King's Warrior (Renegade Lords Book 1) Page 23

  Had Tadhg abandoned her?

  She sunk to her knees, coldness spearing through her. She folded her arms around her knees, ready to succumb to the winter all around her, and in her heart.

  A pale pink of sunrise began to spread, every so faintly, over the buildings.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  TADHG WAS EXHAUSTED. And triumphant.

  The dockmaster had indeed been a master, not of docks and quays, but of information, and messengers. While the Frenchmen slept of their drunken stupor, he’d called upon his redoubtable resources of men and information, and in the early morning hours, the message had gone out, by multiple riders, using multiple routes. The earl of Huntingdon would be contacted. He would come.

  Given a choice as to which adjective fit his current disposition more neatly, Tadhg would choose exultant by a bowshot.

  He peered up the darkened street to the Dove’s Inn, and saw firelight burning through one of the shuttered windows on the second floor. Maggie was awake then, waiting for him.

  He’d hoped that she would not even know he’d been gone. Now she must be worried. No matter, he would explain, tell her the good news, maybe have her bath refilled so he could take her in it, then tomorrow, begin their final westward trek to—

  He stopped short at the sight of soldiers stationed at the door.

  Sherwood’s soldiers.

  Standing boldly and with no attempt at disguise, it was as if they wanted him to know they were there.

  To know Sherwood was inside…with Maggie.

  A red-hot, black burning, blinding rage came over him. Years in the coming, it unleashed now, turned him into a typhoon of hard intent, a storm with no purpose but rescue and destroy. He had no dagger, he had no mission in life beyond protecting Maggie. He was an arrow aimed at her, and nothing would stop him from getting to her. Certes not three soldiers standing like a couple of jackeens at the door.

  He loosed a pent-up roar of rage and launched himself at them.

  UP IN THE BEDROOM, Sherwood looked up from the fire.

  “He is here.”

  DOWN IN THE COURTYARD, Maggie heard the roar of rage, and scrambled to her feet, calling for Tadhg, but he did not hear her over the sound of his own shouts, then the shouts of the soldiers, then everything descended into madness.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  TADHG ERUPTED on the soldiers like a funnel of fury, unsheathing his sword and sweeping it in deadly arcs, to and fro. It sliced through the belly of the first man. He opened his mouth to scream but the sound never made it out for he toppled over, dead.

  Tadhg spun and met the sword thrust of a second soldier, knocking him backward. He reeled away into a third who’d rushed forward and they stumbled together, tripping each other up.

  The hostler came running out from a back room, shouting, then Sherwood came down the stairs, flanked by two more soldiers.

  “Tadhg,” he said in his voice of utter calm. “How good to see you again.”

  Tadhg lifted his sword and pointed it at the baron. “Where is she?”

  “She is safe. Come. Let me show you. Come upstairs and see her.” Sherwood smiled. “There is no use running anymore. It’s all over. There is only one way to protect Magdalena, and that way lays here. Else I will hurt her, badly.”

  Tadhg hesitated for half a second, then took a step forward.

  From behind him came a shout. “No, Tadhg!”

  Maggie.

  He spun, and there she was, uninjured, unharmed, in the doorway to the street.

  “Run!” he shouted, but she took a step toward him instead, crying to Sherwood, “Wait, do not hurt him, please, I will do as you—”

  But the baron did not wait. He’d already sent his remaining men forward, and they rushed at Tadhg.

  The vestibule entryway was narrow, which was his only defense. Two soldiers tried to muscle into the narrow space, hands were everywhere, shouts and mayhem, and as they grappled for him, he was able to grab hold of Maggie for just a second, long enough to feel her one last time, to run his hands up her warm body under her cloak, to pull her to him and whisper in her ear, “Run, far and hard. Sell the dagger, use the coin.”

  “No, never—”

  “For me.”

  “Where?” she whispered, her eyes beautiful and desperate. He felt as if his heart felt was breaking in two.

  “You can go anywhere now,” he vowed hoarsely.

  “I will go to Ireland,” she vowed, her voice breaking even as he was dragged backward, and her fingers slipped out of his, and he felt his heart crack a little.

  Then a soldier wrenched him about, and Maggie took off like a sprite, cloak belling out as they dragged him into the inn, and into bondage.

  Sherwood cursed his men in florid terms for letting Maggie get away. He raged and stalked in a furious circle, then spun to Tadhg, breathing heavily. He grabbed Tadhg by the tunic and hauled him to his face.

  “Where is it?”

  “Long gone,” Tadhg said, smiling.

  He drove his fist into Tadhg’s face. Backing up, he punched his stomach, then drew back, shaking his hand and grimacing from the pain. His men hauled the Irishman straight again for another blow.

  The innkeeper shouted in distress, pushing his daughter into the back room then rushing forward. “You cannot do that in my house!”

  “I already am,” Sherwood snapped, but stepped away with a curse, rubbing his hand. The bitch had broken the finger of his sword hand and any use of it hurt. That was the only reason he held off on beating the Irishman as he deserved. The only reason.

  Breathing heavily, he looked at Tadhg. “Ready to talk?”

  Tadhg shook his head as blood streamed from his nose. “Not quite yet.”

  With a snarl, Sherwood spun to his men. “Pack him up, we’ll take him to my place. He will talk.”

  “I don’t think I will,” he said cheerfully. Because, for all that he was in for a very unpleasant night, and likely few days, until, no doubt, he was dead, all he felt was clean relief. Maggie had got away.

  She could go anywhere, do anything. She would sell the dagger he’d slipped to her when he spread his hand under her cloak, and with that, she the world would be opened to her. It would earn her a king’s ransom, and the king, well…the king would have to take care of himself.

  Maggie would be safe, and nothing else mattered.

  SHE WOBBLED OUT into the streets as a cold, sunny dawn began to break over the city, clutching the leather belt Tadhg had shoved into her hands. She folded her hand around the hilt, which had been warmed by the heat of his body, and held it tight as she flew to the corner and stopped, panting.

  She looked over her shoulder and saw two of Sherwood’s men come out the door.

  Without sense, operating only on impulse and whatever crumbs of felonious knowledge she’d gleaned from Tadhg, she turned and began gliding through the streets as the sun rose. She looked like a fugitive, clad only her chemise, barefoot on the snowy cobbles, her hair in wild disarray.

  Booths were opening, shopkeepers throwing up shutters, piling their tables high with goods.

  Holding her spine bowstring taut, she watched the nearest booth, a cloak-maker. When the merchant inside turned his back to reach for another bundle of goods to lay atop the counter, she glided over, face averted, and pinched her fingers around the topmost bright green cloak and slid it off the top.

  It tumbled to the cobbled ground in a heavy, muted whisper. No one seemed to notice. Heart hammering, she reached back, dragged it a few steps before swinging it up into the air and, holding her breath, draped around her shoulders.

  No one rushed at her with cudgels or cuffs.

  Her hands were shaking as she went onward as the sun began stretched its rays down into the streets. Hawkers came out and counters dropped down and merchant wives began their day’s shopping.

  She slid a pair of shoe leathers off a hook hanging at the corner of an inattentive man’s shop, then hid behind his store and stuffed
her feet into them, lacing them quickly. Passing a busy comb stall, she stood behind a very loud noblewoman who was dissatisfied with the selection, and as the merchant tried to allay her impatient, Magdalena stretched her hand out and curled her fingers around three of them.

  In seconds, they were in her hand and she’d turned away, moving through the crowds. Fingers trembling, she swept her hair up into the expensive combs, then stepped out into the street.

  No one looked at her except to nod and move out of her way.

  She stared around in amazement at all the stalls and booths and things she could have, simply for the taking.

  It was like a harvest. She could have anything.

  How could Tadhg have left this behind?

  The heady sense of power was quickly conquered by a sense of injustice. Having been a merchant made it entirely unacceptable for her to steal simply because she could.

  There was the faintest pang of remorse for this ethical line in the sand, then she quickly refocused her attentions.

  She moved through the crowds however fast the person in front of her was moving, skipping like a rock from group to group, making it appear she was in union with them, until another group appeared to take her down another street. Just as Tadhg had shown her.

  Then she peeled off from all groups and dipped into an alleyway. Crouching low, she hid behind crates for a full hour. Then another. She waited until she was sure Sherwood’s soldiers would be sure that she could wait no longer.

  Then, silent and invisible as a moth in a green cloak, with combs in its hair, she retraced Tadhg’s steps to the lair of his outlaw brothers.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  SHE SCRATCHED at the door, then put her mouth to the crack between door and jamb and whispered, “Fianna.”

  Silence.

  She said it a little louder. “Fianna.”

  Nothing. A cat prowled down the empty alley. Maggie watched it, then clearing her throat, she rapped politely on the door.

  Nothing.

  She knocked again, and again, until she was reduced to pounding on the door as Tadhg had done, shouting for all the furies to hear, “Fianna.”

  The door was wrenched open.

  “Cease, harpy,” ordered a voice.

  She stumbled backward.

  One of the outlaws started out at her. Not the tawny giant who’d greeted them before. This was the darker, colder version of Tadhg, who’d walked away from the table when she went inside.

  His gaze slid over her shoulder, up and down the street, then settled on her. She stifled a chill. He stared into her eyes. It was like staring into a black cyclone. “Why are you here?”

  He might have stolen her breath. She could do nothing but shake her head.

  “Why are you here?” he said again.

  She forced her lungs to draw breath. “Let me in and I will tell you.” Being a widowed merchant had its boons. For instance, after the initial shock passed, one learned not to let oneself be pushed around even by black cyclones. One simply pushed back.

  But this one made no response. Perhaps he was not the pushable sort.

  He bent his head to the side, his regard close as it swept over her and her mismatched clothes, then across her face, stilling on her cheekbone. “What happened to you?” he finally said.

  She touched her cheek, taken aback. These outlaws kept noticing hurts she’d forgotten about. “Let me in and I will tell you.”

  “Where is Tadhg?”

  “Let me in—”

  “In then.’” He stepped back. “And swiftly. But you might wish I had not, when Fáelán sees you.”

  She again climbed the rickety stairs, again sat in the room stacked with treasure, beneath a wall hung with weapons. Again, she was left alone. Again the wealth was shocking.

  In the brazier, ash shifted and settled with a breathy sigh.

  A bootstep scraped into the room. She looked up into the ebony eyes of the cold one.

  “He will see you.”

  Her breath thinned as she followed him to the end of the hall, past window after window, and three fireplaces, to the far end, behind a tapestry hung as a door. She glanced at her escort. He nodded at the curtain. She pushed it aside and ducked in.

  The room was folded in darkness. There, seated before a low fire, in a large, low seat, a bootheel up on a low table before him, sat the outlaw leader, the one who’d thrown the dagger at the wall.

  A wedge of white light cut into the dimly lit room and he turned, his pale eyes lanced through her. “Why have you come?” he said in a low, cold voice.

  Trembling, she crossed the room and looked down at him. This band of rogues and mischief-makers all captivated, but this one was almost spellbinding, with his pale eyes and cold fury and…as she stared, she slowly realized his neck was covered by swirling, painted lines.

  “What do you want?” he said in a low, cold voice.

  Behind her, the other two came into the room and stood, each with a shoulder to the wall, watching in silence.

  “You are Fáelán,” she said softly. “Tadhg told me of you. I am Magdalena, of Saleté de Mer. You would not know this town; it is a small sea port in France, filled with corrupt men and a great many little boats.”

  He looked her over. “You are a long way from home.”

  “It is not my home. Indeed, I am presently trying to get to my home.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Wherever your brother is.” She slid the dagger from its sheath and laid it on the low table. “You may have this.”

  He didn’t look down at it. “In return for what?”

  “You must help me rescue your brother. He has been captured.” She heard one of the men behind her push off the wall. She did not turn.

  Fáelán reached out and touched a callused finger to the dagger’s ruby hilt. “Do you know how much the prince would pay for news of Tadhg’s whereabouts?” he asked quietly. “Or the French king?”

  She stared the finger touching the dagger. His hands were wide, strong, calloused, capable. Like Tadhg’s. A dangerous man.

  “We could settle a great many debts, with the mention of one name,” he said.

  “You would not,” she replied, matching his low, cold tone. Yet if Tadhg had spoken true, he would indeed do such a thing.

  Fáelán lifted an eyebrow. “Aye, I would.”

  “He would indeed,” concurred the tawny giant from his lazy slouch against the wall.

  “Only a fool would not,” agreed the dark one.

  She looked at the room full of riches, then other two, their shoulders against the wall, staring at her impassively. Criminals, all. Cold-hearted mercenaries. They were just as Tadhg had said they were, soulless outlaws. Stark naughts.

  “Then why did you not do so?” she asked softly, looking back to their leader.

  There was a telltale stillness to his dark, downturned head.

  She pressed. Took a step closer to where he sat at the table, looking at the fire, not her. “Why did you not inform on Tadhg after we first visited?”

  “How do you know I did not?”

  “Because you let us go. Because you let me back in. Because of the way you will not look at me now. Because of the way you looked at Tadhg, just before he walked out. You did not tell anyone he was here. You did not tell anyone then, and you will not tell anyone now, and so now, you are committed.”

  He laughed but also lifted his head and looked at her. “Committed to what?”

  “One good deed. Reclamation.”

  Against the wall, the dark-eyed one shifted restlessly. Fáelán turned his chin that direction, but did not take his eyes off her. “And if we do not wish to be reclaimed?”

  She made an impatient gesture. “Nevertheless, it is upon you.”

  He smiled, then pushed to his feet and started out of the room.

  Her jaw fell, then her heart began to plummet, and she felt dizzy as the bottom dropped out of all her hopes, leaving nothing behind. Panic crowded out s
ense, and she began talking without thinking.

  “He is better than all of us, you know.”

  Fáelán kept moving. The other two stepped aside to let him pass.

  “You, me, we all of us, we are the stark naughts,” she said to his back. “The lost ones, the ones who do things only to further our own ends, petty though they are. Tadhg is the only among us one who has aimed higher. The only one of us who has sacrificed on behalf of someone else.”

  The leader stopped beside one of the oak beams.

  She took that as a hopeful sign, and stepped forward. “He has given his entire life to the cause of being better than he is, of saving something, and he saved me in the process. That is why he is better than all of us. For I am no better than you. But he is better than us all. That is why we must save him. It is not we who must be reclaimed, it is he.”

  Nothing from the hard muscled back. Then he turned, the sword at his hip swaying. His pewter blue eyes met hers.

  She pushed the dagger across the table toward him. “Help me.”

  He made a gesture, beckoning the others forward. They came and stood behind him, one on each side, and looked down at the dagger.

  “That truly is one monster ruby,” the tawny one muttered. He touched it with a huge hand, so gently Magdalena looked up at the incongruity.

  Máel ripped his gaze off the dagger. “You want us to expose ourselves, we who’ve hidden so well, risk our lives and riches, to save the one who abandoned us? Where is the wisdom in that?”

  “It is true,” she agreed softly. “Wisdom cannot guide you here.”

  Máel made a sound of disgust and spun away from the table. “I’ll not be part of any godforsaken rescue attempt.”

  Rowan’s indolent sensuality vibrated with tension as he looked at Fáelán. “That dagger could never pay what this deed will cost us if things go ill.”

  “No, it will not,” Fáelán agreed softly.

  Despair swept through her in waves, like an icy tide. “But it is worth a king’s ransom,” she cried.

  Fáelán smiled his cold smile. “That only matters if one wants a king.”