Page 111 of Marin’s Promise

She slipped into the pathetically empty larder, where wine barrels were piled against one another. Beneath the collection lay a secret door, leading outside the castle walls. Piquette padded silently behind her.

Though she’d tried to get him to stay in her room without her, he’d refused. Forcing him would have resulted in a fuss she could ill afford, so she had finally conceded to allow him to join.

He sat and watched her with his head tilted, as she shifted about the casks, long since empty of their contents. The barrels were easily moved, the passage opened and within seconds, they were navigating the earthen tunnels beneath the castle. Anice cupped her hand over the candle flame to prevent it from snuffing out in the dank, cool air. Outside of the flickering light, darkness pressed in on them, threatening to swallow them whole.

In truth, she was grateful for Piquette’s presence, for the warm comfort of his massive body hugged up against her leg. He brought what she needed most—strength.

At last, they made their way to the gate of the narrow exit. She pulled the key from her pocket, clicked the lock open and eased out into the night through the tangle of concealing vines. Above, the stars winked down at her with such brightness, they appeared to be slivers of forgotten sunlight caught in a blackened sky.

Once the gate was locked and the vines rearranged to conceal where Piquette had barreled through, Anice hid the key beneath a large boulder. In the full face of a brilliant moon, they made their way through the dewy summer grass to the scattering of firelight below.

She had spent hours preparing for this moment, ensuring she’d chosen the right gown, that her hair gleamed like spun gold; her scent was feminine, but not overpowering. Mayhap everyone was correct. Mayhap there was nothing more to her than being beautiful. After all, what she was about to do lacked skill and thought. If indeed, she did stop to think, she would no doubt run back into the safety of Werrick’s walls.

She spun the small ruby ring on her right hand, the one her mother had given to her before their world had abruptly changed. Anice did not intend to quit this mission. Not until she was at the Graham encampment and had the opportunity to speak to whoever was in charge of the marauding band of murderers.

They had to listen. And if her beauty was the only way to make that happen, so be it.

* * *

James Graham regretted having cometo Werrick Castle. He’d been fool enough to think he might be able to sway his father from the war-torn path he had blazed for years over the border between England and Scotland.

“We’re wearing them down, lad.” The elder Graham grinned in the light of the campfire. Shadows danced over his aged face and gave him a ghoulish appearance. His hair, once a deep brown like James’s, fell in wisps of white around his skeletal cheeks. He bobbed his head in slow consideration. “I can feel their surrender coming, deep in my bones.”

Such words used to bring pride to James. Back when he had believed their way of life was the only way to live, before he acknowledged the damage left behind their success. Back when he looked up to this father and contemplated his words wise.

No doubt the laird of the Grahams was correct now, but it did not mean James found joy in such truths. They’d been camped at the base of the massive castle for nearly five months now. In the last month, their fires roasting freshly caught game had lured soldiers to the parapets. No doubt the scent of cooking meat made them wild with hunger.

The people of Werrick Castle would be on the barest bit of grain, if they had any left. The village nearby had not suffered at the hands of the Grahams, not when they were too important for their purpose in supplying the camping force with food, ale and women.

James hoped the sparing of the village also had to do with the lessening of his father’s blood lust, mayhap even a modicum of guilt. The acts of their prior years had been more than James could bear. He suppressed a shudder.

“Just think, Son. When they surrender, ye can have the land ye’ve been wanting.” Laird Graham bumped his elbow against James’s arm.

He cast a dark look at his father. “I dinna want the land like this.”

“Ach, aye.” Laird Graham nodded to himself. “Someone is just going to give it to ye then, provide ye with heaps of coin to start anew and we’ll all sprout rainbows from our arses.” He gave a wheezing laugh that bled into a wracking cough.

James looked away to afford his father privacy, while the old man gathered his breath once more. He was dying. They both knew it, but neither bothered to say it aloud.

“We have enough coin,” James ground out.

“For caring for the land.” His father cleared his throat in a great, rattling hum. “We dinna have enough for land and living. These people dinna need a farming tenant. Especially no’ when its frozen or been buried under rains like in the past. Nay, lad—our people need a laird. They are used to battle, to being led into war and winning, no’ tilling soil.”

“Better to till soil than to murder.” James met his father’s gaze. “To live a life they dinna have to regret.”

Laird Graham stared at James, his eyes glittering like flecks of onyx. “I liked ye better before that witless English bastard got to ye.”

This argument again. The one about the man who had saved James first from death, then from a life of lies and theft. He’d showed James there were other ways to live, ways Laird Graham might never agree with.

Somewhere in the distance came the shouts of several men, followed by the clatter of weapons striking. Another fight. Sieges led to bored men and bored men seldom possessed good intentions. They wanted a fight, something solid and ripe for their blades to split. They wanted war, a break from the tedium of endless waiting.

“Ye should settle into the life ye had before.” His father’s tone was impatient. “Find yerself a wife, have a few bairns.”

It was a tender spot and James’s father knew it. There’d been no other woman since Morna. James scowled.

Laird Graham gave another winded laugh, this one shallow in his obvious attempt to prevent another coughing fit.

“Ye’re always on about having me change my ways.” The elder Graham smirked at his son. “Mayhap I’ll consider altering my set ways when ye decide to wed.”

It was no secret Laird Graham hoped to see grandsons before his death, to pass on his marauding influence, more likely. For James’s part, he wanted his father’s remaining time to be spent in peace, in a world built on hard work and honesty rather than theft and greed. As it was, the old man’s dark heart would send him straight to the flames of hell. Before that, as death was stretching a hand toward him, there would be the reminder of all the hurt he had caused.

James knew all too well how horrific those final moments truly could be. “Dinna ye see I’m doing this for yer own good, old man?”

Laird Graham scoffed. “As do I, lad. As do I.”

James pushed up from the roughhewn bench and stepped away, desperate to let the cool night air smooth the ragged edges of his irritation. His father’s wheezing laugh followed him, until it became distant enough to fade into the backdrop of the camp. James drew a deep breath to calm his racing pulse and appreciated his ability to do so without the lancing pain in his chest he’d experienced so many months before.

The scar stung at times in a sharp, internal way; nothing he could soothe, but for the most part, he had recovered from the thrust of a sword into his chest. He’d used the idle time at camp to strengthen his body once more and was grateful to have recovered so fully.

He knelt at the edge of the small creek, cupped water into his palms and splashed it over his face. It was cold against his hot skin. Refreshing. He sighed and leaned his head back before opening his eyes. It was then he realized he was not alone.

He put his hand to the hilt of his dirk, his muscles tensed to spring from his crouched position as he slowly glanced to his left. He went still.

It was no warrior standing several paces away, but a woman. Nay—a goddess of the old ways—for truly no mortal woman could possess such an ethereal presence. Moonlight glowed off her in a radiant sheen, from the purity of her white gown, to the perfection of her fair skin and the brilliance of her golden hair. She was a moniker of peace, a symbol for everything beautiful and right in a world that had gone so damn wrong.

A massive dog, the size of a small pony, came from behind her and stood before her like a sentry.

The woman beheld James with long-lashed pale eyes, her gaze beseeching. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, gentle, far too appealing. And completely English. “I need your help.”