Darton threw a hand up in the air in exasperation. “I know not.”
“I need the necklace.” When he hesitated, she added, “Without it I will not be able to save your sister … or her marriage …”
Scowling, he motioned to the guard. “Bring me the prisoner.”
Sorcha didn’t wait. She turned back to Anne’s still form and rubbed her hands. “Lady Anne, please hear me,” she pleaded, her heart hammering as sweat began to dot her brow. “Do not leave us.” She touched the pulse at Anne’s wrists and felt nothing, not a breath of life in her. “Anne, can you hear me?”
Darton paced from the curtained bed to the hearth and back again. His boots shifted the rushes and rang on the stone floor, and candlelight flickered on his hard features.
“Why is it so damned cold in here?” he growled, then noticed the fire, nearly dead, in the hearth. Only a few red embers glowed through a thick layer of ash. “Is this your fault?” he demanded of the maid.
“Nay, the lady asked that the fire be not lit tonight,” Ona said, her voice trembling with fear. “Mayhap even then she had the fever.”
“Fever?” Darton said under his breath.
“Why else?”
Darton’s eyes flew to the stand near the bed where the empty cup stood. As Sorcha chanted over Anne, he crossed the room, picked up the mazer, and sniffed at the contents.
Sorcha’s muscles tightened in fear. Had she told Anne the wrong potion? She’d only been half listening when Isolde had told her how she’d caused the guard to sleep on the night Sorcha had fled Prydd. What if Darton suspected?
“What’s this?” he asked, and Sorcha felt as if bands had been tightened around her chest.
“Lady Anne wanted wine to help her sleep.”
Damn Ona, why couldn’t she keep quiet! The tension in the room began to pulse, and from the corner of her eye, she watched Darton. His eyebrows drew together to form one long black line. Slowly he rimmed the cup with a finger and lifted the dregs from the mazer to his lips. His face contorted violently and he spat onto the rushes. “ ’Tis not wine she wanted but something in which to disguise some herbs.” His eyes slitted with a dangerous wrath. “What know you of this, Sorcha?”
“Only that she is near death,” Sorcha replied as the guard returned and pushed Bjorn into the room. The stableboy half stumbled, nearly falling against the bed. His wrists were bound and he smelled of the rot of the dungeon.
“Anne was in your chamber this night? Did she speak of trying to kill herself?”
“Nay—she said not much.” Sorcha’s heart pumped loudly.
“Take the damned necklace from him,” Darton ordered Sir Ralston, “and then stoke the fire. ’Tis as cold as a demon’s breath in here.” Suspiciously, he eyed Sorcha. “And when you’re finished with the fire, Ralston, fetch the priest. ’Tis time the Lady and I are married.”
“But Anne—” Sorcha whispered.
“ ’Twill matter not if she be alive or dead. Still we will wed. Now,” he added angrily, pinning the guard with a harsh stare, “get the damned necklace.”
The guard reached around Bjorn’s neck, but the stableboy stepped away quickly, agile despite being bound.
“Bloody bastard,” Ralston growled, “I’ll cut out yer black heart with my knife.” He reached for his dagger.
Sorcha shot to her feet and placed a hand on Bjorn’s chest. She lifted her gaze to him, silently begging him to trust her, and wondered if he would. He was a prisoner, his very life threatened because he’d once before placed his trust in her. “Please, Bjorn,” she said softly. “We must help Lady Anne.” Bjorn’s strong jaw thrust forward and his lips flattened over his teeth. “ ’Twill be all right,” she murmured, though she doubted her own words. Mayhap Anne would die, Bjorn would be hung, and she would be forced to marry Darton. Oh, Hagan. Where are you, my love? Please be well.
Reluctantly Bjorn bent his head, and Sorcha removed the string from his neck. She stared deep into his eyes, trying to reassure him, then turned back to Anne.
“Take him back to the dungeon—” Darton said as Sorcha placed the magical necklace around Anne’s neck, but as the guard tried to push him out of the room, an alarm sounded throughout the keep.
“What the devil?” Darton said.
Footsteps thundered through the hallways. Men shouted and pounded on thick doors, waking everyone who had been sleeping. “Lord Darton! Lord Darton! Come quickly!” A breathless sentry, sword unsheathed, rushed into the room. His scabbard clattered against the doorway. “There is an army outside the castle! An army of more than a hundred men!”
The wind rushed in through the open window, and voices, loud and anxious, shouts and cries, echoed through the bailey.
“Hagan?” Darton asked, his voice a rasp.
Hagan! Sorcha’s wretched heart soared for an instant—