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h gore Niall almost didn’t recognize him. The big man limped, his entire left hip wet with blood. “What do we do with the Hays who live?” he asked.
Niall’s first impulse was to kill them all, but he stilled it. ’Twould cause Robert difficulty if he destroyed the clan. There were Hay women and children, too; they would need what men survived. The clan would not recover for many years from Huwe’s stubborn stupidity. “Turn them out,” he said.
The women were creeping from their hiding places. There were tears, of both joy and sorrow, as they identified both the survivors and the dead, and then as women do they set about restoring order, tending to the wounded, laying out the dead, bringing drink for those who wanted it, sweeping out the bloodstained rushes. Alice took charge, her manner brisk and capable, though her cheeks were still pale with fright.
Niall’s black gaze darted from one woman to another, searching for a dainty form, a long, thick fall of hair. He listened, but could not catch that voice with its strange accent, the emphasis on all the wrong syllables. “Alice!” he called. “Where’s the lass?”
Alice had no doubt which lass he meant. She looked around in puzzlement, but reached the same conclusion as had he. Grace was not there.
“She didna follow me,” Alice said slowly. “But she was there behind me when ye came from the larder. Perhaps she hid there.” She paused. “The lass saved us, gave us warning. She recognized Huwe.”
So she had not been in league with Huwe. The thought brought him relief, but another worry sent him striding rapidly from the great hall. Inside the escape passage was yet another passage, one that he had sworn to protect with his life. There was something mysterious about the lass, something she kept hidden. What if she were the most serious threat to the Treasure he had yet encountered? Could he keep his vow, if it meant killing her?
Cold sweat beaded on his brow as he took a candle and ducked into the escape passage. Halfway down the long, narrow stairs an area of the wall was even darker, as if a hole had been knocked in the stone. Niall felt his heart still, his skin going cold with dread. Then rage came, saving rage.
Silently he took his bloody sword and followed her.
The stairs ended. Grace lifted the candle but couldn’t see anything except cold stone walls, made of the same dark rock as the rest of the castle. It was very cold down there, and she began shivering. An odd pulse hummed through the air, not a sound but a sensation, brushing against her skin.
Her skin prickled, but not from the cold.
Slowly she paced around the walls, looking for any indication of a door. Blank stone was all that met her searching fingers.
The subtle pulsing was mildly disorienting. She must be below sea level, and what she felt was the force of waves battering against the rock.
Beneath the stairs was a deeper darkness. Her heart pounding in her throat, Grace stepped forward, and the frail light of her candle illuminated another opening, a black hole leading… where?
The pulsing was stronger. She could feel it on her face. It was coming from the dark opening.
She stopped, the small hairs on the back of her neck lifting. Dear God, what was in there?
She could do this, she told herself. For Ford, and for Bryant, she could do anything. She had proven that to herself time and again during this past year of hell.
Bone-aching cold seeped from the stone straight through the thin soles of her shoes, crept beneath her skirts to curl its icy fingers around her legs. She had to act quickly, before the dangerous cold began to sap her strength. Her small candle wouldn’t last much longer, and she didn’t want to be caught down there without light. Calmer now, driven by necessity, she moved toward the black hole in the wall.
It engulfed her as soon as she stepped through, the darkness, the sensation of trembling on the edge of… something.
Was that warmth she felt?
She went deeper, her candle fluttering madly. The light picked out the dim shape of what looked like a large chair… a throne?… carved with lions. A tattered banner, the sort carried into battle and woven with fire in the strands, hung over the throne and in it golden lion eyes shimmered in the candle’s light. Beside the throne was something else, something she couldn’t quite see, and she took another step forward.
“Ah, lass.” The deep voice was low, regretful, controlled. It came from no more than a few feet behind her. “I dinna want to kill ye.”
The fine hairs on her body lifted in sheer terror, and for a moment Grace felt herself sway as the blood left her head.
Blood. She could smell it now, hot and metallic. The blood of battle was on him, the fierceness of it singing through his veins, intensifying the rage she could feel blasting from him in waves.
He was going to kill her. She could feel his intent, the cold resolve that had guarded the Treasure all these years. Underlying that, however, was his barely restrained rage at… what? Her trickery? How close she had come to succeeding? It was the rage she felt most, a fire burning beneath ice, and it ignited her own rage.
She couldn’t let him kill her. If she died now, then Parrish would win. There would be no vengeance for Ford, for Bryant; their courage in death would have been in vain. She would die knowing she had failed them, and that, more than anything, was unbearable.
Niall’s hand closed on her shoulder, turning her, his fingers gripping like iron. Grace dropped the candle and it rolled away, its fragile flame glinting on the sword in his hand, wavering, almost extinguishing before flaring to renewed life. She turned into his grip, stepping closer, whirling. Warrior that he was, he began reacting even before she could complete the move, turning his hip to the side to catch the brunt of her knee. But it wasn’t her knee she used, it was her elbow. She jabbed it hard into his midsection, aiming for his solar plexus. The impact with his hard stomach jarred her arm all the way to her shoulder. She missed her target but the force was enough to make him grunt and bend forward a little, his grip on her shoulder loosening for a fraction of a second.
It was enough. She jerked backward, wrenching herself from his grasp. His fingers caught in the cloth of her bodice and a seam gave, the ripping sound almost unbearably loud in this deep, silent sepulcher. The fabric tore loose and she stumbled at the sudden release, going down almost to her knees before literally throwing herself back to her feet, panic lending her strength. She pulled her skirts high and raced into the darkness beyond the candlelight, instinct guiding her to the stairs.
Her chances of outdistancing him were slim, and getting out of the castle even more unlikely. Still, she had to try. The soles of her shoes slipped on the stones and she banged into the wall, hard. The light of the candle behind her was no more than a faint glimmer, of no use in finding her way, but now she had the wall for guidance. She put one hand on it and ran.
She tripped on the bottom stair and fell, hard. Instantly she bounded up, knowing he was right behind her, feeling his presence even though she couldn’t see him, couldn’t hear him over the thunder of her own heartbeat, the harsh gasps of her breathing. He was close, that terrible bloody sword in his powerful hand, his rage pulsing through him.
