The Renegade's Heart (18 page)

How could he have ever looked into her
eyes?

What could he do to free himself?

Heat. He had need of heat in his veins. That
was the first matter, whether any watched the forest shadows or
not. He would have to take the risk. Then he had to find Duncan’s
relic and see it restored, if it was the last deed he did in this
life.

Murdoch would not consider that it likely
would be.

And he would not mourn what might have been
with Isabella, had he been a free man.

He would, however, dream of her.

* * *

Chapter
Eight

The messenger had been certain that he would
be safe. It was yet evening, the sun barely set. He would be
through Kinfairlie forest before it was truly dark, well on his way
to Newcastle. The brigands had been routed and this would be the
safest time to make his passage.

The laird spoke aright, and the laird’s
message must be delivered.

All the same, the messenger spurred his horse
to great speed on the road that wound through Kinfairlie forest. It
was only his memories that haunted him, he reminded himself, and
the bandits had not injured him. They had frightened him, no more
than that.

He still would be glad to leave the forest
behind him.

It was strange how dark it was within the
forest, for the trees were bare of leaves and the sky should have
been bright overhead. The messenger felt that the woods was filled
with peril and ominous shadows. He could see the glimmer where the
road erupted into the fields ahead and urged his horse to even
greater speed. He thought he was nearly free of the forest’s shadow
and dared to be glad.

Then some fool leapt on to the road in front
of the horse, waving a burning torch. The horse shied, turning
aside to plunge into the forest’s undergrowth. The messenger tried
to slow the beast, not wanting it to be injured on the uneven
ground. Firelight appeared on all sides of him. He was certain
there must be a dozen flaming torches closing around him in a
circle. The horse spun and snorted and finally came to a restless
halt, stamping its feet in the undergrowth.

And the messenger found the tip of a sword at
his throat.

A man, his face dark with soot, smiled at
him. He held the sword in one hand and a blazing torch in the
other. He was dressed all in black, the flash of his smile
uncommonly bright. He looked reckless and dangerous, a brigand to
be sure. That circle of burning torches, held by the thief’s
companions, ensured that the horse would not obey any command to
run.

The villains were back, and with unholy
speed.

The messenger swallowed, feeling his throat
move against the point of the blade.

“I will have your purse,” the renegade said
as if they met in social circumstance. “And whatsoever else of
value you carry.” He smiled again, too amiable to be trusted. “I
will have it now, and you will have your safe passage in
exchange.”

When the matter was presented thus, the
messenger could find no reason not to comply.

* * *

Isabella was vexed. It seemed that every time
she thought she might have a chance to visit Kinfairlie’s chapel,
some other soul wanted some deed from her. She could not abandon
Eleanor in her illness, to be sure. She had sent a preparation to
the Siobhan for their son, and she had been required at the board
that night for the evening meal as well.

The entire day slid away without Isabella
finding a moment to go to the chapel without her sisters knowing of
it. Elizabeth in particular was cursedly curious, as if that sister
sensed some change in Isabella – or guessed that there was a secret
she was not being told. Worse, Alexander insisted upon the gates to
the bailey being secured that night, as safeguard against the
renegades he had routed but not captured.

And so it was that Isabella defied the belief
of all in that household, by rising at dawn to go to chapel. She
was always the last of the sisters to leave the warmth of her
pallet. On this day, she awakened with the first glimmer of
sunlight, realized all were asleep, and recognized her chance.

She would say that she went to pray for
Eleanor and the babe she carried, if she was asked.

She
would
do that, as well as search
the crypt.

It was not a holy day, so morning mass would
be later in Kinfairlie chapel. With all good fortune, Isabella
would have the small church to herself for a precious few moments.
She dressed in haste, snatched up her cloak and eased open the door
to the chamber, watching Annelise and Elizabeth with care. Their
maid Vera snored so noisily that Isabella could have kissed
her.

Then she was gone, fleeing down the stairs of
the keep, racing across the nigh-empty hall, and into the crisp
chill of a winter morning. The portcullis was closed and the
gatekeeper started at the sight of her.

“I would pray for Lady Eleanor,” Isabella
said, her words breathless. “Before she awakens and has need of my
aid.”

He moved quickly then, unlocking the smaller
portal with one of the keys on the ring attached to his belt. “I
beg you add my prayers to yours, my lady,” he said with a nod and
Isabella smiled agreement.

She ran through the gates, through the
village, through the snow that had dusted the road during the
night. She pushed open the heavy wooden door of the chapel and
blinked at the darkness inside. She took a deep breath of the scent
of beeswax and saw that a dozen candles yet burned at the altar.
Isabella had time to cross herself and genuflect, to hear the heavy
portal close behind her, before she was seized in an iron grip.

A gloved hand covered her mouth when she
would have cried out in alarm. Her arms were trapped against her
body and she was lifted from the ground, a man holding her captive
against his muscled strength.

“Who is Rosamunde?” that man whispered into
her ear, and Isabella almost fainted in relief.

Murdoch!

* * *

Murdoch did not loosen his grip upon
Isabella. Her heart pounded, each pulse radiating heat into his own
chilled body. She was so vibrant that holding her in his embrace
seemed to call him back from some dark and dreadful place.

He knew that place, its name and its empress.
He wished to never return there.

Although his sole choice might be death.

Desperation had driven him back into
Kinfairlie village, in hope of meeting Isabella. The message had
been from the laird to one Rosamunde, requesting her return most
urgently. He had resolved that Isabella would know this Rosamunde,
and he knew that Isabella intended to search the chapel’s crypt for
the relics.

He and Stewart had ridden around the far side
of Kinfairlie village during the dark of the night, letting the
sound of the sea disguise the horses’ hoof beats. He had left
Zephyr hidden with Stewart far beyond the cemetery. He had crept
through the graveyard and into the village while its occupants
slept. There was no guard posted on the side of the village away
from the road, and the wall was laughably low.

Again, Murdoch had been struck by the
confidence of those within this holding in their own safety. Of
course, he supposed that during any assault, they simply retreated
to the bailey and the tower, which did have a considerable wall and
moat around it.

There was a strange rustling as he moved
through the village, but Murdoch strove to ignore it. He had a
sense of movement in the shadows, of some shadows being darker than
they had a right to be, but he simply feared anew that he was
losing his wits.

The chapel had been easy to find; he
remembered it from the day before. The portal had been unlocked, as
such places of sanctuary tended to be. But instead of sanctuary,
Murdoch had found a hell within the chapel. The shadows had
followed him from the cemetery, surging through the portal behind
him, filling the chapel and surrounding him.

Watching him.

They were ghosts. Their stares unblinking and
their expressions accusatory – though whether they condemned him
for his deeds or for the simple fact that he yet lived, Murdoch
could not have said. Either way, they obscured his passage to the
crypt, forming a frigid barrier of mist and shadow. He had been
unable to pass through their ranks. He also could not leave, for
they slipped behind him and barred the portal.

It was the dead who filled his mind with
images of disintegration, the dead who pressed against him on all
sides. They filled his mind with sights of rotten corpses and
maggots, flesh disintegrating in the forest as beings of all kinds
returned to earth and dust. They ensured he understood how readily
he might join them.

Had they been dispatched by the Elphine Queen
to illuminate his choices?

They flowed restlessly around Murdoch, like
the brush of a thousand butterfly wings, their presence making him
taste his own mortality. He stood, wreathed in shadows and
powerless to escape. He became aware of the slow death claiming his
own body.

The coldness within him could have struck him
to ice, fed by the chill of the stone walls and the presence of the
dead. Murdoch feared he would join their ranks by the dawn, and
dreaded whatever fate he had unwittingly brought upon Stewart. He
tugged back his sleeve and watched the blue whorls grow over his
flesh, steadily claiming him body and soul.

Would he simply die in this sacred space?
Murdoch did not know but as the cold penetrated his very marrow, he
had to struggle to care.

Until Isabella burst into the chapel.

* * *

The pink of the dawn’s light followed
Isabella, the radiance of her hair making Murdoch gasp in relief.
He seized her as much to silence her as to feel her vitality
against him. He closed his eyes and held her tightly, savoring the
way her touch drove the cold from his body. When he looked, the
dead were retreating.

The lady twisted in his grasp and caught his
face in her hands. “How long have you been here?” she whispered
with concern. “You are so cold, Murdoch!” She hesitated, surveying
him, then touched her lips quickly to his. When he caught his
breath at the welcome heat that rolled through his body, she
smiled.

Then she locked her hands around his head and
kissed him fully.

Murdoch could not resist her. He caught her
close and deepened his kiss, drinking of her sweet passion. He felt
a thaw pass through his body, invigorating him with rare power. His
mouth was on her throat, his senses flooded with the enticing
perfume of Isabella. She might have been a rope cast to a drowning
man, so tightly did he embrace her and the salvation she
offered.

She said she learned the healing arts, he
recalled belatedly. Perhaps that was why her presence aided him. He
did not imagine for a moment that she could heal him fully, but he
would take the reprieve and be glad of it.

Indeed, he could not get enough of her. He
wanted to feel her again, and watch her find her pleasure once
more. She kissed him with such ardor that Murdoch dared to believe
their desires were as one. He shed his gloves, his fingers twining
in her hair and setting it free of her braid. It flowed over her
shoulders, surrounding her face like a corona of flame. He
whispered her name and claimed her lips again, drinking deeply of
the heat she shared with him so willingly. He could lose himself in
this woman’s allure and never regret his choice.

Isabella framed his face in her hands and
broke their kiss, studying him closely. “Why are you here?” she
whispered. “I told you I would look for the relics. There was no
need for you to risk your own safety.” She winced and took a step
away. “Or do you not trust me?”

Something changed in her tone, Murdoch saw as
much. He reminded himself that he had nothing to promise her, even
as he wished to court her truly. “I trust you. If ever there was a
lady who would keep her pledge, it is you.”

Isabella turned away, failing to hide her
pleasure in his words. Murdoch caught her chin in his hand, tempted
to kiss her yet again. He could have been standing in the sunlight
on a midsummer day, given the radiant warmth that filled his
body.

“All the same, you should not have taken such
a risk,” she scolded softly.

“I came because your brother sent a message
last night to one Rosamunde, begging her to return with speed.”

“How do you know this?”

Murdoch smiled.

“Not another messenger?”

“The same one and equally as unharmed as the
last time. I took but three of his coins.” With a flourish, Murdoch
dropped them one at a time into the alms box beside the portal to
the church.

She gave him a look that was doubtless
intended to be stern, but the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her.
“You undoubtedly frightened him.”

Murdoch shrugged. “For only a moment. I even
returned the message to him, resealed as if he had never
encountered me.”

“Do not tell me that you change your ways for
me?”

Murdoch smiled. “You cannot blame me for
wishing to ensure I remain in your favor.” Isabella sobered at that
and he wondered what he had said. “Who is Rosamunde?”

Isabella bit her lip and stepped away from
him, her brows drawing together in a frown. Again, her tone had
changed and she spoke to him as if he were a stranger. Where was
the passionate maiden who had warmed him with her kiss? “Rosamunde
is my aunt.” She frowned. “We call her aunt, although there is no
blood between us. She was adopted by my grandfather’s brother when
she was an infant, and raised as one of us. She was the one who
used to trade in religious relics, before my uncle Tynan saw fit to
be rid of them all. I think perhaps he meant to save Rosamunde from
her trade.”