The knight’s face twisted. “Have a care, Irish, ere I alert the authorities to your presence. Do not think the prince would not pay much for such information. Your name is anathema to him.” He went on in a steel-thin voice. “Now get out. That is my mercy to you, Irish. I give you one moment to leave. If you require two, my men will take you. Directly to the prince.”
He shoved on Tadhg’s chest and pushed him backward out the door and down the steps, out into the street. The door slammed shut and the lock turned.
Tadhg tripped back to the stone wall, his energy gone. He closed his eyes. Just for a moment, stillness and blindness, a moment to think.
Maggie rustled before him.
“Tadhg.”
Her voice, low and gentle, barely penetrated his racing mind. Options and alternatives tumbled through it, but it was all a delaying tactic. There was only one choice now.
“Tadhg,” she said again, softly.
Only one option. Which made it neither option nor choice. One terrible decision.
She put her hands on his shoulders, stood up on her toes, and put her face directly in front of his. “Tadhg. Can you not go to your Scottish earl?”
His attention snapped to her. “Who?”
She made an impatient gesture. “The Scottish earl you spoke of, the one who said Ireland is not so far from Scotland, should you ever need help?” She peered at him intently. “Does this not constitute a need for help? Might he be willing to assist?”
He stared at her in silence, the blood hammering through his head. Then with a gust, he started breathing again. He snaked out a hand around the back of her head and pulled her to him.
“Bloody, clever woman,” he rasped, hauling her up on her toes to kiss her.
He took a full three heartbeats to kiss her then setting her back on her feet, his mind already adhered to the new plan.
In truth, he wanted to throw it all away. Fling the dagger into the churning sea and let the tides wash it up on someone else’s shores, just claim Maggie and run. Forget wars and kings ever existed.
But they did exist, and Maggie’s safety was now bound up with them. So the dagger must be delivered to someone powerful and trustworthy enough to protect it. Maggie had provided the answer: the earl of Huntingdon.
Safeguarding England’s throne had passed entirely to a pair of Celts and one very clever French woman. How ironic.
Unfortunately, he had no idea where the earl was. Which meant he might need to go to ground. And that was far too dangerous a path for Maggie to tread, for all her bravery.
And so, the one terrible choice which was not a choice at all, remained his only choice.
Maggie must protected.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
SHERWOOD ARRIVED in the city before sunset drew its crimson veil. He stepped off the boat as the ropes were being tied and stared up at the city crawling up the hill in front of him. His men spread out behind.
He began tugging off his gloves. “Find the woman,” he ordered. “Ask if anyone has seen a French woman escorted by one extremely well-armed man. Mention her hair.”
“Her hair, sir?” said one uncertainly.
“Yes, her hair,” he snapped as a port official hurried up. “Did you not see it? I would know it anywhere, as will any man with a brain in his head. And her skin, her eyes… If they’ve seen her, they will remember.”
His men started off as the official arrived, smiling at the sight of Sherwood’s expensive boots and cloak, then frowning at all the armed men rushing by without registering or paying any port fees.
“Sir, I’ll need to see your…”
The man’s voice died off as Sherwood brushed past him. “Where is Sir Odo? De Civili? The French lieutenant?”
The soldier gaped, then hurried after. “In the dockmaster’s office, sir, just over this way…”
Sherwood followed the sweep of his hand and flung the door wide. Inside, a handful of lazing French soldiers sat on spindly stools and benches, and one stern English official, who sat with his back to the wall, not at all happy about these men who had invaded his sanctuary.