The Irish Warrior

She suddenly dissolved into tears, her shoulders bobbing up and down.

The soldiers herded her to the table, abashed. They sat her in a chair and knelt beside her, frantically soothing. No, of course they did not mean to oppose her. Yes, they understood how difficult it was to be married to a man such as the baron. Indeed they did. No, they did not want Lord Rardove to be angry with her. Yes, of course she must walk up and down every hallway as he’d bid her to do, and yes, she must do so alone, to test her memory of the maps.

However odd that last seemed, neither man seemed willing to bicker with her tearful ladyship. Not with the delicious promises she’d hinted at ringing in their ears.

She left them at the table, their heads close together, and pushed open the door to step into the hallway of the cells.

Chapter 9

The sniffles stopped. Her body assumed a different posture: watchful, alert, capable. The corridor was dark, the air rancid and old. She followed the guards’ instructions to stay by the left wall, farthest from the “holes.”

Her slippers made gritty, grinding sounds on the floor. Small rays of light poked in through chinks set high in the walls. By this dismal illumination she made her way, peering through the bars into each cell, praying she’d find the one she sought.

It smelled of decay and urine, and she moved through a blanket of eerie quiet, peering sideways into each cell as she passed. Every one, empty.

If her mouth had been dry before, ’twas nothing compared to the woolen clump of fear she had to untangle now. Four Irish soldiers had been chained in the hall the night she was beaten. Where were they now?

Please God, don’t let him be gone.

The only sound was the thundering of her heart and her raspy, shallow breathing. As she crept along, she saw one prisoner, slumped and snoring in a cell, but it wasn’t her Irishman. Then, out of a far cell, separated from the others, trailed a length of familiar black hair. Her heart leapt. She left the wall and came over to crouch in front of the cage. The figure was slumped in a sitting position, his side pressed up against the bars.

“Sirrah,” she whispered.

Nothing.

“Sir,” she whispered again, more loudly.

Nothing. She reached in and poked at his shoulder.

A hand whipped out and grabbed her wrist. She stifled a scream. Her slender bones were trapped in the firm grip of the prisoner in the cell. All breathing stopped.

The prisoner slowly turned his head.

“Thank God ’tis you,” she exhaled, icy relief dripping into her blood.

His eyebrows shot up. “And who am I?”

“You are you. How am I to know?” she said in an aggravated tone. She tugged at her wrist.

The Irishman grinned into the darkness. “I’ve here in my grasp a female who comes floating out of the darkness of a prison, smelling of sweetness and light, for all the world as if ’tis a garden stroll she’s on. She pokes at me, and praises God that ’tis myself, although she doesn’t know who that would be, and growls when I ask. Being a witless man, at least when it comes to fragrant ladies, I’d say I’ve died and gone to heaven, and am staring at an angel. Although why she’d be here in hell with me, I’ve no notion. Can it be ye’re to answer my prayers, sweet angel?”

She was surprised by the tumble of feelings evoked by his little speech, spoken in a rough but pleasing voice. There was a smile and gentleness in his tone, but rock-hewn power lay repressed in the hand that still wrapped itself around her wrist.

She tugged a little, and he released her.

“I need your help.” Leaning closer to peer into the cell, she could discern his outline. There was only the glitter of bright eyes and the gleam of white teeth as he grinned at her.

He smiled more grimly. “’Tis as if ye read my very mind. But sweetly as your request is spoken, ’tis little succor I can give, as I hope ye can see.”

“If I free you, will you help me?”

The gleam from his smile disappeared and his gaze grew sharp and intent. “Aye,” he said slowly, regarding her. “And why would ye be doing that?”

“I need a guide when I leave.”

“Is that so?”

“’Tis,” she replied in a firm whisper.