He ran harder.
This is the day I find her. The day I bolt us in a room alone and watch her face as she shudders with release.
But could he do that, really? Isolde was a maid, after all. As his eyes adjusted to the sudden pale glow at the end of the tunnel, he realized that aye, he could touch her the way he wanted. He felt as if she belonged to him.
As he neared the exit, he listened for voices or the hiss of machinery. The steam mechanism used in a cadence detector put off a low whistle, like a teapot. Hearing nothing but the deep ring of silence, he gently pressed open the trapdoor.
The fire had been banked for the night, and a faint orange glow beckoned Sadler. Many a night he’d spent without the cheery company of a fire. The thought of a cot of his own, with a fire and a woman to lie before it, stirred something deep and thought to be dead within him.
Loaves of brown bread were lined up on the plank table like oversize shoes. He took one and stuffed a chunk into his mouth. Chewing slowly, relishing the flavors on his tongue, he heard a scuffling sound behind him.
He froze. By minute increments, his eyes ticked sideways. In the doorway, mouth agape, a young page stood. He was dressed for bed in long underwear. His hair was disheveled, and he carried a pewter mug, obviously to fill with fresh milk from the larder.
Before the lad’s mouth could clamp about his gasp, Sadler had him by the throat. He dropped the bread to take up a wooden mallet and rapped him smartly between the eyes. The page’s body slumped in his hold, and he eased him to the floor. From the corner he took the wooden three-legged stool and placed it on its side in the doorway, staging it to appear as though the page had tripped over it. Hastily he arranged the unconscious page’s limbs to look natural, with the pewter cup still dangling from his fingers.
Standing back to survey the scene, he thought whoever found the lad in the morning would believe he’d stumbled, struck his head on the plank table, and fallen unconscious.
Tucking the loaf of bread beneath his arm, Sadler quietly set off in search of Isolde.
* * *
The castle started to wake around him, and he moved through the dim rooms and halls like a pale ghost. The bread fed more than his body; it lifted his spirits, strengthened his resolve. He knew where Adlard would be at this time of morn. But he was determined to find Isolde.
A shrill cry pierced the air and abruptly cut off. Sadler carefully turned and saw a lass wearing the short skirt of a servant, braids hanging down her shoulders. Her hands were plastered to her mouth, and her eyes were huge as she stared at him.
He shuffled into the shadows, avoiding eye contact, knowing by the look on her face she believed the stories that he was an apparition. Slowly he drifted along the wall and out of sight.
Desperate to catch a glimpse of the honey blonde woman who’d become his torment, he circled toward the center of the castle. As he did, he passed the great hall. A group of women clustered about the long table, laying silver and trenchers for the morning meal. Their voices reached him, and he paused midstride.
“That gorgeous knight, Sir Lionel, is taking his protection of the princess quite seriously,” one woman said.
“Aye, he’s trailing her all over the castle. I wonder if he watches her use the chamber pot.”
“Shhh. Ye can’t let a soul overhear ye.”
“I’ve seen her send some steamy looks his way. At least the poor man isn’t putting all his eggs into a holey basket.”
Sadler’s hands jerked at his sides. His throat felt dry and thick. Suddenly he realized his breathing sounded as gasping and labored as a zeppelgonger’s. The women continued to chatter, and he strained to control his reaction.
“A fine match, the pair of them would make. I’ll bet it’s why the king assigned him to her.”
“Aye, and wouldn’t they make lovely babes, with all that golden hair?”
Sadler’s stomach filled with heat, and his head filled with steam. Isolde with another man? Never.
Twisting on his heel, he then stalked off farther into the center knot of the castle. Isolde had to be nearby. Surely she wouldn’t be in her chamber at this time of day. And if the great and gentlemanly Sir Lionel was within ten yards of her, Sadler would personally render him a eunuch.
As he passed the door of the king’s study, he noticed with a start that it was slightly ajar. He pressed himself against the cold stone wall and peered around the door frame. Hunched over a mammoth desk, looking creased and worn, the king sat writing by a candle’s glow.
A flash of movement caught Sadler’s eye, and he paused in the shadows. A man in dark clothing sat before the desk, a drink cradled in his hand.
The king slid the parchment across the desk and templed his fingers beneath his chin. From the back, Sadler didn’t know who the king’s guest was, but when the man spoke, a shiver of recognition rippled over him.
Millvale.
The Earl of Millvale held the parchment up to the candlelight and read. “Decree of betrothal. On this day, King Adlard of Weligbyr does hereby grant permission to Roderick, the Earl of Millvale, the hand of his only daughter, Isolde of Weligbyr. All holdings belonging to the princess do pass into the possession of her husband upon the day of their union. Should either party be unhappy with this arrangement, the contract shall be void.”
Sadler’s bowels clenched. He tried to draw breath and failed. No, it couldn’t be true. Isolde given to this foul man? This pompous ass? A film of red rage coated his eyes, and he suddenly saw the destruction he could wreak upon these men. If he rushed them, caught them unawares, he’d kill them swiftly and then find Isolde and make an escape with her. The day she married Millvale was the day Sadler’s head was in a basket.
His mind whirred. Did she condone this union? As Sadler considered it, he realized no other man in the country was suited to her status. King Adlard wouldn’t let his lands go to a neighboring realm. Millvale was the best bet. And he could be controlled.
What skin did Isolde have in this? Sadler conjured the image of her with Millvale. Together. A couple. He bit down on his expletive and strode down the corridor before he could do anything rash.
Adding kidnapping to his list of crimes seemed like a reasonable idea at that moment. Isolde’s body told him she belonged to him. But did she harbor feelings for Millvale?
First he would check for her in the small sewing room. He’d overheard a woman in town bartering for thread for the princess’s needlework. If he found it empty, he’d climb the stairs to Isolde’s chamber. He knew now that the south tower held her chamber, as a split second after the fuel-barrel explosion, he’d glimpsed her golden head in the high window. So far, he’d gleaned enough information about the castle to create a small mental map.
His heart thumped hard at the thought of reaching Isolde’s chamber, of getting inside and bolting the door. A single knight who guarded the door would not stop him.
He came upon a series of doors cut into the corridors, and peeked into each as he passed, praying Isolde wasn’t behind one of the closed ones. He placed his feet carefully, hoping his steps didn’t echo and alert anyone before he found her.
As he came upon the sixth door, he edged up to it. The door to the sewing room stood open, and a fire had been kindled within. The princess sat on a stool before the firelight with a lapful of fabric. She bowed over her work. The firelight sparked off the coronet of braids on the top of her head. About her neck she wore a glittering metal device—clusters of blackened gears and chain mail—and her gown was stiff, stark, and gray.
Sadler felt her presence like a punch to the gut. His fingers bit into the stone surrounding the entry, forcing him to remain still and silent. Sir Lionel the Great would not be far off.
He stared at her fingers awkwardly working the needle through the length of fabric. She wore a thimble on her forefinger and jabbed herself in the middle finger.
“Damnation.” She shoved the needle into the fabric as if trying to spear it to death. Her breasts shivered with her angry breath, swelling atop the brutal bodice she wore. A flush stole over them and climbed her throat. When she lifted her head, her face was infused with blood too.
Suddenly she leaped to her feet and hurled her needlework at the corner. “What gentleman stares at a lady while she struggles through this abominable chore?” she screamed at the man Sadler couldn’t see but who could only be Sir Lionel. “I can care for myself. Now leave me at once.”
“I cannot, my lady. I take orders from the king alone.”
With a long growl of anger, she began to pace the room. Her short skirt flared with each stride. Her milky white thighs flashed. Sadler’s breeches clamped down on his cock, constricting it pleasantly. He couldn’t stop staring at the ruffles, made of metal mesh, flouncing on her hips, and the leather belt crisscrossing her lower belly. Sadler wanted to grip those leather straps and rein her in. Perhaps he’d use them to bind her when he stole her from Millvale’s clutches.
She looked up, directly into Sadler’s eyes.
A fissure of shock cracked her composure. Tears sparked in her bright eyes, and her face mottled red and white. She took a lunging step forward and was brought up short by Sadler’s sharp gesture.
He held up both hands and held her gaze, but she held the end of the string attached to his heart.
A glimmer of need pulsed between them. He waggled a finger, indicating she should come to him.
She whirled on the unseen knight in the corner of the room. “I’m going back to my chamber, Sir Lionel. Alone. Ye will not accompany me. If ye do, ye’ll find yerself stabbed.” From a dainty pocket on her hip she whipped out a pair of sewing shears and wielded them like a street thug.
And then she was running to Sadler, her face ablaze, her cheekbones stark, and her mouth set. She struck his chest. Her scent filled with his head, and he wrapped his arms about her womanly form.
“We’ve no time,” he said into her ear. He lashed his fingers about hers, and they ran.
“This way,” she rasped, guiding him into a corridor he’d never explored before. She pressed into his side as they ran, the soft curve of her breast maddening against his arm. Her hair was beginning to loosen, the braids sagging at her temples and wisps teasing her ears.
Unable to control himself, he picked her up and pinned her against the stone wall. “Does a gentleman treat ye this way?” He slammed his mouth into hers.
She melted against him, slender wrists pressed into the back of his neck. Her lips parted for his tongue, and he moaned at the hot, salty taste of her. Small noises escaped her throat, causing him to harden. He cupped her silky thighs and lifted her against his hips.
“Sadler, Sadler,” she whispered between kisses, her mouth sweet and sucking.
“I’m sorry I missed our engagement.” He nipped her swollen lower lip with his teeth. “I wanted to make it.”
“I found yer message. All is forgiven.” She brought his mouth back to hers.
He couldn’t contain his joyous laugh. He spent a long minute assaulting her ripe mouth before sense won out. He let her feet drop to the floor and tugged on a braid hanging over her shoulder. “I told ye I like yer hair unbound. Now let’s run.”
He closed his fingers over hers again. She kept up easily with his long strides, as fast a runner as he’d ever seen. Occasionally he faltered as his gaze lingered on her knees peeking from beneath her skirt.
“Sir Lionel will be following. We’ve got to find a place where he’ll never look.”
He closed his other hand over the knife in his waistband. “I’ll fight him, Isolde. I want to.”
She stumbled, flamed him with a blue-green glance. He felt the tendrils of fire lick over him, causing his cock to throb. He couldn’t stop thinking of the way her nipple had bunched up on his tongue at their last encounter.
“Why would ye fight him, Sadler? What’s he done to ye?”
“He is allowed to spend time with ye, Isolde.” Between Sir Lionel and the king’s decree of betrothal, Sadler seethed.
They reached a bend. He fought to keep from kissing her again. He wanted to watch her pupils dilate and her head fall back as he worked his fingers through her hair.
The clomping of feet echoed from the end of the corridor, and Isolde froze in her tracks.
“Hold still,” Sadler rumbled against the shell of her ear.
She turned her mouth against his. “Zeppelgonger.”
He gripped her wrist and yanked her in the opposite direction. Their feet beat the stone floor, and he hoped the cadence detector situated on the front of the great walking machine picked up the patter.
“Ye don’t know where ye’re going,” she cried.
“I do,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ve been wandering these halls for days.” He dragged her along the stretch of darkness, horribly aware of her fingertip circling his palm and the extreme heat radiating from her small body.
“Turn right here.”
“Nay. Left.”
“This is my home. No one knows these halls better than I.”
“Aye, that may be, Princess, but left is the way to our freedom. I wish ye had yer flying goggles, because we’re about to set sail.”
The corridor broke open to the courtyard, where several flying machines were tethered. The world was filled with the hiss of steam and hot air. Sadler shot behind the fleet, located an empty hull, lifted Isolde by the hips, and tossed her inside.
She fell with a thump into the wooden basket. His feet landed just as her head popped up. She brushed a mess of hair from her face and attempted to stand. With a palm against the top of her head, he pushed her down.
“Nay, Isolde. Keep out of sight. And hold on.” With that, he fired up the engine. A clank of gears and an outpouring of steam filled the basket. The vessel began to ascend.
“Ye’re mad,” she exclaimed. “Every flying machine in the kingdom will be after us.”
“Nay,” he scoffed, granting her a wicked smile. “The owner of this ship lost a little bet. Now stand, Princess Isolde, and give me yer mouth.”
Chapter Seven
Sadler adjusted the whirring gears overhead, setting the airship to glide unassisted. They were high enough to avoid the treetops, soaring along the cloudless sky. He looked across the hull at Isolde and felt he’d never known such happiness.