The Irish Warrior Part 6

"You will be helping get back mine."

He smiled and when she smiled in return, he sat back on his heels. "Ye're a fair measure of beauty, ye are," he whispered.

"What, with my bruised cheekbone?" This time she did laugh, very softly. "You must fell a great many ladies with such lies."

The smile this earned was all charm and self-a.s.surance. She shook her head, looking away. That would not help at all. at all.

"Finian O'Melaghlin."

"Senna-"

"De Valery," he finished, his gaze traveling slowly over her face, the smile fading.

"You know my name?"

His eyes lifted back to hers. "If ye can get me out of here, I'll have it put in a song."

"If you can keep me alive once we're out, I'll write it myself," she whispered back.

His smile returned, and her heart tripped over another beat. "I'll remember yer name forever, angel, song or no."

Her eyes fell into his deep blue ones and for a fleeting moment she felt as if she were floating. His rough voice and gentle manner pleased her greatly. For heaven's sake.

"I will return," she whispered, rising to her feet.

"I'll cancel all my other engagements," he pledged, his voice rough and solid.

She smiled over her shoulder, startled at how calm she felt with her life resting on what they planned. It was like the peace she'd felt in the hall when he made her lift her head, when the world had receded except for his endless blue eyes.

And all he'd done then was smile at her.

Will de Valery spent all of a day preparing to leave England and did so with a vengeance, securing the services of a few additional for-hire knights, promising good terms in lieu of the plunder he could not offer. Yet. But one never knew what might be around the next bend in the road.

Thirty-three weapons-bearing others, men-at-arms and attendant squires, made for a goodly force. Two cooks, eight servants, a marshal and a mason completed the ensemble-his grateful proprietor had intimated the manor house was in grave disrepair when he enfeoffed Will with it in the first place, and that was likely much the reason for his largesse in any event.

They took to the seas in the middle of a storm, all staring askance at their lord, who stood golden haired at the bow of the ship as if he could drag the Irish coastline closer by force of will.

When the troop arrived in Dublin, the marshal would stay with the others in the walled city to arrange for the needed horses, wagons, and provisions, then march for the keep.

Will would take the five men he trusted with his life-despite their abiding affection for brown English ale and their desire to stay in England to drink it-and arrange a meeting with Lord Rardove.

He planned it all out in his head, to the last detail, while the wet winds blew across the ship, and Senna was beguiling the guards with sweetmeats and lies.

Chapter 10.

Moonlight cut through the slatted shutters, creating just enough light for her to see by. It clawed its way over the window ledges and grasped at the stony walls, thin fingers of chalky light.

Creeping over damp stone and gritty floors, crunching over stale rushes, stumbling and slow hurrying, Senna moved through the castle, dodging the occasional nocturnal servant and bleary-eyed soldier returning from a tumble in the brothel. The castle was rock under moonlight.

She wore a pair of boys' hose and a belted tunic that hung to midthigh, overtop a soft linen shirt. Over everything she wore a loose over-tunic gown, barely girdled, just enough to look the part should anyone stop her.

In her hands she carried the packs. Her hair was banded loosely with a strip of leather and hung in a long braid down her spine. Her eyes were bright, her head spinning, as she crept to the cellars. Setting down the packs, she stared at the solid oak door. Stretching out on either side was a narrow, endless corridor of chunky stone and eerie echoes.

The sound of furtive sniffing jerked her gaze down the hallway. A pair of small, round eyes, glittering flatly in the gloom, met her startled gaze; a rat snuffling at a pool of fetid water. What nourishment could it gain from that bracken watering hole? She shivered and looked back at the heavy door. Now or never.

Planting her palm against the iron handle, she pushed it open.

The soldiers leapt to their feet exactly as they'd done earlier. She smiled through the flickering candlelight.

"Sirs." She inclined her head as if she were arriving at a social gathering a few moments early.

They goggled at her exactly as they had earlier.

"My lady," the tall one gasped, fumbling to pull out the small bench he'd been seated on. Exactly as he'd done earlier.

If only their wits are as dim as earlier, Senna decided, Senna decided, I shall be fine. I shall be fine.

She lifted her skirts and sat. Their mouths hung open half an inch. Easy prey. She closed in for the kill with absolutely no sympathy for what they might suffer as a result of the escape: they had helped to hang the dog.

She thumped down a flask of whisky on the table, filched from the baron's cellars, and looked up with a smile. They smiled back, gap-toothed.

In almost no time, they were well sodden and stupid, not a far cry from where they'd started the night. But this drink had an added spice, a powdered tincture of valerian root filched from the herbalist, which would ensure they slept for a long time. It took three swigs, maybe four, before they crumpled to the floor, leaving Senna standing, legs braced, breathing so fast her head spun.

No turning back now.

Plucking the keys off the taller one, she crept down the hall toward Finian's cell. A single torch lit her way.

"Angel." His rough voice drifted down to greet her.

"I am come," she announced in a low whisper, as if it were needful, completely ignoring the fact that his voice made her smile in the dark.

He was standing tonight, and Senna was a bit awed by his height and strength. Firm, corded muscles were tensed in the darkness and his voice had to travel some distance down to her. She'd picked a strong one.

They fumbled through the keys, found the one that fit, and after swinging open his cell door with an ear-piercing screech that would have awakened the dead-but not the guards-they crept back along the dank corridor.

"What happened to them?" she whispered, gesturing to the empty cells.

"The Irishmen who witnessed your kindly welcome in the hall were all killed soon after, lady, and in intriguing ways, too, rest a.s.sured," he replied gruffly, following her up the hall.

Looking back, she found his jaw set hard, his eyes dark and impa.s.sive. She turned forward again, her fingertips trailing along the slime-ridden wall. Were her men to have been killed, she would be spitting for blood. Waving a sword and howling. He was so...restrained.

She repressed a shudder and pushed open the door to the antechamber.

He stared at the crumpled guards. "Ye have gifts I would never have suspected."

She frowned a little. "I have a few hidden talents."

He regarded her sideways, briefly. "Aye."

He nodded his thanks when she handed him bread, then they swung the packs onto their backs. They were off, creeping across the shadowy courtyard. All they needed to do was steal a few weapons, sneak through both baileys, and scramble over the castle gate without being spotted by the guards.

Senna tried not to consider anything other than the next obstacle. Thinking too far ahead made her nauseous.

Crouched and watchful, she guided them to the blacksmith's hut. It was an elaborate affair, made of stone, two stories high. They stared up at the window on the second floor, far above their heads.

"It didn't look that high in the daylight," she muttered.

Finian's hands closed around her hips. A startled breath whooshed out of her. "I'll boost ye up," he murmured, and his fingers tightened as he lifted her up against the side of the stone building.

She reached as far as she could, stretching, aware of the power of him through his thick curled fingers, his shoulders, the steady strength holding her body up in the air. She curled the tips of her uninjured fingers around the window ledge, and that was as far as she got. The injured hand was still strangely numb, and therefore, while it did not hurt, it did not seem to have strength either. It certainly would not help her scale the side of the building.

"More," she whispered.

"I haven't got any more."

She scrabbled silently, panting and sc.r.a.ping her elbows and knees, but she wasn't a fly, and there was no way she could climb up the side of the wall.

"Stand on my shoulders," he said, a gravelly command.

She stilled, then bent her leg back. She must have kicked his chin or something, because he grunted. She slowed her movements and nudged her toe backward, felt for the ledge of his shoulder. She planted her foot on it, then did the same with the other. It gave her just enough lift to get her elbows on the ledge.

She pushed at the shutters. Locked. Stifling the urge to smash them, she felt around in her pack and pulled out a strip of dried meat. Working it between the two shutters, she lifted upward, unhooking the latch that held them closed. A small metallic clink clink rang out, loud as a shout, and the shutters creaked in opposite directions, one in, one out. rang out, loud as a shout, and the shutters creaked in opposite directions, one in, one out.

Quickly, she shoved them inward and shimmied through. Thrusting her arms out, she dropped to the ground. Her palms. .h.i.t first and the rest slithered behind, until her knees. .h.i.t the floor with a muted thump.

She scrambled to her feet. Her vision quickly adjusted to the deeper shadows. A black opening gaped straight ahead. The stairway.

Another black gaping hole appeared to her right. The blacksmith's bedchamber.

She swallowed dryly.

She hurried down the stairs, weaving her way between tables and anvils, and tiptoed carefully around the oven, which was still heated to a pale orange glow. She swung the latch up on the door and inched it open. Finian stepped inside.

They crept back up the stairs, where the items in for repair and new works of deadly art were stored. Where the blacksmith was stored, along with his wife and children, but, praise G.o.d, no dog. After tonight, there would be one for certes.

They worked swiftly, without words. Within minutes, Finian was garbed in the powerful protective covering of an Englishman's mail hauberk, flinching just slightly as the weight of it settled on his back. There was none to fit Senna. She picked up a knife that looked the right size for Finian, which he immediately strapped around his thigh. He grabbed another one and she belted it for him, around his left arm. She grabbed one for herself, a long, wicked thing that looked just right.

At that moment, the blacksmith spoke, muttering a few garbled phrases. They froze, staring at each other. Silence, then a murmured, "Move over."

Good heavens. The smithy's wife was awake.

Coldness spread across Senna's chest. A few feet away, Finian extracted the blade from its arm-sheath. She shook her head wildly, silently. He tipped his head to the side, one palm up, looking at her like she was crazed.

She gestured adamantly to the sheath on his arm. He just lifted his brows, but, as the silence extended, he slowly redeposited the blade. She smothered a sigh.

It felt like hours before they moved again. First Finian, then she, slunk back to the stairs, hunched over and breathing fast. Senna spied something out of the corner of her eye. She moved closer.

A broadsword, in a beautifully adorned sheath st.i.tched with bright threads resembling fantastical shapes of animals and lettering in an unknown language. It looked like a warrior's sword, a king's sword. It looked like Finian's sword.

Without another thought, she lifted the ma.s.sive weapon, staggered down the stairs, and hissed at his back.

He spun, his eyes glittering in the darkness, his body reflexively crouching into a fighting stance. The fire-glow of the oven lit up dark shadows on his face. He looked wild and dangerous, and she was about to hand him the hugest sword she'd ever seen.

"Here," she whispered.

"My blade," he murmured, stepping close.

"Yours? Truly?" She'd only thought it looked looked like a sword he might have. like a sword he might have.

"Aye." He took the weapon and held it reverently, handling its weight as if it were a dinner platter. He slid it halfway out of its scabbard. The flat glitter of steel flashed in the firelight. "The scabbard, too," he whispered. "I thought 'twould be quickly a.s.sumed by another, although the spells woven in it would not work well for any other. And never a Saxon." He lifted his gaze to hers. "I am doubly indebted."

They left the smithy's building and crept along the side of the open exercise field, a labor in madness which frightened her into a dry mouth and prevented her from talking for a good three minutes. Finian seemed impressed. They ducked between the buildings, silent moving shadows: one-room cottages, a chapel, the stables.

As they pa.s.sed the kitchen gardens, Senna stumbled in a rutted furrow and muttered a curse. It sounded like a shout in the quiet nighttime. She snapped her head up.

Finian stared at her, frozen.

Then, keeping time with her hammering heart, the boot steps of a soldier drew near.

Chapter 11.

They threw themselves against a wall, barely breathing. The soldier walked by, striding on a path perpendicular to them. Senna held her breath. He kept walking, never looking over, and finally disappeared behind another building. She rolled her head to the side and looked at Finian.

"I think-" she whispered, so quietly she could barely hear herself.

He shook his head sharply. Another five minutes of silence, then another soldier came by. Senna pushed the back of her head into the wall and focused on looking like a pile of refuse. The guard pa.s.sed.

Ten more minutes and no more soldiers came. Finian let his body relax off the wall. Senna followed suit. She opened her mouth. Swiftly, and in utter silence, he cupped the back of her neck and pulled her forward.

"Patience and silence, lady," he murmured. "For G.o.d's and my sake, patience. And silence."

Now, why on earth did her body warm up at his words?