His Conquest. Diana Cosby

every nook of the castle for them, including the hidden passageways. “But not because I am in league with the Viscount of Tearlach,” she added, surprised to find it important that the Earl of Grey believed her.

      “No? Then why?”

      As much as she wished to explain, for her safety, she would tell him nothing more.

      At her silence, a smile as cold and dangerous edged his mouth. “You have secrets, my lady, but you have chosen the wrong man to deceive in this game you play. Before our journey is over, I will know each and every one.”

      Tension wove through her. “The only game played is one you conceive within your mind.”

      He grunted. “Should I not find your appearance on the eve before I am to be hanged an unlikely coincidence?”

      “Should you not give thanks that I risked my life to save yours?”

      Eyes alive with suspicion studied her. “You risked your life, but not for my sake.”

      “Perhaps,” she admitted, inwardly shaken to discover that she was no longer motivated solely by her determination to halt her brother’s plans. Despite the meager time she’d spent with this powerful Scottish lord, she was drawn by his strength, his tenacity to fight for what he believed in. She understood why men followed the earl without doubt. And more unnerving, she found herself caring that he lived.

      Around the next turn, candlelight exposed a haphazard pile of rocks that formed a wall. Linet halted. A cave-in. Sweet Mary. Their most direct route to escape was ruined.

      The earl turned to her with an ominous frown. “The tunnel is blocked.”

      “I did not know. I swear it.”

      He studied her for a long moment, glanced toward where the pathway had split several steps back. “Where does the other tunnel lead?”

      “To the cliffs. But the route weaves through the castle and would take hours to travel. With but one candle to guide us, we must choose a shorter route.”

      “And that would be?”

      “We must pass through the stables, sneak past the guards, and enter yet another tunnel that leads to the cliffs.” She paused. “But I caution you, it is a treacherous path.”

      “More treacherous than returning to the dungeon? Nay, I will take the risk.” His hand trembled as he turned, the candle held high.

      She caught the sheen of sweat dripping down his face, the stiffness of his gait. She couldn’t worry about him, nor the feelings he inspired. For each of them, fate held a different path. Never could Seathan represent more than revenge against her brother.

      “I will make it,” he said as if sensing her doubt.

      The edge to his voice warned her not to argue. But determination wouldn’t push muscles exhausted or a mind fevered. With his hand firm around hers, she kept pace as he headed back toward the other tunnel, and prayed they’d make good their escape.

      The fresh scent of hay infused the cool rush of air as Seathan inched the plank open, the faint tinge of smoke from the extinguished candle fading.

      A horse whinnied, another shifted. Rain pounded on the wooden roof. He frowned at the next blast of thunder. The storm would make their travel more hazardous, but its rumbles would provide them cover.

      Had his brothers found the meeting place where he and his men had been betrayed by Dauid? Were they now braving the harsh weather in search of him? Or had Alexander and Duncan yet to return from their meeting with William Wallace and Bishop Wishart?

      Bedamned.

      He hated the not knowing. Until he had traveled at least two days by foot, he could learn naught. Worse, once he and Linet escaped Breac Castle, Tearlach’s men would be scouring the forest for him, increasing the danger to his brothers.

      Seathan searched the stalls through the slats. No one worked within. “Come.” Seathan tugged her forward. Keeping to the shadows, he crept through the well-kept stable.

      “You are trembling.”

      The worry in her voice had him damning his body’s weakness, and her keen eyesight. “Keep moving.” He inched forward, careful to keep out of sight of anyone within the bailey.

      Lightning flashed. Thunder rolled in its wake. The rain of moments before increased to a downpour.

      “Post extra men upon the wall walk,” a commanding voice ordered from nearby.

      Seathan stilled. Tearlach. A damnable voice he would recognize to his grave. The woman’s hand tightened in his. “You know him?” he demanded in a rough whisper.

      “Of course. He is lord of Breac Castle.”

      Aye, but the nerves in her voice indicated a much closer tie. “Is he your lover?”

      Delicate nostrils flared. “I despise him.”

      Truth spilled through her words, but instinct assured him that she concealed more from him. Still, a part of him found comfort that she knew not Fulke’s touch.

      “Keep low—and quiet.” Careful not to startle the horses, he eased forward, using the distant torchlight as a guide as they wove through the stables.

      “I want every corner of Breac Castle searched again,” Fulke’s voice boomed, this time closer. “They must be here!”

      Christ’s blade. Tearlach had discovered his escape. He’d wanted to have traveled several leagues before his absence was discovered.

      Seathan stilled. The full impact of the viscount’s words slammed home. He turned toward the noblewoman. “They?” he asked, the softness of his burr laden with threat.

      “You could not have escaped alone,” Linet whispered.

      Which made sense, but far from soothed his instinct that something was seriously amiss.

      “We have searched all of the buildings, my lord,” a man’s voice called out.

      “I care not,” Lord Tearlach yelled. “Search them again. By God, they will be found this night!” The slap of footsteps faded as his knights scattered, rushing to do their lord’s bidding.

      The splat of water sloshed in a puddle nearby.

      “Someone is coming. Hurry!” Seathan dropped, then rolled into a stall.

      Linet followed.

      Once inside, Seathan lifted a pile of hay. “Get in.” She crawled beneath the heap and he joined her.

      The bay within the stall stamped its feet and snorted.

      Footsteps grew louder.

      Seathan clamped his hand upon his dagger.

      “Ho, Blanchard,” a deep male voice rumbled. “Not liking the storm?”

      Torchlight flickered over the pile of straw above Seathan as he sheltered Linet with his body. He put a finger over her lips.

      She nodded.

      Through the wisps of hay, he caught sight of the knight as he rubbed the bay’s neck. After a pat on the withers, he began making his way down the line of stalls in a slow, methodical sweep.

      Long moments passed, each one stealing precious darkness they needed to make their escape. More disturbing, with each passing second, heat from Linet’s body melded with his. The soft warmth, infused with her woman’s scent, was designed to seduce.

      Seathan gritted his teeth in disbelief. With his body screaming from its torture, one would think he could ignore her scent, how well she fit against him, or the lingering memory of their kiss. But sheltered by the backdrop of falling rain and caught within the blanket of the hay’s warmth, he was all too aware of her presence.

      A bloody curse.

      Soft footsteps crunched on