His Woman. Diana Cosby

of light sifted through the portal. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. The insult of having to scale the latrine chute at dusk was humbling. With Frasyer’s castle well guarded and after two attempts to sneak in having failed after his solemn vow to Symon two days past, Duncan had been left no choice but to slip inside using this dank entry.

      As he stretched for the next indent, his fingers slid against the slimy surface. With a scowl, he wiped his hands on the thin cloth he’d wrapped around his waist to protect his trews. The stench was worse than fouled bog moss.

      In the waning light, he searched for another hold. As much as he disliked Isabel, it would bring him no pleasure to inform her of her brother’s death. His chest squeezed with a suffocating ache as he remembered his friend. At least he’d seen Symon properly buried.

      So where was Symon’s father, Lord Caelin? Of the many people Duncan had asked, no one seemed to know. He’d keep inquiring until he found him. As a close family friend, it was his duty to inform Symon’s father of his son’s death.

      At the top of the latrine chute, he peered through the opening. A single torch lit the barren chamber. Mold clung on the lower walls. Rats squealed as they shot past, stirring dust motes. In the far corner near a poorly crafted bowl lay a pile of old rags. He scrunched his nose. The stench within rivaled that which clung to his garments.

      “At least it is empty.” With a grimace, Duncan squeezed through the hand-chiseled opening.

      Men’s voices echoed outside the door.

      “Blast it.” He hauled the bag up and dropped it to his side. Turning toward the door, he withdrew his sword.

      Seconds passed.

      Nearby, water dripped from a crack in the ceiling. Wind from the loch tunneled up the opening with an unsettling moan. Thankfully, the voices faded.

      Relaxing, he secured his sword, tore off the protective cloth from his nose and garb and used both to wipe away any evidence from his climb.

      Disgusted when he did no more than spread the brownish stains, he threw the soiled linen on top of the corner pile where it blended in. If his clothes reeked of dung, so be it. Without water to aid his efforts, he’d done all he could.

      He tugged the priest’s robe from the sack and shook his head at himself. “It is a sad day, lad, when you dress as a man of God for your enemy’s mistress.” But he’d made his promise—a promise he would keep before washing his hands of Isabel and her smoldering eyes and lying tongue once and for all.

      He donned the garb, drew up the hood to cover his head, and headed down the corridor. At the entry to the stairs, voices echoed from below.

      Duncan hurried down the spiral steps. As he moved into the shadows untouched by torchlight, two knights rounded the corner.

      Nerves slammed home and Duncan slipped his hand inside his robe, clasping his hidden dagger as a precaution.

      “Father,” they greeted in unison.

      He nodded. With his free hand, he made the sign of the cross. The knights moved aside in deference, and Duncan walked past, his grip easing on his dagger. He’d descended but a few steps when one of the knights called back.

      “Father?”

      Duncan halted, his senses on alert. Slowly, he turned to face them. “My son?”

      One knight murmured something to the other, who then continued up the stairs. Once the other man had disappeared from view, the knight walked down and paused a foot away.

      Relief edged through Duncan. If trouble started, at least the odds were even.

      “It is about a lass,” the knight said.

      Duncan nodded, his grip upon his dagger firm. “We can speak of this in the chapel on the morrow if it serves you best.” And by morning, he would be several leagues away with Isabel in tow.

      The knight cleared his throat. “If you have time, Father, I would like to speak with you now. It will take but a trice.”

      “Of course.” As if he had a choice. Trussed up as a man of God, it might raise suspicion if he turned the knight away.

      A gust down the turret sent torchlight into a wild dance, exposing the man’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I have bedded two sisters and…they have each found out about the other.” Guilt clung to his voice. “I am not sure what I should do? Or how to explain?”

      Duncan almost laughed. Only a fool would bed sisters individually. Unless he was glib of tongue. Then he would bed them both at the same time.

      “Father?”

      He cleared his throat. “It is a serious sin you have committed. One not to be taken lightly.”

      The knight bowed his head with chagrin. “Aye. And that is why I have come. For my penance.”

      “You will be saying ten Our Father’s and sweeping the chapel floors for the next fortnight,” Duncan commanded. “The prayers will cleanse your soul of the sin and your labor will rid the church of the aged rushes.”

      “Thank you, Father.”

      Duncan made the sign of the cross. “Go then.”

      With a humble nod, the knight started to turn away, then paused. He sniffed. “Do you smell something foul?”

      “Foul?” Duncan cursed silently, aware the hideous odor could only be a result of his climb from Hades. “Aye, it would be my cloak. One of the blasted dogs mistook it for a post and relieved himself on it.” He shook his head with disgust. “I have aired it outside for the past three nights and still it reeks to the heavens.”

      The knight shrugged. “I have said myself the beasts should stay outside once the meals are over, but Lord Frasyer insists they remain within the keep.”

      “He is a stubborn man,” Duncan agreed, “but one whom I serve through our Lord’s guidance.” He was surprised God didn’t strike him down for that blatant lie. It’d take more than the Lord to achieve Duncan’s forgiveness or acceptance for Frasyer luring Isabel away from him.

      Or of Frasyer murdering Symon.

      “Bless you, Father.” The knight departed.

      Duncan started down the steps. As he passed an arrow slit, he noted the sun had set and blackness was eroding the last fragments of the day. He had to hurry.

      In the great hall, he avoided several more requests for his time with excuses of being needed at the chapel posthaste. At the dungeon’s entrance, Duncan slipped past a guard busy charming a wench for a romp. With the castle secured for the night, the sentry had obviously dismissed any possible threat.

      The trickle of water echoed from below as Duncan made his way down the steps Frasyer had shown him years ago, a time when they were friends. A lone torch impaled at the top of the steps illuminated the tufts of moss clinging in patches on the rough stone wall, lined with spider webs.

      With quiet steps, Duncan rounded the last bend, only to collide with the ripe scent of the poorly kept cells. “God in heaven.” Isabel lived in this? Had Symon known, he would have urged Duncan to kill Frasyer outright.

      At the first door, he squinted through the tiny peephole.

      Empty.

      A tormented groan, he recognized as male, echoed from inside the next cell. Despite his assurance that Isabel meant nothing to him, his blood iced. Please, God, let Isabel have been spared such brutality.

      Duncan moved on. Meager rays of light filtered through the small, narrowed windows. He couldn’t make out if a prisoner was inside. After listening for several seconds, he concluded it was empty.

      Frustrated, he hurried down the corridor. If possible, the stench grew worse. He almost heaved. Aye, he and his brothers had taken prisoners, a casualty of battle, but they’d ensured the men were treated with basic decency. This filth, that of rotting