jesu, sweet Jesu—what—”

“Is it so terrible bad, Catha? Am I so ruined you canna’ look at me?”

“I am looking. Do you no’ see that I am looking, my bonny boy? Och, what has he done to you? God will mak’ him pay, Mercien, my love. God will—”

“I am no’ sure I still believe in God.” Mercien reached out a dirty, scraped hand, the marks of the shackles livid at the wrist, and touched Catha’s fair hair like a man in a dream. “He did no’ accompany me into that cell. But an angel is here wi’ me now.”

Malcolm’s throat closed. He glanced over his shoulder; Tansy slipped into the room on silent feet and shut the door behind her.

Catha put her forehead against Mercien’s shoulder and wept. Mercien, abandoning his weakness, drew her close and laid his lips to her hair.

A whisper of a touch on Malcolm’s arm captured his attention.

“Leave them,” Tansy bade, and drew him to the door.

Malcolm bent his gaze on her. “Are you bad hurt, mistress? Latham said—well, he said he forced you.” Why mince words now?

“Me?” She tossed her black head. “I can tak’ care o’ mysel’. But your brother…” She drew a breath and said, hushed, “Latham put his eye out.”

The rage licked up through Malcolm again. “The bastard claims ’twas but an accident.”

“Never.”

“We are agreed.”

“The man is a monster. An abomination. He needs to die.”

“Agreed again. But above all else I maun get Mercien awa’ out of here. I ha’ already failed him once.”

“You have no’.”

“Indeed, and there lies the proof o’ it. My bonny brother, bonny no more.”

“She will no’ care for it. He is everything to her, and still bonny in her sight.” Tansy’s gaze met Malcolm’s. “Love does no’ look wi’ the eyes, by any road, but wi’ the heart.”

And what did he see in her eyes? Clear as water they looked, even in the muddy light, and guarding no secrets. He could see her desire, aye, and her courage. So much braw courage in a wee lass… Did he see something more? The memory of the nights they had twined together in passion?

Tenderness.

He said brokenly, “I do no’ want to leave you here—nor Catha. But I maun get Mercien awa’. Especially now. I do no’ ken how he has endured so long.”

“I understand.”

“But lass…” He seized her hands. “I will come back for you.” He would, as if drawn by enchantment.

She nodded. “Tend your brother now. I fear Catha has revealed her weakness to Latham in full by coming here. But I could no’ hold her. I would no’. Seeing him may give her the strength she needs in the days to come.”

“Sacrifice,” Malcolm said softly. “He gave himself trying to spare her, and she sacrifices now for him. Sacrifice, and love.”

****

“We are set to leave come morning,” Malcolm delivered the words to Tansy baldly when she opened the chamber door to him, and her heart sank. He’d roused her from her bed where she’d known nothing of sleep, dreading this very announcement. Now, deep in the night, the keep seemed unusually quiet, no guards to be seen. She seized Malcolm’s arm and towed him into the room.

Visibly stirred, he continued to speak as he came. “I wished to tell Catha the news. It took hours of persuasion to force Latham’s cooperation. I just came from him—where is she?”

“With Mercien, of course. I could no’ haul her awa’.” Tansy tasted her own pain. “If this be their last night, let them spend it together.”

Malcolm stilled, and his eyes met hers. Dark as the night itself his eyes were, and unfathomable. If he left come morning—as he must—it would tear her apart, draw her heart from her chest, and wound her down to the soul.

He whispered, “I hate leaving you here. Come awa’ wi’ me, Tansy.”

“And abandon Catha?” Once she would have, without a backward glance. She’d been all selfishness then, all about what mattered to her, and hang everyone else in her world.

Now she discovered, to her surprise, that had changed. She’d forged a bond with Catha, almost as strong as that with this man.

“Latham would no’ let me go. ’Twould endanger your escape wi’ Mercien. Besides,” she whispered before Malcolm could protest, “Catha and I ha’ a mission to accomplish.”

“A gey dangerous one.” He caught her shoulders between his hands. They felt warm; his long session with Latham must have overheated him, for Tansy could feel heat streaming off him, and the collar of his shirt lay open, revealing a glimpse of black hair.

Aye, she knew what lay beneath Malcolm Montgomery’s clothing—had touched every part of him with hands and tongue. The memory of it rendered her weak for an instant.

She leaned closer, as helpless to keep from it as to stop breathing. “I will follow after you, if I can. That I do promise.”

He kissed her, an answer to the prayer that had haunted her all night long. His lips claimed hers with a hunger that bade her open to him; joy and grief tangled together inside her as his tongue possessed her mouth.

Would this be the last time she kissed him? Tasted him? Touched him? Emotion filled her to bursting, and she poured it into him, weaving as she did a spell of magic. For several glorious moments they soared together before Malcolm broke the kiss and buried his face in her neck.

Raggedly he gasped, “Tansy, wee one, I do no’ ken how to part fro’ you.”

She gave him the only words she possessed, in return. “Then stay wi’ me, for whatever time we ha’ left, till morning. ’Twill no’ be long, but stay. One last night.”

“I should go.”

“Give Catha and Mercien this time together.” She gazed into his eyes. “And us.”

“And us,” he echoed before he slipped her nightdress over her head.