Page 17 of Leila’s Legacy

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Leila paced the narrow dungeon cell. The chill in the damp air sank through her trews and linen shirt, though she hardly felt it amid the torrent of her thoughts and emotions. What did they mean to do with her? Would they leave her to rot until the Lion came and finished her off?

She looked down at her wrists. The ropes were still there, holding her hands with enough tension to keep her from freeing herself, but loose enough they did not hurt. Why had he done that?

Footsteps sounded in the distance, the grit of stones beneath the wooden-soled shoes of a warrior echoing around her. Getting closer. She pressed herself to the wall, behind where the door opened. If she could take down the captor coming to see her, she could use his weapon to cut loose her bindings and flee.

She hid and tried to keep her breathing smooth and even so it wouldn’t echo off the stone. Better for the person to think she was not there, to be momentarily confused so she could surprise them and attack.

The footsteps stopped in front of her cell. Breathe in. Breathe out. Remain focused.

Keys jangled together before one clinked in the lock. The door swung open, the ancient hinges squealing in protest. Leila tensed.

A golden light filled her cell. A candle. He was inside.

The door closed. Leila ran forward, slinging her elbow toward the man’s face, an awkward strike when her hands were bound, but far more powerful than a simple punch. The impact of it turned the Lion’s head. But the blow did not knock him down and he stood before the only means of escape.

He rolled his jaw and regarded her with a flat expression. She flexed her muscles in preparation for being hit.

“I’d prefer no’ to strike a woman,” he said in a smooth, nonchalant tone.

Leila stepped back, uncertain what to do with such words. Were they a threat? He remained by the entryway and brought a stool into the room, where he set the candle down. He opened the door, careful to not put his back to her, and brought in another stool with cloth piled atop it. Once the items were settled in the cell, he pushed the door closed and locked it from a ring of keys at his waist.

Leila regarded the folded cloth, something difficult to discern in the candlelight. The cloak beneath it, however, she recognized as her own.

“I thought ye might be cold.” The Lion shrugged indifferently.

Leila fought down a shiver, though due to the cold or fear, she did not know. She was trapped within a dungeon with the Lion. He stepped toward her and she had to steel every nerve in her body to keep from backing away from him.

“Let me see yer hands.” His voice held a note of authority, even when softly spoken as it was now.

Heart drumming hard in her chest, she lifted her bound hands. He settled his fingers over the knot and worked it loose. With great care, he unwrapped the rope from her wrists, then pulled something from a pouch at his side.

Leila immediately recognized the stone jar as her own, the one with a healing balm in it.

“It was from the basket ye dropped.” He lifted the top off and the sweet scent of herbs filled the dank dungeon cell. “I assume it is for healing.”

Leila nodded.

He dipped his fingers into the balm and smoothed it over the abrasions on her wrist. His hands were nearly twice the size of her own, and yet his touch was impossibly gentle. When he was done, he sealed the top on the pot and put it back into his pouch.

“I canna have ye breaking it and killing a guard.” He lifted his shoulder in a casual shrug.

“Thank you,” Leila said. “For this kindness. For my cloak.” Her gaze slid to the heavy garment. The wet cold had settled so deep into her bones that her whole body ached with it. She craved the weight of the cloak over her shoulders, blanketing her in warmth.

“I have a kirtle for ye as well.” He indicated the blue garment folded on top of the cloak.

She regarded what looked to be wool, then turned her wary gaze on him.

He gestured to the kirtle again, the move awkward. It was not common to see a man who carried himself with such a commanding demeanor appear so uncomfortable. “Ye need to put it on.” He tilted his head. “To look like a lady.”

Leila lifted her brow and crossed her arms over her chest.

“No’ that ye’re no’ a lady.” His jaw clenched and he ran a hand through his long hair. “Put on the damn kirtle.”

“I haven’t a lady’s maid to assist me.” In truth, her lady’s maid at Werrick Castle was a former laundress, Freya, who was also wife to the Master of the Horse. Leila needed no exceptional adornments or care outside having her hair scrubbed with Freya’s wonderfully soothing touch and having the laces done up on her gowns.

A muscle in the Lion’s cheek twitched. “I can aid ye.”