“Non, I . . .” She pushed herself into a sitting position. “There is something important that I must tell you, it is only that . . .” Her mind blurred.
“Marie, I must add my agreement to your father’s,” the duke added. “You are still weak.”
King Philip waved his hand in a subtle gesture, and a thin, somber man stepped into view. “See that she is given herbs to help her sleep.”
The man bowed. “Oui, Your Majesty.”
She recognized her father’s personal physician. “I would rather not—”
“You are to rest,” her father stated. “We shall discuss this later.”
Her betrothed again raised her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss on her knuckles. “I shall return to visit after we sup.” With a formal bow, he departed, his stride sure, that of a man confident in his abilities. A man who took care of what was his.
Coldness crept through her at the thought of the latter. Why? She should be pleased at his protectiveness, a trait so like her father’s.
“My lady.” Her father’s physician held out a cup of water warmed over the fire and sprinkled with herbs; steam drifted upward in wispy tendrils.
Exhausted, she accepted the healing brew. After a sip to ensure it was not too hot, she gulped the liquid in three swallows and then returned the cup to the side table.
Her father nodded his satisfaction and dismissed the physician.
Alone, the king knelt beside her bed, his brow wrinkled with worry. “I will return once I am informed you have awakened.” He pressed a kiss on her cheek and then exited the chamber.
A lethargic warmth slid through her. Marie embraced the numbness, sinking into the luxurious comfort of her bed. As she gave in to blissful sleep, a nagging that she’d forgotten something of great importance persisted.
Beyond Colyne’s dank cell, the distant calls of prisoners echoed with macabre finality. Outside, rain continued to batter the castle.
Sprawled on the floor, he struggled against the blackened void of pain that threatened to suck him back under. How long had he lost consciousness this time? Somewhere between when they’d dragged him back to his cell and now, the red-orange rays of sunrise had become smothered by the angry churn of gray.
A chill cut through his body, then another. He scanned his surroundings, the stench almost making him sick. Except, after the last several hours of being tortured to gain a confession, he couldna scrape up the energy to move, much less retch.
He awaited the echo of steps announcing the guards’ arrival. They would return again and again, until he admitted his part in Marie’s abduction.
Even if ’twas a lie.
Colyne gritted his teeth as another spasm of pain tore through his body. His vision hazed, but he forced himself to remain awake.
A sword’s wrath; why was he even bothering? He should let go, succumb to the dark void. At least then he wouldna feel. Or remember these last few days of misery.
Since the king believed him one of the Scottish rebels who had taken part in his daughter’s abduction, he would never be able to see Marie again or tell her that he loved her.
Regret dragged his grief deeper as he thought of her battling a fever as the guards had hauled him from the inn. He stared at the gray walls marred by aged blood and the rust of forgotten chains.
Steps thudded past his cell. A short distance away, they paused.
Muted voices.
The creak of a door opening.
A curt order.
A man’s plea to spare his life reverberated through the dungeon.
Colyne fought to quell his fear, the feeling of inevitability. How many times since his incarceration had he heard the same, or the din of the crowd outside as they cheered for the executioner to swing his ax? He swallowed hard. ’Twas a fate he could envision all too well.
Footsteps again sounded. This time they halted outside his cell. Keys grated in the lock, a heavy, loud clank.
He braced himself.
