Warrior's Lady (19 page)

“My promise will have no meaning.”

“I would have it anyway.”

“Why?”

“I know thee to be an honorable man. Once thee has given me thy word, thee will keep it. As I will keep mine.”

“What if she refuses to stay with you?”

“I will judge the depths of that gorge when I come to it. I want only thy word, and thy solemn vow that thee will not reveal this conversation.”

“You want her to believe I no longer want her for my wife.”

“Yes.”

“She will never believe it.”

“We shall see. Thy word, Lord Jarrett. Do I have it?”

“You have it. I will release Leyla from her vows when we reach the Mountains of the Blue Mist if she so wishes.”

“That will do.” Tor stared at the hood in his hands, thinking he had never seen a crueler instrument of torture. Heaving a sigh, he glanced at Jarrett, an apology in his eyes as he dropped the hood in place.

Shrouded in the hood’s living darkness, Jarrett listened to the sound of Tor’s footsteps as the Maje crossed the floor toward the torch, then made his way to the door and left the cell.

Chained to the wall, trapped within the hood’s infinite darkness, Jarrett offered a silent plea to the All Father, praying that Tor would find a way for them to escape before Rorke had his way with Leyla. And though he asked nothing for himself, he hoped the All Father would take pity on him and grant his petition before he had to endure the awful terror of the pool.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Thee has seen him?” Leyla’s voice was rough with the strain of the past few hours, her eyes filled with anxiety and hope.

“Yes.”

“Is he well?”

“He is unhurt.”

“Thee is keeping something from me.”

Tor shook his head. “He has a minor wound. It is nothing to speak of.”

“Did he ask for me?”

“Yes.” Tor held up his hand, holding off further questions. “I have a plan, Leyla. I think we can get out of here without much trouble. No one bothered me when I entered the Pavilion. If we dress Jarrett in suitable clothes and act as if we have every right to roam the castle at will, I think we can escape without much trouble.”

“Truly! Oh, Tor, that is wonderful news!”

“Hear me out.”

Her eyes lost their sparkle at the sound of his voice. “What is wrong?”

“There is a condition.”

“What sort of condition?”

“I will help thee free Jarrett only if thee agrees to return to Majeulla with me.”

She stared at him as if his words had no meaning. And then she shook her head. “It is impossible. I am Jarrett’s wife.”

“He has agreed to release thee from thy vows.”

“I don’t believe thee.”

“It is true, nevertheless. Thee may ask him thyself once we are away from this place.”

“And if I refuse to disavow my troth and return to Majeulla with thee?”

“Thee must do as thee thinks best. But I would remind thee that Rorke has sworn to kill Jarrett. And to take his pleasure with thee.”

“And thee will do nothing to help Jarrett unless I yield to thy wishes?”

He said nothing, only stared at her, his dark eyes opaque, his mind closed against her.

“I do not believe thee would do this, Tor. It is not our way to watch others suffer. Shield thy mind as thee might, I sense the hatred within thee. It makes thee a stranger to me.”

“I want only that which was promised me,” Tor replied. “That for which I have waited my whole life.” He crossed the short distance between them. “I have loved thee since thee was a child. I have waited for the day when thee would be mine.”

His hand rested lightly on her shoulder, then slid down her arm. “What has patience gotten me, Leyla?” he asked bitterly. He took her hand in his. “When we return to Majeulla, I will claim what is rightfully mine.”

A coldness settled over Leyla’s heart as she gazed into Tor’s eyes. The gentle Maje she had known was gone, and in his place stood a stranger. It was in her mind to tell him nay, but logic told her that Tor was her only hope of getting Jarrett away from the Pavilion. She was too well-known in the dungeons. The Giants would not let her pass unchallenged. They knew she had helped Jarrett escape before. They would not let her near him again.

“If thee can get Jarrett away from the Pavilion, I will do as thee asks, Tor. I will return to Majeulla with thee. I will be thy wife if Jarrett will release me from my vows.”

Tor nodded. He was not proud of deceiving her, but she had been promised to him since childhood and he meant to have her as his wife. He had waited patiently for her to grow up. Though there had been many women who would have been proud to be his wife, he had shunned the company of other women, keeping himself untouched so that he might go to her without blemish, as he had expected her to come to him. But Leyla was no longer untouched. Jarrett had taken her innocence. Tor would never forgive him for that.

“How soon?” Leyla asked.

“A few days. I must observe the guards before I can formulate a plan of escape. Until then, we must do as Rorke bids, no matter how distasteful it might be.”

The next three days passed without incident. Rorke seemed to have no interest in either Tor or Leyla, insisting only that they join him in the dining hall morning and evening. Leyla wondered what business kept him occupied during the day. Occasionally she tried to pry into his affairs, but he refused to reveal anything. Tor had tried to probe Rorke’s mind, but thus far he had been unsuccessful.

“He has great control over his thoughts,” Tor remarked that afternoon. “He is aware of my power and he therefore thwarts me at every turn.”

“What does thee think he is up to?”

Tor shrugged. “I think he has plans to take control of Greyebridge. Once he has a fortress, I think he will try to gather an army and overthrow Tyrell. The King has no heirs, no direct kin. I believe Rorke hopes to put his own issue on the throne.”

“Can he do it?”

“Perhaps. But it is not our concern.” He leaned toward her, his voice low. “After dark, there is but one guard at each castle gate. I saw only one Giant in the Pavilion. There were no guards in the lower levels. Now that the place is abandoned, some of the King’s men train in the arena, but they will be gone by nightfall.

“This eve, I will challenge Rorke to a game of nine points. While we are thus engaged, thee must go into his chamber and take a set of his clothes for Jarrett to wear. Tomorrow eve, at tenth hour, I will go to the dungeon and free Jarrett. Thee must meet us by the north door of the Pavilion so he can don Rorke’s attire.”

Leyla nodded. It might work. With Jarrett disguised as Rorke, it just might work. It had to work.

“By what manner did thee escape before?”

“We went through the kitchens, out into the stable yard, and then out the east gate. Are the helldogs still there?”

“I saw none.” He let out a sigh. “Tomorrow, then, at tenth hour.”

“Tomorrow,” Leyla agreed.

She was ill at ease during Last Meal that evening. Tor’s plan sounded so simple, yet there were so many things that could go wrong, and Jarrett’s life hung in the balance.

She ate slowly, steadily, answering when spoken to, immediately forgetting what had been said. Jarrett wished to renounce their marriage. The thought cut through her like a knife. Resolutely she put it from her mind. She would not believe it until she heard it from his own lips.

She looked up, realizing that Rorke had spoken to her. “Milord?”

“Your thoughts appear far away, mistress,” he remarked.

“Yes, Milord, I was thinking of my home and my family.”

“I hear the Mountains of the Blue Mist are quite lovely.”

“Yes, Milord.”

“You will be there again soon.”

Fear snaked through Leyla’s heart. Did he know of their plans? “Milord?”

“Have you forgotten I promised to send you home?”

“No, Milord,” she replied quickly. “Will it be soon?”

“Not too soon.” His dark eyes moved over her breasts, his lingering glance betraying his intent. “I fear I have neglected you these past few days, but I shall soon remedy that.”

“Please, Milord, I beg of thee, do not shame me.”

Rorke turned to stare at Tor. “You are unusually silent. Have you nothing to say?”

“Thy mind is made up, Milord. Naught that I can say will change it.” Tor’s gaze clashed with Rorke’s. “Thee has given me thy word that thee will release us at thy leisure.”

“And you are content to wait?”

“My people are not inclined to make war, Milord Rorke. Unlike the Fen, we are instructed not in the art of war, but to walk the paths of peace.”

Rorke grunted. “There is no strength in peace, Tor of Majeulla. Power is for those who have the courage to take it.”

“Thee has said it, Milord.”

“I grow bored with this conversation. I have had no diversion since we arrived.” His gaze washed over Leyla, hot as the pools of Mereck. “Taark, bring me the prisoner. I desire some entertainment.”

“Yes, Milord.”

Leyla’s eyes grew wide. “Milord…” She stared helplessly at Tor.

Tor leaned forward. “Milord, I had hoped to engage thee in a game of nine points.”

“On the morrow, perhaps. I have not seen my Lord Jarrett these last three days. I would know how he fares.”

Tor nodded. Sitting back in his chair, he sent a message to Leyla, bidding her mind her tongue and keep silent no matter what Rorke might do.

Minutes later, Taark ushered Jarrett into the room.

Leyla’s heart twisted with pain as she stared at her husband. His chest was covered with a dozen minor cuts and welts. The hood covered his face, his hands were shackled behind his back.

“Ah, my Lord Jarrett,” Rorke said, his voice a mockery of welcome. “We bid you welcome. Your lovely wife sits here at my side. Your rival for her affections is here also. Have you anything to say?”

Slowly Jarrett shook his head.

“No words of love for this beautiful silver-haired creature? Ah, I am indeed disappointed in you. Perhaps a few strokes of the lash will loosen your tongue. Taark!”

Leyla’s nails bit into her palms as Taark laid the lash across Jarrett’s bare back. He flinched as the thick leather strap cut deep into his flesh.

Leyla flinched as well, a small sob escaping her lips. She felt Jarrett’s pain as if it were her own, felt the warm trickle of blood that oozed down his back. His rage, as black as the bowels of the Pavilion, seared her mind, frightening in its intensity.

“Milord,” she whispered, “please…”

Rorke’s smile was cold. “You wish me to stop?”

“Yes, please.”

The sound of her voice, meekly acquiescent, elicited a wordless cry of despair from Jarrett. He knew Leyla only too well, knew she would do whatever she thought necessary to spare him any further pain.

Pleased by Jarrett’s reaction, Rorke nodded at Taark and the lash fell again.

“Please, Milord,” Leyla begged. “I’ll do anything thee asks of me, only spare him.”

“Leyla.” The warning hissed through Jarrett’s clenched teeth.

Leyla faltered for only a moment. He would be angry if she defied him, she knew it as surely as she knew the three moons of Hovis would rise that night, but it couldn’t be helped. She could not stand idly by and let him be whipped, not if there was a way to stop it.

Rorke looked thoughtful for a moment, and then a wry smile tugged at his lips. “Anything, madam?” he mused, his expression turning smug. “A kiss, I think. One kiss, freely given, to stay the lash.”

“Leyla, no!” Jarrett ground the words out between clenched teeth.

“So, he does speak,” Rorke mused. “Taark, remove the hood.”

Jarrett’s gaze settled on Rorke’s face, his eyes ablaze with defiance.

Rorke grinned insolently, and then turned to Leyla. “One kiss, madam,” he reminded her. “One kiss, freely given.”

Heart pounding with revulsion, Leyla pressed her lips to Rorke’s. She gasped as his hands grasped her shoulders, his grip brutal. She tried to pull away, but he held her fast, his tongue plundering her mouth with sickening intimacy.

Just when she thought he would never let her go, he released her, his expression insolent as he turned to face Jarrett.

A feral scream of fury erupted from Jarrett’s throat as he lunged toward Rorke. Striking out with his right foot, he struck Rorke full in the chest, driving him over backward.

Leyla screamed as Taark drew his sword. But Tor was moving too. Snatching up a stool, he brought it down over Taark’s head, then plucked the captain’s sword from his hand.

“Do not move, my Lord Rorke,” Tor warned, the blade steady in his grasp. “Jarrett, step away.”

Jarrett backed up, his breath coming in hard gasps as he watched Rorke gain his feet.

“What do you hope to gain by this?” Rorke asked. “Put that sword away. A word from me will have a dozen men in this room.”

“Say it and die,” Tor warned. “Leyla, release Jarrett.”

With a nod, she hurried to Taark’s side. Finding a ring of keys on his belt, she quickly unlocked Jarrett’s shackles.

He rubbed his wrists a moment, then pulled her into his arms and kissed her, hard and quick. Untying the sash from Taark’s waist, he ripped it in half and tied the captain’s hands behind his back.

“You will never make it out of the keep,” Rorke warned as Jarrett used the remaining strip of cloth to bind his hands.

“You will not make it through this night,” Jarrett retorted, his eyes cold and hard as he drew Rorke’s sword from its sheath.

“Jarrett, no!” Leyla rushed to his side. “Please, I cannot abide for thee to kill him.”

“I cannot let him live.”

“Please, my Lord.” She placed her hand on his arm, felt the hard ridge of muscle quiver beneath her fingertips. “Please.”

“You do not know what you’re asking. He will not rest until one of us is dead.”

She heard the fury building in his voice, saw it in the harsh glint of his eyes, in the labored rasp of his breathing.

“He wants Greyebridge, Leyla. He will not rest until he has it, and the throne as well.”

“The throne?”

“Aye, the throne. He wants it badly enough to kill for it.”

Leyla glanced at Rorke, then at Jarrett. “Please, no killing.”

“As you wish.” Jarrett studied Rorke a moment, knowing it was a mistake to let the man live, yet unable to refuse Leyla’s request. “I have another idea.”