Part 43 (1/2)

Chapter 32.

Siobhan jolted awake with a groan, swallowing thickly, tasting dirt and the cloth stuffed in her mouth. And the foul residue of bitters. She coughed against the rag, her throat burning, the skin raw and rubbing against the thongs of her cloak as she tried sitting up. She failed, her hands bound tightly behind her and stealing her leverage.

Icy air whipped around her feet, driving the chill up her skirts, and she s.h.i.+vered, squinting in the dark, scenting the odor of moss and the sea, hearing the crash of waves. The dampness of wet stone seeped into her clothes. Her head pounded, as if preparing for a great explosion, and her eyes felt gritty. She blinked, praying for a glimmer of light, and wondered why she was here.

Then she remembered.

Hung like a beast for the slaughter.

She recalled dangling, swinging her legs to gain footing on the tree, then suddenly she fell to the ground, choking for air as Raymond, the poor man, rode away.

She prayed someone found him before he died in the saddle. They carted me away in a blanket, she thought, and did not speak.

Her shoulders tight and sore, she curled on her side, then s.h.i.+fted upright. Wind slipped around her, enveloping her in a tunnel of ice. Without the moon, she could not see an inch in front of her face, and resolutely braced her back against the stone wall, dipping her foot out to feel around her. To her right, she found the floor, and a sweep of her leg brought a strange sound, like the clatter of sticks, hollow and eerie. She extended her leg to the left. For a few inches there was stone, then nothing, pebbles falling, seconds pa.s.sing before she heard them ping against rock.

Surrounded by darkness Siobhan did not know if there was a roof above her, but there were walls, for the wind howled through cracks like the high-pitched wail of a banshee. If she called out, who would hear over the sound of the sea?

She tried, once, the effort stinging like broken gla.s.s in her throat. Closing her eyes against fatigue, she drew up her knees, working her booted toes under her skirt. Where is the warmth of my blood when I need it? she thought.

Suddenly she sat forward, grasping her kirtle, twisting it around her waist until the front was at her back, and felt for the dagger in the pouch. It was gone, as well as the sack.

Jager me, she cursed, and felt the wall for a sharp spot in the rock to cut her bonds. The stone was smooth from weather and age and she fell back against it. The slosh of the sea surrounded her, waves buffeting the sh.o.r.e with the rush of the incoming tide.

Siobhan knew where she was. The Druid ruins. And in hours the sea would engulf her prison.

Rhiannon tossed the club aside as she stepped over the unconscious guard, then searched his body for keys. Finding none, she cursed the lost option and hurried down the narrow corridor. Dampness seeped into the cracks between stone and mortar, the freshly dug moat worsening the cold and moisture. A day in here and they will surely die, she thought, stopping before the cells.

Three men, but her attention was on the solitary figure imprisoned alone. He did not look up, refusing to acknowledge her beyond a stiffening of his body where he sat in the corner, his knees drawn up, his elbows resting atop.

”Tell him.” No response, and she clutched the flat wide bars. ”He will behead you afore sunrise. Confess and he will show you mercy.” Her whispered words rang hollow with futility.

He scoffed. ”There is no mercy for us, woman. Not anymore. Even G.o.d cannot forgive me.”

She choked on a sob, rattling the bars. ”You would throw your life away without a fight?”

He tipped his head back, meeting her gaze, yet he remained silent, unmoved by her pleas, her tears.

”We are d.a.m.ned for our lies, Patrick. For eternity we will pay for the gift we cast aside.”

Dark pain skipped across his features like a ripple of water before he masked it.

They stared, defeat and hopelessness s.h.i.+fting between them, and yet Rhiannon still pleaded. ”Beg for mercy, please.”

Slowly he shook his head and she choked back a sob.

Footsteps came to her, and she reached, her fingertips grazing his cheek briefly, and he closed his eyes, savoring the sweet brush of skin to skin. Then she was gone, running.

Rhiannon darted to the right, farther down the corridor, and slipped around a corner. Something caught on her gown, jerking her back, and she wrenched around to find Gaelan glowering down at her.

He grabbed her arms, hoisting her up to his face. ”Woman,” he growled in a lethal voice, ”I will beat you for your betrayal.”

Rhiannon stiffened, refusing to fight as the corner beyond the cells filled with men.

”PenDragon, you cannot think she-”

”Trust not a word from her lips, Maguire.” Gaelan hauled her toward the cells, but Ian blocked his path, looking down at Siobhan's sister.

”Why would he think you had aught to do with this war?”

She glared at him, bright green eyes filled with venom and defeat. ”You're the cause of this, Ian.”

Ian scowled, yet his tone was deceptively mild. ”Clarify your accusation, please, Rhi, for us all.”

”You are a selfish man, Ian Maguire. If you had taken her marriage to Tigheran like a chieftain instead of a jealous boy, instead of turning your back on her, she would have had a friend whilst she suffered his abuse for us all.” Her gaze raked him in disgust. ”You could not be her husband, so you could not be her friend.” Ian's features tightened with shame. ”Then you thought to come back and take her when our lives were in the balance, call her betrayer and force her to choose between you and her people. Again. If you'd sworn to PenDragon, there would be no chance for a war to feed upon.”

At her last, Ian's frown deepened with confusion, and Gaelan realized he was either excellent at disguising his emotions or innocent. ”She speaks in riddles,” he muttered, pus.h.i.+ng past and dragging her toward the cells.

Ian followed. Beyond the cells Sir Andrew and Niles helped the groggy guard to his feet, Niles turning him back toward the stairs.

His anger raging out of control, Gaelan released her roughly.

One of the prisoners shot forward.

Gaelan turned his head, a sick feeling working through his blood, and in a heartbeat, he reached through the bars and in one jerk, pulled the man close.

”I know you.” They stared and Gaelan searched his memory. The eyes, the familiar eyes, he thought. ”Fenian!”

”Nay,” Ian said suddenly from his side. ”They would not be party to this.”

”I tell you what I know, Maguire.” Gaelan spared him a brittle glance, then released the man with a shove. ”I killed four of his men on the moors-on your land, less than a sennight ago. And they wore your plaid.”

”It seems a popular style of late. As is armor.”

Gaelan eyed him, seeing his reasoning.

”They cannot be Fenian, my lord,” Driscoll said at once. ”He is not big enough. Neither was I.” Gaelan scowled for an explanation, for he didn't know an Irishman bigger than his sheriff. ”When I was younger, I tried gaining entry into the warrior clan.” His skin flushed. ”And failed.”

”Who is to say they do not gather more?”

Both Driscoll and Ian scoffed. ”One of the tests is to run nearly halfway across Ireland,” Ian said. ”One stumble and you are eliminated.”

Gaelan did not believe such a ritual could be endured. ”And most are gifted.” Ian's head turned, his gaze pinning Rhiannon. ”Like her and Siobhan ... and ... others.”

Like Fionna O'Donnel, Gaelan thought. And my son.

”Maguire is the one who wants your lands, PenDragon,” Rhiannon hissed. ”Your t.i.tle, your wife!”