Page 28 of Leila’s Legacy

Lady Leila, unrecognizable from the woman who had donned the fine kirtle, now appeared a youth in a gambeson inherited from his father. She stepped outside and tilted her face to a narrow patch of sunlight where it gleamed down on her.

“They dinna revel in sunshine either,” he murmured.

She lowered her head and strode forward with the confident gait of a warrior. Soon they would be at the castle and she would be locked within a chamber where she would be safer. Mayhap then he could stop thinking of her, worrying after her—this woman he should hate.

The walk to the castle was uneventful until they passed through the heavy stone curtain walls and into the bailey. A familiar figure stalked toward them. Niall tensed in preparation for the last person he wanted to encounter with Lady Leila out in the open and vulnerable. For as soon as Alban turned in their direction, he headed straight for them.

Leila’s limbs were soft, and a tang of fear tickled at the back of her throat. She’d tried to swallow it down—to no avail. With each villager who passed them, she had waited with trepidation for their wrath. Their rage had haunted her in her cell, colder than even the chill in those whitewashed walls, and penetrating far deeper within her.

There had been madness in their eyes, a wild desperation, as though the spilling of her blood could douse the contagion and end the great mortality.

Now though, the people were not unlike those of the village outside of Werrick Castle—sagging under the duress of illness, withered by the sapping of life.

The Lion tensed at her side. Leila followed his gaze and the waning energy of her body roared to life once more.

Alban was heading straight for them, his eyes narrowed with spite. “I heard ye had to handle Lord Werrick.”

The Lion ignored him.

“Who’s this ye’ve got with ye?” Alban nodded toward Leila.

She resisted the urge to tuck her head lower, hoping that the helm would be sufficient to mask her identity.

“Is Lord Armstrong within?” the Lion asked curtly. “I need to speak with him.”

“Why’ve ye got yer helmets on?” Alban interjected.

“’Tis a matter for me to discuss with yer da,” the Lion said in an unflinching tone. “No’ ye.”

Alban sneered and strode around them as if he meant to leave. Before he could go past them, however, he swept his hand up and struck the bottom of Leila’s helm. It had fit her loosely from the start and popped off with ease. Leila sucked in a gasp and shot a glance toward the open portcullis where the villagers might still recognize her.

“Her?” Alban growled. “I thought that witch was in the prison, rotting where she belongs.”

“I need to speak with Lord Armstrong posthaste.” The Lion grabbed Leila’s arm and dragged her toward him, taking the position of captor with his prisoner once more.

Though his hold on her was firm, it was not painful. As with all things, he took care to ensure he did not hurt her. She was close enough to catch his scent, the unmistakable warmth of masculinity mingled with leather and the slightest hint of cedar. It was a pleasing smell, though she conceded that as grudgingly as she admitted to his kindness.

“If ye wish to speak with me, I’m right here.” The cool voice of Lord Armstrong sent prickles of gooseflesh rising over Leila’s arms.

“My Lord.” The Lion turned around, bringing her with him.

Lord Armstrong settled his small eyes on Leila. “Is this our prisoner? What is she doing here? Why is she wearing the armor of one of our reivers?”

“Her father demanded she receive the proper housing of an earl’s daughter while she is held,” the Lion said. “He wouldna leave if I dinna grant it. I’ve already had a room cleared out for her.”

“And ye sneaked her through the village rather than making her walk?” Lord Armstrong settled his gaze on Leila and her unease turned to revulsion as he sampled her with his eyes. “Where did her kirtle go?”

“Too damn wet to wear and no’ die in the prison.” The Lion widened his stance, a subtle show of his determination to stand by his decisions. Mayhap this was why he had earned his epithet. He did not back down from a challenge but stood his ground and defended it as he even now defended her.

“More’s the pity if she were to die.” Lord Armstrong scoffed. “Get that gambeson off her.”

“She’s no’ been found guilty by Father Gerard yet,” the Lion countered.

The Scottish earl’s face folded down into a frown, an obvious reflection of his displeasure with the Lion’s defiance. “Give the witch to Alban. I want ye to come with me.”

The Lion tightened his grip on Leila. “That isna necessary.”

Lord Armstrong’s frown deepened, scoring the lines on his face deeper. “Ye would do well to remember yerself. Lion or no, ye work for me. Mind yerself with this lass, or I’ll think ye bewitched.” He shifted his attention to Alban. “Take the witch to her room and get a kirtle upon her.”