AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Isleen went to the wall and put her hand against it, pushing gently, feeling for a seem to open. Her gloves made it difficult, and she stripped one off rather than give up. Her fingers slid behind the tapestry, one she had admired often for the beautiful white peacock in its center. And that was when she felt the smallest waft of air.
Her fingers caught an indentation. She had to use her nails to tug at it, but the door slid open at last.
This stair wasn’t lit by stained glass windows. Nor did it feel as welcoming as the other. She swallowed and peered downward into the dimness.
Grasping Simon’s stick in one hand, she used the other to feel her way along the wall as she went down, down, down. A sinking feeling in her stomach made her hesitate. Perhaps she should fetch someone. Her brother. Or a footman.
What if Simon hadn’t even come this way?
She gripped his walking stick tighter, took in a deep breath, and found her courage. She was an Irish woman, from a land where children turned to swans and kings fell in love with fairy queens. She could manage a dark staircase. And she’d have a story to tell after.
Isleen kept going down, her slippered feet making little sound.
She had descended for some time, had gone lower than even the ground floor. Was she at the level of the cellar? Ahead, dim light filtered through the dark. And it had grown cold—as cold as the outdoors. Her skin prickled, bumps raising along her arms and legs.
And then she stilled, holding her breath.
Were those voices?
Yes. Men’s voices.
She gripped the cane tighter. Oh dear. Why hadn’t she taken up fencing when Teague had offered her lessons? Instead she’d learned archery, a more ladylike pursuit.
She crept down the dark corridor, one hand still along the wall, her eyes finally adjusted to the dimness. A flickering light ahead made her blink. Had someone brought a lantern into the darkness?
“You cannot be serious.” Simon! That was his voice. “What do you hope to gain, forcing me through this passage in the middle of winter? Leave now, man, and I’ll give you a head start before I report you.”
“You won’t be reportin’ nothin’,” a harsh voice growled out. “This passage takes us both to the cart, where you’ll sit still and quiet like I told you.”
Simon’s voice didn’t sound any less bold as he said, “You cannot think it possible to kidnap the duke’s son right from under his nose? And for what purpose? Money?”
“I don’t give a damn about money. Stop talking and get moving.”
Isleen covered her mouth to keep the startled gasp from escaping. Her heart drummed a frightened beat in her ears, drowning out whatever Simon said next. What did she do? Did she run back the way she had come to find help? But four flights of stairs in a dress, and then finding someone and explaining—what if they were too late to help Simon?
What if the horrid man holding him captive lost patience and hurt him?
She looked down at the stick in her hand. What could she do? A woman, alone, armed with something she couldn’t possibly wield.
What would the heroes of her stories do?
She took the stick in both hands, holding it as she’d seen her brother hold a cricket bat. Except she meant to swing at something higher. She peeked around the corner. Simon’s captor held a lantern. And a pistol. His back was to her, as was Simon’s, as they went to a stone-framed doorway.
It was now or never.
On quick, silent feet, Isleen darted forward, stick in the air to bring it down on the man’s head. But her slipper made a sound, a scuff, and the man started to turn. She brought the heavy cane down anyway, hitting his shoulder.
Everything happened in the moment between two heartbeats.
The pistol went off, the sound loud and echoing again and again through the stone passage, deafening her. The man dropped the lantern, too, and it went spinning and sputtering, the flame nearly extinguished. He sprang at Isleen, missing her when she fell to the side. Simon lept forward, and she shoved his stick toward him, ramming the tip into his thigh without meaning to.
He didn’t stop his forward momentum but grabbed the stick from her hand, twisted the handle, and drew out the blade just as the other man turned, expression enraged and hands curled into fists.
What remained of the light reflected against Simon’s steel blade, pointed as it was directly at the other man’s throat.
From her place pressed against the wall and the ground, Isleen saw the entire scene unfold. Simon, in his dust-covered finery, looked every bit the way she imagined a warrior would look when facing down his enemy.
“Isleen.” He did not turn to look at her, his entire focus on the man he held at his mercy. “Are you injured?”
