The Cast Of A Stone Page 8

  She flinched and curled herself even tighter.

  “Don't call me that.” The fabric muffled her harsh whisper. “And don't touch me.”

  Stephen saw the bewildered expression on Alex's face and answered to it.

  “She's frightened, Alex.” He crouched at her feet and pushed his fingers through her knotted hands. “Emma, it's us. Don't be afraid. You're safe now, sweetheart. Look at me.”

  He heard her breath catch and felt her fingers tighten around his.

  “St-Stephen?” She lifted her head, drawing a sharp breath from him at the sight of her shadowed eyes and bruised throat.

  “Aye, little one. We're here. You're safe now.”

  She gave a pitiful cry and held out her arms. Stephen gathered her close and lifted her from the ground. “My God,” he murmured into her hair. “You're so cold.”

  Emma buried her face in his tunic. “I'm so sorry,” she sobbed. “Please don't leave me, Stephen. Please.”

  “Hush, my love. I'm not going anywhere. Hush, now.”

  Tears filled his eyes as she trembled against him. The smell of Argante's assault flared his nostrils and he gritted his teeth in distaste. He looked at Alex.

  “May the bastard rot in hell.”

  Alex nodded, his expression grim. “Let's get her out of here before he returns.”

  They stepped into blinding sunlight and hurried to where the horses waited within the shelter of the forest. Stephen set Emma down, all the while whispering soft words of comfort and reassurance. She clung to him, trembling, her face buried in his chest, and flinched when Alex stroked her hair.

  “Emma, my precious child,” he murmured, his voice cracking with emotion. His hand drifted to grasp his sword hilt, knuckles whitening as his grip tightened. “I've failed you. Please forgive me.”

  But Emma didn't answer Alex, or even look at him. Stephen frowned at her lack of response, sensing her anger and resentment. He wondered what poison Argante had visited upon her mind, what damage had been done beyond what they could see. Such hidden wounds, he knew, often left the ugliest scars.

  Visibly, things were already bad enough. Stephen bit down hard, fighting his rage at the physical evidence of Emma's ordeal.

  Her clothing was torn, bloodied and dirty. Her legs and feet bore deep scratches, no doubt from her struggle with Iain in the woods. Thorns had already started to fester beneath her skin and a vivid rash of nettle-stings tracked a bold path around her ankles. Her neck was marred by teeth marks and bruises, as was her chest.

  Most alarming, though, was the bleeding. Stephen had felt the wetness through Emma's shift as he carried her, and his arm now bore her bloodstains. She bled still, the dark stream winding a thin, chaotic path down her legs. This was no battlefield injury, or anything he could relate to. His words echoed the fear of his ignorance.

  “Christ help me, Alexander. I don't know what to do.”

  “We're of little use to her in this.” Alex sighed. “She needs a woman's help.”

  “Do you know of anyone?”

  He nodded. “Take her and head east. Follow the trail around the base of Black Combe until you come to a small white cottage with an apple tree in front. 'Tis the home of Althena, the healer. She'll know what to do.”

  “You're not coming with us?”

  “I have to wait here for Argante, remember?” Alex's expression hardened. “I've a nasty wee surprise planned for our friend.”

  Stephen gave a grim smile, wrapped his arm about Emma's waist and lifted her onto his horse. “Shall I return here?” He pulled himself up behind her.

  “Nay, stay with her. I'll come to you. Go now.” Alex looked at Emma. “And hurry, lad.”

  The horse, responding to the urgent demands of his rider, launched into a gallop. Stephen murmured words of comfort against Emma's ear, but if she heard them, she showed no sign. She trembled against him, hands gripping his sleeve like a frightened child. He held her close, aware of the anguished pace of her heart beneath her ribs.

  Stephen followed the trail around Black Combe, his frustration growing as the path seemed to stretch ever onward. His tired eyes narrowed, desperate to see the small white cottage Alex had described. A sigh of relief escaped him when it came into sight, nestled in a bracken-choked vale.

  “We're almost there, my love.” He slowed the horse to a canter and dropped a kiss on Emma's head. This time she responded, but her whisper was not for him, and her words laced his blood with ice.

  “Who am I, Cùra?”

  She let go of his sleeve and collapsed against him. Stephen's heart froze mid-beat.

  “Emma?” He lifted her in the crook of his arm, his eyes sweeping over her smudged, ashen face. “Oh nay, little one. Don't give up.”

  A sharp gust of wind swirled around them, fierce and unexpected. It brought with it a shadow, swift and dark, like that of a bird swooping down from the sky. So real was it that Stephen ducked, expecting to be struck. But moments later, when he lifted his head, he heard only the whisper of the summer breeze wandering across empty skies. Emma lay pale and still against him.

  Breathing hard, he stopped the horse by the gnarled trunk of the ancient apple tree, its leafy branches casting cooling shade over the tired animal. No sooner had Stephen's feet touched the ground than the cottage door swung open and a woman stepped into the sunlight.

  Perhaps it was the word 'healer' that had created the image of an older woman in his mind, someone with wizened skin, silver hair and failing eyes. How wrong he had been. This woman, of a similar age to Alex, was an exotic beauty, with fine features and wide dark eyes. The breeze played in her long black hair, which hung loose about her shoulders. Her gaze swept over him with the calculated intensity of a cat eyeing its prey. Stephen didn't fail to notice the dagger tucked into her belt.

  “Mistress Althena?”

  “Who's asking?” She didn't wait for an answer, but gasped. “By all the Saints, 'tis little Emma you hold in your arms. What the...?” She glanced past him. “Where's Alexander?”

  “He'll be here. He sent me to you. Emma is hurt, bleeding. She has been...she needs your help.”

  “Sweet Mary. Bring her in. Bring her in.”

  She ushered him into her cottage, and the interior also belied his expectations. This was not the dark, dismal hovel of a crone. A sweet smell of fresh-cut hay and lavender hung in the air, and a carpet of soft rushes cushioned his feet. The windows were uncovered, allowing sunlight to spill into the small space. Stephen had seen royal castles less welcoming than this modest home.

  “In here.” Althena lifted a pale linen curtain at the back of the cottage and gestured toward a small bedchamber beyond. “What happened?”

  He took a deep breath, placed Emma on the bed and stepped back. “She was kidnapped by a madman.”

  “God have mercy,” Althena muttered. “She's been violated?”

  “Aye, and she's...she's bleeding from it. Will you help her?”

  “And who are you?”

  “My name is Stephen de Montfort and I'm...” Who am I, indeed? He was lost - lost to the beautiful girl lying so quiet and pale before him, already pledged to her in his heart. “I'm her betrothed.”

  “I see.” She glanced at Emma. “So, Stephen de Montfort, tell me true. Was this man her first?”

  Stephen clenched his fists and forced the answer from his mouth. “Aye, he was her first.”

  “I'm so sorry.” Althena touched a hand to his cheek and nodded toward the door. “You'll find a small stream running behind the house. Light a fire in the hearth and put some water on to boil. If you hunger and thirst, there's ale and bread on the table. Help yourself.”

  He set about doing as she asked, finding some comfort in busying himself. Before long, a pot of water hung over a smouldering peat fire. He had no appetite but, consumed by an intense thirst, he downed a cup of ale with great relish.

  Althena’s voice crooned through the thin curtain. The words she spoke were unintelligible to him, but he
recognized the kindness in her tone and wondered if Emma could hear her. He straddled a chair, dropped his forehead onto his folded arms, and heaved a great sigh.

  “Stephen.” A hand squeezed his shoulder and he lifted his head, blinking up at Althena's dark gaze.

  He frowned. “Please tell me, mistress, that I didn't fall asleep.”

  She shrugged. “You were gone for a while, but don't feel bad.” She glanced up at the roof, where bunches of herbs hung from the rafters. “'Tis the lavender which soothes a busy mind. It will have done you good.”

  “Emma?”

  “She awoke and drank a tisane. She's now sleeping naturally and the bleeding has stopped.”

  He looked at her, seeking the words to ask a question. Understanding showed as a smile, and she answered him.

  “The bleeding was not from her womb. The tear is lower down and will heal. The rest of her wounds are disturbing, but don't threaten her life and will heal.” She sighed and tapped a fingertip to her temple. “Her mind will bear the ugliest scar. It always does, in these cases. Emma told me what happened, but I suspect there's yet more to her tale. Something beyond the physical attack.”

  Stephen ran a hand through his hair. “I agree with you and I believe it has to do with Alex. When we found her, she refused to speak to him but I don't know why.” He twisted around and looked through the window at late afternoon sunlight. “He's supposed to meet Argante at sunset.”

  “Argante?” Althena's eyes widened. “He's meeting the man who took Emma?”

  “Aye, to discuss the...ransom. He doesn't yet know we've rescued her.”

  “Ah. Then Argante does not have long for this world. No one can harm Alex's child and be permitted to live.”

  Stephen shifted in his chair. “Emma isn't really Alex's child.”

  “Perhaps he's not her true sire, but he loves her as a father might. Nay, more yet.”

  “What do you know of him?”

  She tilted her head. “Alex? Likely as much as you do, Stephen de Montfort. And if I should know more, I'll not discuss it without his presence in the room.” She turned away for a moment and took something from a basket by the fire. Stephen jumped as the headless body of a freshly killed chicken slammed onto the table in front of him.

  Althena smiled. “Hungry?”

  Chapter Eleven

  “The past does not stay in the past. It circles around to greet us as we step into the future. One becomes the other. Thus has it always been.”

  Alex stood as a statue inside the cell, watching the candle's steady burn. Not a breath of air disturbed the small fiery wisp. Oppressive darkness formed a black wall beyond the feeble flame and the silence almost had a voice, such was the strength of it. Emma had lain here with no light at all, alone and terrified.

  Anger consumed him. He closed his eyes, struggling against the reflective power of the stone. It linked to his impassioned mind, absorbing his strengths and weaknesses before returning them two-fold back to the source. Few men were strong enough to take it. Indeed, the stone would drive most mortals into madness.

  Alexander Mathanach was not like most mortals.

  Yet fierce emotion tore at the edges of his self-control. Argante had ripped away Emma's virtue and left her bleeding in the dark, but he had not stopped there. Alex had seen the revulsion in her eyes. He knew vile whispers had been uttered, destroying that most tenuous of bonds between parent and child.

  Trust.

  Secrets of the past, shaken from their quiet slumbers, clawed at his soul. For sixteen years, they had lain hidden behind a cloak of anger and denial. And there they would remain unless Emma demanded he drag them out and lay them bare. Even then, he would have to make a decision. Which was less painful: falsehood or reality? Should he hurt the living, or protect the dead?

  “I'm lost, Cùra”.

  Her whisper had been snatched by the wind and hurled at him with the force of a lance. He had reached out to her but felt nothing.

  Damn Argante. Damn him to hell. Curse my failure to protect her.

  Iain's body sat hidden in a dark corner, amusing the rats. Two candles burned outside the cell door, which stood slightly ajar, enough for the single candle burning within to be seen.

  Although sunset was still a few hours away, Alex heard a footfall on the stair and saw a flicker of torchlight in the dark. His hand tightened on the hilt.

  “Iain.” Argante's harsh voice cut into the silence. “God's balls. I told you to leave the wench alone. If you touched her, you're dead.”

  The door burst open and Argante stormed into the cell, a flaming torch in one hand and his sword in the other.

  “You're right.” Alex stepped out of the shadows behind the door, sword ready. “Iain is very dead. What kept you?”

  Argante gasped and spun round, dropping the torch, his blade arcing through the air. Alex reacted with the speed of a striking cobra and sparks flew as steel clashed with steel. Each man held his ground, weapons locked.

  “I'm disappointed,” Argante sneered. “I was looking forward to another rut with Fitzhugh's bastard. Sweet little thing, she is. You should try her yourself.”

  A surge of rage narrowed Alex's eyes as his blade came alive, twisting with a speed barely perceptible to human eyes. It wrenched Argante's weapon from his grasp and flung it into the air. Alex reached up and caught it neatly by the hilt.

  “Death doesn't scare me, you Scottish bastard.” Argante's voice held a semblance of truth, but the tight expression on his face belied his unease.

  “Och, I'm just playing with you.” Alex shrugged. “I’m not ready to kill you yet.”

  Argante snorted. “You'll have to. You'll never take me out of here alive.”

  “Nay, don't misunderstand me. You are going to die. Just not right now.” He gestured to where the torch lay, its flame crackling against the damp earth. “I wonder how long that will last? And the candle? Not too long, I think. Enjoy your last night on this earth, Argante. Enjoy a wee taste of what Emma suffered at your devilish hands. I'll be back with my blade in the morning. May your ghosts keep you awake.”

  Alex raised his sword in a cold salute, stepped back, and pulled the door closed. Argante's angry cry barely made it through the heavy door oak as the bolt slammed into place.

  * * *

  He turned Argante's horse loose with some regret. The stallion was a tempting bounty, but Alex knew Bart would not take well to being usurped. He took the gelding again, kicking him into a furious gallop.

  The western horizon shouldered a line of fiery clouds, set alight by a dying sun. Alex lifted his chin to the breeze, savouring the warmth and fresh air after the stale dungeon. Althena's cottage came into view, with Stephen's horse grazing on sweet grass beneath the apple tree. The animal raised its head as they approached, and nickered a welcome.

  Alex left the two horses together, rapped twice on the door and stepped inside. The smell of roasting chicken reminded him that he had not eaten that day. His stomach clenched in protest.

  Stephen shot to his feet. “At last. What happened?”

  Alex ignored the question, needing an answer to his own first. His eyes flicked around the room, coming to rest on the linen curtain.

  “How does she fare?”

  The curtain lifted and Althena stepped into the room. Alex studied her face, relieved to see the smile upon it.

  “Physically, Emma will be fine,” she said. “She's sleeping and no longer bleeds. The damage to her body will heal.”

  Alex sighed. “May God help her mind to heal as well.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her forehead. “Thank you. 'Tis a sight for sore eyes you are, bonny lass. Can I see her?”

  “'Tis good to see you too, you Scottish devil. Of course you can see her. But first, I must echo Stephen's question. What happened? Where is this Argante?”

  Alex released her. “He's still at the keep.”

  Stephen frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Argante is locked in a cell
at the keep. We'll hand him to the Devil in the morning.”

  “You're giving him a night to think about his demise?” A corner of Stephen's mouth lifted in a smile.

  “Aye, there is that, although that's not exactly why I did it. I mentioned something to you the other day, lad, but perhaps you don't recall. Argante has only one true terror, a biting fear, learned from his father, who used to shut him in a trunk for punishment when he was a child.”

  He looked from one to the other, only to be greeted by blank stares.

  “The dark,” he said. “Argante is terrified of the dark.”

  Althena blew out a soft breath. “Alex, don't misunderstand me, but I know something of such intense fears. What you have done is enough to drive a man from his mind.”

  Stephen snorted. “The bastard is already out of his mind. I hope he suffers.”

  “Oh, he'll suffer.” Althena wandered over to turn the chicken, skewered and roasting over a small fire in the hearth. “I doubt you'll find him to be the same person you left. I urge you both to be very careful.”

  Alex stood by Emma's bedside for a while, watching her sleep. He felt Althena's gentle hand on his shoulder.

  “Come away,” she whispered. “The child is safe. Come and eat. I fear your pallor is worse than hers.”

  So he ate, if only to appease his growling stomach, for the food held no flavour for him. Bitter bile coated his tongue, left there by the evil he had tasted that day. His child, aye, his child in every way that mattered, lay behind the flimsy curtain, her body torn, her mind corrupted.

  She cried out several times during the evening. Each time, Althena went to her side, waving the men away with a resolute hand.

  “'Tis the comfort of a woman's voice which is needed,” she said. “Not that of a man. Not yet.”

  With a final declaration of fatigue, Althena tossed each man a meagre blanket before retreating to the small chamber to share the tiny bed with Emma.

  Stephen dozed on the floor by the hearth, fidgeting in restless discomfort. Alex sat at the table, his busy mind quelling any desire to sleep. Frustrated and weary, he took his sword and went outside.