Page 14 of Warrior’s Lady

It was those very same skills and this stone that had brought Clara to the hangman's noose. A witch? Not Clara. She was merely a caring and loving woman who'd often put the needs of others above her own.

Clara had died, yet the Charm Stone remained — the very stone Bishop Berwick had demanded at Lockhart Castle. Camden frowned as he smoothed his thumb over the bloodred stone. It warmed beneath his touch. How had the healing stone gone from Clara's possession into the hands of Rhiannon Ruthven? What was her connection to all of this? What events had transpired that placed her in charge of his niece's care?

He tightened his fist around the stone. He would have answers and determine what to do with the Ruthven girl before his niece grew any more attached to her.

But before any questions could be answered, he had to try to stop what he had begun. One task remained yet undone. Before he could leave, he had to hide the stone.

Alone in the chapel, Camden unfurled his fist, exposing the Charm Stone. The small coin in his hand glistened beneath the silvery moonlight that shown through all four tall and narrow windows near the altar. The stone in the center winked, bloodred.

Camden closed his hand around the stone. Forty-six years ago Camden's father had taken ownership of the Stone from an emir's mother in the Holy Land, a drop of their blood had sealed the transfer of power. And since then, the Lockhart blood spilled for the Stone seemed never to end. James and Clara were proof of that.

They had needed him to protect them. Instead, Camden had been gone fighting for a king he had been a subject to for only three years—the three years he'd been back in Scotland. Memory sparked as he stared at the Stone.

Nothing but black surrounded him. How long had he been pitched in darkness with nothing to eat and only sips of water offered twice throughout the days — days that melded one into the next as he sat on the dusty floor of his prison cell.

Camden lifted his hand to wipe the trickles of sweat from his forehead only to find his arms were shackled to the stone wall at his back. Drawing a deep breath of the heavy humid air, he turned his head slowly to the side. Orrin lay there. So still. Yet, in the silence he could hear the soft rumble of Orrin's breathing. Only sleeping. At least Orrin had found respite from the horrors they'd had to endure.

Why weren't they killed? Both he and Orrin would have preferred death to the humiliation they'd suffered. They'd been stripped bare by their captors, forced to march down the center of the marketplace where their ears were nailed to the gallows, then they'd been pelted with rotten fruit.

It was not a warrior's end.

The more their captors tried to humiliate the "pale young Christians" the more defiant both he and Orrin had become. They had nothing to lose.

The unthinkable had happened. A Saracen holy man had purchased them from the gallows. The moment their ears were freed from the tortuous prison, they attempted escape, challenging the holy man's guards for their swords. Their revolt had nearly succeeded. A bold act that landed them both here in the darkness of hell, waiting for respite, or if they were lucky, death.

Camden leaned his head back against the wall and tried to think of home, of the sweet, rolling meadows of heather, of the soft morning mist, of the family he had not bidden good-bye.

Would he spend the rest of his days in this inferno of dust and sand? His head lolled to the side once more. At least he had Orrin. Perhaps he could bear the loss of everything else — Scotland, freedom, his family — as long as he had Orrin by his side. They'd been friends forever. And it looked as though they would die together as well.

No sooner had he finished the thought when the door of their prison cell creaked open. Camden shielded his eyes against the sharp sting of light. A moment later he turned his gaze back to the intruder to see a billow of white robes that stopped at his feet.

"My pale ones. Have you had enough of these dark days?"

Camden tried to tell the intruder to go to hell, but the dryness in his throat prevented him from releasing more than a soft choke.

The man bent down in front of Camden, just out of reach. "You are both determined fighters." He stroked his long black beard. "I have had a vision from Allah about you both. He showed me that through you I can attain untold riches — wealth I can use to drive foreigners from our lands forever. Because of that vision I have decided to make you a bargain."

Camden nudged Orrin, who startled and bolted upright, swinging his arms, only to feel the bite of the irons against his wrists. "Argh!" A moment later, he froze. "What do you want?" he asked the man.

"You are both so young, yet strong in body and mind. I would regret killing you this day. But know that I will if you refuse the offer I am about to make."

Camden's gaze met Orrin's. He cleared his throat. "We are listening," he croaked.

"I am known as Shaykh Haashim." He bowed his turbaned head in greeting. "I am a holy man to my people — a people who are often at war with our neighbors and with those seeking to possess the Holy Land."

"What does that have to do with us?" Orrin asked.

The man smiled a terrible smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "Since you both have proven to me your skills as fighters, I am offering you a chance to put those skills to use."

"Why would we fight for you?" Camden did not hide the anger in his voice.

"Because we will make an agreement. Fight for me for the next seven years, take one-fourth of any spoils that have been gained to divide between you, and when your terms of service are through, I will set you free."

Camden's gaze flew to Orrin's. Hope leapt into his friend's tired gaze. "Seven years?" Camden repeated. At the age of nineteen, they could return to their own country, their families. Unless they died here first.

Hope collided with reality. And in that moment, Camden knew they could not refuse. To refuse meant death. Acceptance would at least give them hope. "We will fight for you. Become Saracens for seven years." And in that time, they would have to become the best warriors this part of the world had ever seen if they were to survive.

They had survived. They had returned wealthy men. Camden clutched the family relic in his hand. It had too survived the Holy Land.