Malcolm's Honor. Jillian Hart

She cast Malcolm a mischievous smile, quick and fleeting. “You doubt my knowledge, but you’ll soon see. Hugh will live.”

      “Then he’ll owe his life to you.”

      “Nay, to Alma. She pecked like a troubled conscience until I had to return to aid him.”

      But Malcolm knew the truth when he saw it. “Nay, I think you returned to aid your betrothed.”

      She sparkled with humor. “Go ahead, tease. You shall see what a sacrifice I made in returning, once you spend an entire day with Caradoc. Your knights are likely to behead him just to stop his insults.”

      “Does he cast an insult more sharp than yours?”

      She almost laughed, and with the sunlight alive in her fiery curls, she was transformed before his eyes into a nymph of beauty and mischief. “I admit I studied Caradoc’s skill, for although I hate the man, I do admire his foul temper.”

      “’Tis a skill you practice then? Like wielding a sword?”

      “Aye. I am a woman who does both.”

      He laughed. How this girl-woman amused him. He’d not been amused by much in more years than he could count. He handed her a fresh bandage when she gestured for one. “Caradoc is trussed up in the stable under guard. At last report, he still had his head.”

      Elin gazed at Malcolm with that fire flickering in her eyes, as mesmerizing as a mirage in the desert, when heat and earth and imagination created illusions. “Will the king judge me innocent of treason, but condemn me in marriage to his nephew?”

      “’Tis more likely than Edward deciding to have you hanged, drawn and quartered.” A warning twisted in Malcolm’s guts and prickled along the back of his neck. “As long as you continue to prove your innocence to me, you will live.”

      “You are not my judge.”

      “Nay, but I am your jailer.”

      But not for long. Elin thought of the dried oakwood tucked into a pouch in one of her herb crocks. Even a small amount of the berry could render a grown man ill for hours. Ill enough to allow her escape.

      Malcolm caught hold of her hand, his big callused fingers rough and strangely fascinating as they covered hers. “Quit your worries, dove. Edward will be pleased that you saved young Hugh’s life.”

      For a brief instant she saw behind the heartless eyes, to the ghost of the man he must have once been before he turned killer and traded his soul for the coin it would bring.

      ’Twas almost a shame she’d have to poison him. But death or marriage to Caradoc? She would not go quietly toward either darkness.

      “The crone is serving Giles and the prisoners in the stable. The innkeeper’s wife could not do it.” Lulach settled on the bench and quickly drained the tankard of ale. “I must hurry, ere the old woman begins a plot to free the traitors.”

      “Rest and eat, the crone will cause no trouble.” Malcolm took his eating knife from his belt. “’Tis the younger one we must watch.”

      “She is a witch, that one. Able to defeat us with her spells and powers.”

      “Nay, she’s no sorceress. Look how she works.” He gestured to the young woman emerging from the kitchen, steaming trenchers in hand, her fine wool mantle shivering around her slim thighs with every step she took.

      Lulach growled, still disbelieving. “Beware she does not cast a spell over our meal and sicken us.”

      “I’ve seen sorcery, and ’tis not what the traitor woman practices with her simple herbs.” Any memories of the Outremer filled Malcolm with blackness and horror. He forced those images to the back of his mind. “But still, I trust her not.”

      “’Tis wise.” Lulach carefully studied the food Elin had helped prepare after tending Hugh.

      “More mead?” The dove’s voice sang as pleasantly as a morning breeze. With a smile, she handed Malcolm a second tankard.

      The back of his neck crawled. Aye, he could sense she was up to no good. When they departed after the meal, he would tie her again to the saddle. While he could not bear to leave Hugh, his king expected the traitor without delay. They would have to leave the injured man behind. The life of a knight was not fair.

      “Elin?” He caught the female by the elbow, and she turned to him with concern in her eyes.

      “What is it, le Farouche? Is it the food—”

      “Nay. I am considering asking Alma to stay with…” His stomach twisted, and he placed a hand there.

      An agonized groan sounded in the room behind him, rumbling like a thunderclap. Another groan was followed by an unpleasant sound.

      “She’s poisoned us!” Giles accused, arriving breathless in the doorway. Sunlight shifted around his form and betrayed how he trembled. “Men are dropping like flies in the stable. Even the prisoners. Look, I begin to sweat.”

      Discord rose as rough shouts and threats resonated in the smoke-ridden air. As if she was guilty, Elin’s eyes widened and she spun away. Malcolm reached out and snared her by the sleeve, but only briefly.

      “Silence,” he roared, temper raging with the force of a storm at sea. His stomach squeezed again, and he fell to his knees. “Lady Elinore, what have you done?”

      “What I had to do.” She laid a hand on his forehead, a touch of compassion. Her caress soothed like water against the shore.

      “Kill the king’s men, and you’ll pay with more than just your life.” He tried to climb to his knees, but his senses spun. His vision blurred. He remained crouched like a dog upon the earthen floor.

      “The poison is not a lethal dose. I was careful. Do not fret, Sir Malcolm. You’ll live.”

      A sick taste filled his mouth. Strength seeped from his limbs until he could only lie motionless in the dirt. “Then when this poison loosens its hold on me, believe this. I will hunt you down. You cannot hide from me.”

      “I can try.” She knelt over him and took the dagger from his belt. He saw her soft leather boots, small and finely tailored, as she stepped over him.

      “Elin!” he shouted. “Do not do this! I beg of you.”

      But the tap of her step against dirt and stone faded away into nothing, nothing at all.

      She was gone, the vile betrayer, and he wretched, groaning in misery.

      He would hunt her down. Malcolm the Fierce would not rest until he had the traitor woman’s head.

      “I cannot leave.” Alma dug in her heels. “There is Hugh to think of. And look, these men will need an herbed tea to calm their stomachs.”

      “Nay, I want their stomachs churning.” Elin gave the cinch a good pull. “Listen, only danger lies ahead for me.”

      “Danger?”

      “Why did Father bring us on this journey? We have no explanation. Perchance he planned something sinister. Then innocent protestations will not save us.”

      “What if justice prevails? I see no danger then.”

      “Not for you. But Father’s barony may be lost, and who will be at court to beg favors from Edward? Caradoc. He claims we are betrothed, and there will be no debate. Why should the king not secure the barony with his own blood?”

      “’Tis logic you speak. And truth.” Alma frowned, her brows drawn together in serious thought. “Yet I cannot leave Hugh. He needs much care.”

      “Aye. It weighs heavily on my conscience.” Elin rubbed her forehead, then turned to her waiting palfrey.

      “Elin!” ’Twas Caradoc’s voice, thin with sickness. “You’ve not fallen ill from this vile food. Free