The lyrical flow of her voice wove around him like a blanket of hope, the memory of her lying against him bringing its own comfort. “You needed rest.”
“Thomas…”
At the concern in her voice, he glanced over.
Her lower lip trembled, and worry darkened her gaze. “I will pray for your safety.”
For the first time in his life the danger of the battle ahead weighed heavy on his mind, of the risks, of what he had to lose.
He took her hand and skimmed his thumb across her palm, wishing they were alone, the castle was safe, and that uninterrupted hours lay ahead of them where he could take her into his arms and show her how much she meant to him, tell the words filling his heart. “I shall come back to you.”
“What if—”
“With the throng of flaming arrows raining upon Comyn’s men,” he interrupted, wanting to ease her worry, “the enemy will be too busy defending themselves to notice my brother and me setting their siege engine ablaze.”
Eyes churning with emotion held his. “They will be.”
But he heard the nerves edging her voice, ones that lingered inside. ’Twasna a simple battle they fought. The outcome of Comyn’s attack could shape more than their future together, but Scotland’s history.
Like an omen, torchlight cast angry shadows as they hurried up the turret. Thomas glared at the mix of darkness and light, hurried past.
As Alesone stepped onto the wall walk, a snow laden gust tugged at her blond hair. “How can you slip back inside the castle without being seen?”
“Hidden tunnels are scattered about known only to family.”
“What of their stockpile of beams near the forest?”
“Once the siege engine is burning, we shall torch any supplies they could use to rebuild.” He grimaced at the distant stack of timber. “We only have this one opportunity. Once your father realizes we can sneak out of the castle, he will double the guards around any weaponry or supplies.”
She released a shaky breath.
Waves of the oncoming night scarred the last wisps of the sun’s rays on the horizon as Thomas paused beside the corner tower. “We canna fail. If they destroy the curtain wall, naught can prevent them from storming the castle.”
“Mayhap,” she said, her voice unsteady, “Sir John MacLairish has reached our sovereign.”
“However much I pray he has, unless my men and the Bruce’s forces arrive, we canna count on such.” He rubbed the tense muscles in the back of his neck. “My hope is that destroying their siege engine and stockpile will dissuade your father from believing that he can take you and that he will leave.”
“Given the stakes,” she said, her words unsteady, “do you believe he will ever go without me?”
On a curse, he hauled her against him. “Nay.”
* * *
Heart pounding, Alesone again scanned the night, waited for the sign from Thomas to begin the diversion. With clouds smothering any starlight, blackness drenched the land.
A flash from a flaming arrow flew high into the air.
The sign!
“Fire,” the duke boomed.
Pulse racing, Alesone, along with the other archers lined along the wall walk, lit their arrows. Lethal gold cut through the sky, punctuated by shouts of enemy knights caught beneath the fiery barrage. Time dragged as she released arrow after flame-tipped arrow.
Her arm ached, her muscles bunched in knots as she pulled back her bowstring. An arrow hissed past a breath from head. Narrowing her gaze, Alesone aimed toward the blur of movement, released.
A scream sounded.
She jerked another arrow from the quiver, took aim on the next victim.
