Margaret Moore - [Maiden & Her Knight 03] (32 page)

Isabelle watched him waiting motionless by the merlon for Denis’s signal. If there was anybody who could get her away from here, he could. She could even believe he would die trying.

Yet even with his help, she would not be safe until they were far away from here. If the Brabancons discovered them fleeing, they would surely kill Alexander and Denis and take her for their spoils. They would sell her to Ingar, at the very least. But first....

She shuddered, trying not to think of what would happen to her—and Kiera—if the Brabancons discovered them trying to escape.

Her gaze went to Ingar’s ship rocking on the waves and the Norse camp, like a blockade on the beach.

Then, like a lightning strike, she had a sudden horrible thought: once they got out of the fortress, how were they going to get back to Bellevoire? They had no horses. The Brabancons would chase them down on foot. Perhaps Alexander and Denis had stolen horses awaiting them below … except that they were climbing down the wall closest to the sea.

Leaving Kiera, she hurried to Alexander. “How are we getting away from here after we get down that wall?” she demanded in a whisper harsh with anxiety. “If we climb down here, we’ll be between the fortress and the bluff.”

“We will make our way along the edge to the steps leading to the beach. Ingar has agreed to take us back to England.”

“Ingar!” she gasped. “He’s in the pay of—”

The rope in Alexander’s hands jerked twice. “It’s time to go.”

“But Ingar—!”

“Has no loyalty in his heart save to the man who makes the best offer, and today, I did.”

What could he have to…? Of course. The ransom.

“Now come, my lady, go down. I have no idea how long before someone suspects all is not well. We must be on the ship and out of the bay before that.”

Kiera started to weep. “I-I can’t climb down,” she said as she splayed her hands back against the wall. “I thought I could, but I can’t. I’ll slip and fall and the guards will hear and we’ll all be caught.”

Isabelle went over to her and spoke softly, tenderly, as she would to a frightened child. “It is a slope, not straight down. We’ll be fine.”

“I’ll slip and the height.... I’ve never even been able to look over the wall.”

Isabelle grabbed her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Kiera, we have no choice!”

Alexander joined them. “You go first, my lady. Kiera and I will come down together after you.” He regarded Kiera with a calm confidence. “I will make sure you don’t fall.” He slid Isabelle an urgent glance, a silent plea to lead the way. “Now, my lady, please.”

She grabbed hold of the rope and began to make her way down the wall. The hemp was rough and cut her hands, but she would get down this wall if it killed her.

The stones held firm, and soon enough, she was on the strip of land. She didn’t look beyond that; she already knew they were precariously perched and a few steps would send her straight down to the beach below.

“Mon Dieu!”
Denis gasped, looking up.

She did, too, to see Alexander climbing down with Kiera on his back, her arms wrapped around his neck as she clung to him as a man sinking in quicksand would cling to a log.

Kiera must be nearly strangling him! How could he hold on with such a burden? And if her hands were raw, his would surely be worse.

“Why is he…?” Denis murmured before he choked on his own words.

“She was afraid to climb down by herself,” Isabelle explained, unable to take her eyes from them even though she feared she would see disaster.

If he lost his grip, if his foot slipped, if she let go.... A host of catastrophes ran through Isabelle’s anxious mind until Alexander’s feet finally touched the ground. Then she could breathe again, and her whole body relaxed.

Denis ran over to help Kiera, whose face was white in the moonlight. With a grimace, Alexander ran his finger around the neck of his cloak and tunic to loosen them.

Isabelle wanted to ask him if he was all right and praise him for the effort. She wanted to look at his hands, to check their state for herself, although she had no salve or medicine to offer.

But she did not. He was helping her for his own ends, as always, and she must not forget that.

Denis put his arm around Kiera’s shoulder, and they started toward the steps leading to the beach.

Alexander came beside her, tall and powerful, and he held out his hand. “Come.”

She looked down at his palm. It was raw and red, but not bleeding.

She should have realized his palms would not be the soft and tender flesh of a nobleman who spent his days at leisure. He had the callused hands of a soldier, or a common laborer.

He snatched back his hand, as if just as suddenly ashamed.

“Follow me,” he barked, his voice quiet, but as fierce as a general on a battlefield ordering his men to advance.

A
lexander led them swiftly to the steps leading to the beach below. “Denis, you go first. Then Kiera, then you, my lady.”

Although Kiera was still weeping, she didn’t protest when Denis started down, then reached back to take her hand. Isabelle went as quickly as she could after them, with Alexander close behind.

They reached the beach, panting, and it seemed they had succeeded in escaping without being seen—until a cry of alarm shattered the night. Glancing over her shoulder, Isabelle saw torches appear above the walls, along with the heads of many Brabancons.

Kiera screamed.

Alexander drew his sword. “Denis, take the women and run for the ship.”

“Alexander!” Denis cried, aghast. “You’re not going to stand and try to hold them off alone?”

“Not unless I must. Now
run!
”

As long as Alexander didn’t intend to stay behind and hold off their pursuers, which would surely mean death, Isabelle needed no more urging. She lifted up her skirts and sprinted for the ship, Denis and Kiera right behind.

Breathing hard, Isabelle could hear the heavier tread of Alexander’s feet pounding across the pebbles behind them. Then she heard another sound, one that gave her new energy: the Brabancons were howling like wolves, and the sound was getting closer.

“Oh, God,” Kiera moaned, stumbling. She would have fallen if Denis hadn’t been supporting her.

“Keep going! We’ll make the ship,” Isabelle cried. She wouldn’t care now if the devil himself owned the vessel. All that mattered was getting away from the horde of men chasing them.

They made it through the Norsemen’s camp, or what was left of it. Several of the tents were missing. Looking ahead, Isabelle saw the Norsemen seated at their oars, save for the one man standing on the wharf with the rope holding the ship in place, and Ingar at the tiller.

Would they wait, or would the sight of the Brabancons bearing down upon them make them go without them?

Please, God, make them wait
, she prayed over and over again as she ran. She, too, stumbled and nearly fell, but Alexander grabbed her arm and steadied her.

She was grateful for his help, and even more grateful to see the flash of his sword blade in the moonlight.

They clattered across the wharf.

“Kiera, go!” Denis ordered, handing her across the plank to one of the Norsemen in the ship, who reached out to help her.

“Now you, my lady,” Alexander commanded, and she obeyed, hurrying across to join Kiera, who stood in the center of the ship. Then Denis ran across the plank as nimbly as a cat.

The Brabancons reached the camp, and their angry cries echoed across the beach.

Sheathing his sword, Alexander dashed across the plank and helped the Norsemen swiftly haul it in as the man still on the wharf slipped off the rope, then leapt into the ship. At a barked order from Ingar, the men on the side closest to the wharf put the tips of the oars against the wharf to push off. By the time the first of the Brabancons reached the wharf, the ship was far enough out to allow all the Norsemen to have their oars in the water. They pulled swiftly for the mouth of the bay, leaving the Brabancons uselessly shouting curses from the shore.

Isabelle collapsed in the center of the ship and tried to catch her breath. Looking as shocked as if they’d been spirited to the ship by magic, Kiera, too, sat heavily. Denis joined them, too tired to speak.

Alexander did not. He went to the stern and stood at the gunwale, looking back at the Brabancons and the fortress on the bluffs.

Kiera began to cry. Denis put his arm about her shoulder and whispered to her, the tone gentle and soothing.

Kiera gave a shocked little gasp, then leaned against him, sobbing in earnest. As Denis put his arms around her, Isabelle didn’t doubt that he had just told her that Osburn was dead.

Isabelle sighed and looked away, her gaze drifting back toward Alexander DeFrouchette, who stood so still, so silent, and so very alone.

As the noise from the shore faded, to be replaced by the grunts of the rapidly rowing Norsemen and the quiet sobbing of Kiera, Isabelle felt free to consider Alexander DeFrouchette, and all that had happened to her. He had abducted her; he had rescued her. He was her enemy; he was her savior. He deserved punishment; he deserved mercy.

She hated him. She did not.

She would be glad to see the last of him.

No, she would not. After all that he had done, the good as well as the bad, this was the one thing that shone clear and certain in her jumbled thoughts.

Alexander never went near her that night, or the next day. He only joined them to eat the food the Norsemen offered—salted fish and bread and cheese—but he sat as far away from them as it was possible to be in the small space. Otherwise he was either in the stern talking with Ingar or in the bow gazing at the sea.

Ingar had ordered the sail raised in the night, and now most of his crew slumbered or talked among themselves. The day was a fine one, with a good wind and no rain.

Denis and Kiera sat together closely, and it was all too plain that whatever Kiera had felt for Osburn, Denis was helping her to forget him with his jokes and banter. He even juggled for her and got her to laugh.

Isabelle wanted to share that laughter, but she couldn’t. She still didn’t feel completely safe; she wouldn’t until she was at Bellevoire. Then, she hoped, all that had happened would fade from her mind. She would forget Alexander and her tumultuous, confused feelings. She would be as she was before.

No, you will not
, her mind chided.
You will never be the same. You left Bellevoire a girl. You go back a woman, and a woman whose heart has been awakened to desire
.

But how could she desire a man who had put her in such danger, even if he had also rescued her? Could she trust anything she felt since that day in the market of Bellevoire? Surely once she was back with her family, she would see things differently.

Such thoughts were not the only ones to trouble her. She would be safe, she would be free, but her family would be poor because of the ransom.

Her legs were aching after sitting all morning, and Isabelle rose stiffly and stretched. Denis and Kiera glanced at her, then went back to talking. She looked at Alexander who stood in the bow, leaning against the dragon’s prow, his hair and cloak blowing in the wind.

Needing to walk, she made her way to the stern. Surely Ingar would be too busy guiding his ship to pay much attention to her.

Unfortunately, when Ingar noticed her, he called another man to take the tiller and came to stand beside her—far too close beside her. She inched away.

He realized what she was doing, and laughed. “Have no fear, my lady. I won’t kiss you again. I want to keep my head, and DeFrouchette will probably cut it off if I so much as touch you.”

She slid him a skeptical glance.

“What, you don’t believe me?” Ingar’s beard moved as he smiled. “I could try it and then you would have the proof you need.”

“Please don’t.”

Grinning, Ingar leaned back against the gunwale. “Still the bold woman, whoever you are. Tell me, did he kill Osburn for trying to wed and bed you, or does that fool still breathe?”

“Osburn’s dead.”

Ingar sighed with satisfaction. “The Norman killed him over you. I thought he would.”