Conall wiped the spittle away and smiled coldly. “I’m not asking nicely.”
With that, he brought his foot down hard on the man’s hand. The guard let out a howl of agony, and Conall leaned in close.
“Let’s try that again. Where. Is. She?”
“She isnae down here!” the man cried. “The earl said she was to be confined to her room!”
Conall released the guard, who clutched his bruised hand to his chest, whimpering. Conall paused, weighing his options. He knocked the man out with a swift blow to the head and ran towards the stairwell that led to the upper levels of the keep.
Chapter 22
The knife snapped inMolly’s hand and she let out a string of curses that would have made any sailor proud. Irritably, she tossed it away and picked up the spoon. This was her last chance. She’d already broken every implement she’d tried to use: a fork, the hairbrush handle, a hairpin, but she’d hardly made a dent in the mortar around the window.
She went back to scraping. It was the only thing she could think of. She’d tried smashing the window of course, but the small panes were crisscrossed by lead and she’d not been able to break them. She’d already bruised her knuckles hammering on the door and yelled herself hoarse demanding to be let out and none of it had made a difference. So she was reduced to trying to scrape out the mortar around the window—a desperate plan, she knew—but she would be damned if she would just sit here and do nothing.
Her hands ached and her fingers were raw, but Molly refused to give up. She was determined to escape and reunite with Conall, no matter what it took. She had to admit, she felt a small sense of satisfaction as she chipped away at the stubborn mortar, bit by bit. It was hard work, but it felt like progress, and that was something.
If she stopped for even a moment, the crushing despair would come flooding back. The fear for Conall. The aching emptiness she felt without him here. The all-consuming dread when she thought of what might happen next.
Nope. No way. She would not give up.
She tensed suddenly as she heard footsteps drumming in the corridor outside. She knew that guards had been posted on her door and this sounded like more arriving. Had they come to take her away?
She looked around wildly for a weapon. There were none. The best she could come up with was to yank off her boot, hold it above her head in both hands, and position herself behind the door. If they thought she’d come without a fight, they had another think coming!
Her breath came shallow and fast as the lock rattled. She heard it turn, a heavy click in the silence of her room. The door opened slowly and a man entered.
With a scream of fury, she whacked him over and over with her boot with all her strength.
The man threw his arms up to shield himself and a familiar voice cried, “Ow! Bloody hell, Molly, that hurts!”
She froze. No. It couldn’t be. The man straightened and Molly’s heart leapt into her throat at the sight of the beloved face, the gray eyes, the messy hair, the broad, full lips.
Conall.
Molly dropped her boot with a clatter and ran towards him, throwing herself into his arms with a cry of relief. He caught her easily and held her tight, murmuring soothing words as he stroked her hair. “It’s all right,” he said softly. “Ye are safe.”
