“Come!” Sorcha pulled Anne off the bed and, stepping over Darton and Ralston, said, “We must find Leah and make good our escape before any more who are loyal to Darton find us.”
Bjorn paused to grab the weapons, which he handed to Sorcha and Anne. “Oh, God,” Anne whispered, shaking her head at the sight of the blood dripping from the curved blade of the dagger. “I cannot.”
“You must!” Sorcha curled the older woman’s hands over the carved handle. “You may need it. We know not who is laying siege to the castle.” Through the halls, she heard the sound of swords clanging and men fighting. Curses and screams and the sickening stench of death filled the castle. “Hurry! There is no time!” Together they scurried down the hallway to the room where Leah was locked. Torches nearly dead from burning throughout the night flickered faintly as they passed, casting moving shadows on the walls.
No guard was standing outside Leah’s chamber, and it was little trouble to throw off the bar. The door swung open, and Leah, her face white as death, stood waiting, as if she’d heard the skirmish. “What is happening? I heard fighting—swords and men cursing and—” She gasped. “Bjorn!” She threw herself into his arms and began to sob. “I thought you were dead!”
Bjorn held her close and caressed her hair. “Beautiful Leah,” he whispered. Sorcha thought of Hagan and how he had once touched her, how his body had felt pressed against hers. To think that he was dead, that she would never see him again … Tears studded her eyes, but she sniffed quickly and would not dissolve into a weeping woman, not yet. There would be time for grieving later. Clearing her throat, she said gently, “Come, we must make haste. There is not much time.”
Leah, her eyes damp with tears, finally let go of the man she loved.
Sorcha started for the hall. “We have not yet escaped.”
“And you won’t,” an authoritative voice boomed from the shadows. Sorcha’s heart turned to stone. Tadd!
Spinning, she was sickened to find her brother filling the doorway. “What has happened here? Where’s Darton?” he commanded, looking as fierce as the night. “Don’t tell me, sister, that you have been plotting some kind of rebellion against the man you’re to marry?”
There was confusion in the yard. Without a leader, Darton’s army was nervous. A few men drew their swords. Curses were muttered and threats issued.
Garrick stood his ground. “I asked for an audience,” Garrick yelled over the wind that screamed over the cliffs and brought a sudden lash of rain.
“Darton was to come out and meet you,” one of the men Hagan recognized as a traitor said. Sir Brady. The bastard. He seemed as much in charge of the men as anyone.
“I’ll not be kept waiting.” Without another word, Garrick slid off his destrier, and Ware and Hagan did the same. “Let in the rest of my men.”
“I have orders—”
“Change them,” Garrick growled, and Hagan could stand the deceit no longer. He grabbed Brady around the waist and pressed his knife to the Judas’s throat.
Ware jumped from his steed to challenge the guard at the gate. The sentry cried, “Wait! What think you—”
Without a word, Ware slit the sentry in the arm, and as the man howled, he cranked on the portcullis. The gate ground upward just as some of the soldiers realized they’d been caught unawares.
“What the bloody hell—” Brady whispered, then caught sight of the eyes behind the nose guard. “Lord Hagan—?”
“Aye,” Hagan bit out, wishing he could kill the man right here. He tossed off his helmet and let the
rain drive down against his hair. In a voice that resounded throughout the castle, he shouted, “Lay down your weapons, for I’ve returned. Those of you who wish to obey me, swear again your fealty and drop your weapons; those who oppose me, let it be known that I will see that you’re all slain.” He pressed the knife point closer to Brady’s thick throat, and the traitor squealed. A drop of blood slid down his neck as the army from Abergwynn rode into the keep. Through gritted teeth, Hagan growled, “What say you soldiers?”
“We know not of a rebellion,” Sorcha said, her fingers tightening around the handle of her knife, her gaze pinned to that of her brother.
“You lie, sister,” he said, his lip curling with disdain as he fingered his own dagger.
“Nay—”
Outside she heard voices, and imagined Hagan was among the men in the yard. But that was a silly dream, a dream she had to give up, for Hagan was surely dead.
“You’re a liar, Sorcha, but then you’ve always been a liar, haven’t you? Even your birth was a lie,” he said, advancing into the room and leaving two men to guard the door. “And that damned birthmark was a falsehood as well. To think that you had everyone believing you were the savior of Prydd. Now ’twould seem that you need saving.”
“I fear you not, Tadd.”
“Never too smart, were you.” He studied the blade of his knife, then said, “Now, tell me, where’s Lord Darton?”
Bjorn stood, feet apart, eyes centered upon Tadd as if he would gladly kill him with his bare hands. “Darton’s with Satan.”
Tadd’s eyes moved to the stableboy. “Pity Satan. Tell me, did you kill the Lord of Erbyn?”
“I would have tried.”