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Reed looked at his brothers, his jaw ticking in aggravation. Then he shook Rook’s hand off his arm. “Fine. Do what ye have to, but I am goin’ to sneak up to the other side and come up behind him. I’ll give ye only a few minutes, and if ye canna get Morag from him, then I am goin’ to attack him from behind.”
“I’ll not only save Morag, I’ll get to him confess to everything,” Bedivere promised. “So all of you, even you, Branton, stay close enough to hear every word he says, but keep hidden. Then, after Morag is safe, we take him back to the castle at the ends of our blades.”
Bedivere slowly stepped into the secret garden, hoping to hell he could do everything he’d promised, ready to give his life to save Morag if need be.
* * *
Morag’s headfelt like it was split open from the hit of the hilt of Whitmore’s sword. She’d fallen to the ground, unconscious, and when she awoke, he had her hands tied and a gag in her mouth.
Sitting atop the man’s horse, Morag felt dizzy and ready to retch. She didn’t even have a dagger with her and now regretted telling the others to leave her behind. She had never expected Whitmore to show up here. And mayhap, if she hadn’t been so focused on talking to a woman who was dead, she would have seen Whitmore enter the garden and sneak up behind her.
Morag feared for her life and felt like a fool. She needed to be strong, she told herself. Strong like Maira, Willow, and Fia. But she didn’t feel strong at all. She felt like a frightened child who had made a big mistake and would pay for it with her life.
She couldn’t even talk to Whitmore to beg him to let her go because she had a blasted gag in her mouth.
Funny, when one is about to die, the thoughts that go through one’s head. She wondered how Bedivere’s mother fared in the dungeon for two long years, where she slept, what she ate, and if she ever cried. Then she found herself thinking about Bedivere and how brave he’d been to make the deal to be an assassin to save each member of his family. How awful it must have felt every time he had to slit a man’s throat. His actions would most likely haunt him for the rest of his life.
Aye, she now regretted not paying heed to Bedivere’s orders about not being in the woods unescorted. She would even welcome the annoying Branton right now since he’d proven in the past he knew how to wield a sword, saving her from bandits along the road.
Her father was going to be so angry with her if she wound up dead. And Bedivere would most likely be blamed for it. She never even had the chance to explain to her father how much she loved Bedivere. Neither would her father ever know what Bedivere did, saving the lives of both her uncles.
“Now I have the leverage I need,” chuckled Whitmore climbing atop the horse behind her. “Your lover will never deny my orders again, and neither will he ever reveal my secrets. Because if he does, my dear, you will die.”
“Let her go, Whitmore.”
Morag turned her head to see Bedivere enter the garden, holding his sword steady in two hands. “You hurt her and I’ll personally sever your head from your body.”
Whitmore pulled Morag closer to him, making her gasp. Then he took the edge of his dagger and pressed it against her throat. The steel felt cold and sharp and she didn’t dare to even swallow for fear she’d move and send the blade into her throat.
“Bedivere, what took you so long?” asked Whitmore. “Now, shall we make that deal we talked about?”
“I’ll never make a deal with you. Now let her go.”
“I can’t do that. You have become a burden to me, and I can no longer keep an assassin who refuses his orders.”
“Take me instead,” said Bedivere. “But just don’t hurt Morag.”
“I see how much she means to you. Now I have all the leverage I need.”
Morag noticed Bedivere’s eyes dart to one side of the garden and then the other. When she followed his gaze she saw her father hiding behind the stable. Her Uncle Rook crept over the porch of the cottage, staying in the shadows. If she looked hard enough, she thought she saw her Uncle Rowen behind a tree. And by a flash of brown from behind the garden gate, she recognized Branton’s tunic.
“I know your game, Whitmore.” Bedivere walked forward slowly, keeping his sword steady. “You advise Richard, but only to gain the lands and riches from the men you’ve had me kill.”
“What difference does it make?” asked Whitmore.
“What do you think Richard will say when he finds out what you’ve been doing for the past two years?”
“He’ll thank me for eliminating men who wanted to see his demise. He won’t care that I took their holdings. The fact of the matter is that eleven times now, I’ve kept him from being assassinated.”
“Then, you’re saying those men I’ve killed really were plotting against the king?”
“Aye, of course they were.”
“But what about my father? I’m sure he wouldn’t do such a thing.”
“Nay, your father was much too devoted to Richard to ever do a thing against him. Unfortunately, he was at the wrong place at the wrong time and overheard me talking to one of my contacts. He knew I’d planned to gain as much land and wealth as I could by advising the king I deserved it, after my assassins eliminated the threats against him.”
“My father was going to turn you in to the king, wasn’t he?” Bedivere moved in closer. Whitmore turned the horse slightly.
