A gruff laugh escaped Lord James’s lips. “You little prick. You think you’re leaving Yarmouth alive?”
The earl moved too quickly to see, and Martin let out a bloodcurdling scream, falling over. For a moment, Isabella couldn’t tell what had happened, and then she saw it. The hilt of a dagger protruded from her husband’s foot.
Lord James threw himself on top of Martin, tearing his sword from his hand and throwing it away. The earl’s sword was still pinned under her husband, and he didn’t bother trying to retrieve it. With a wicked laugh, Lord James wrapped his hands around Martin’s throat and squeezed.
No. Please no. Don’t let this be how it ends.
No matter how her husband thrashed and twisted beneath the other man’s grip, he could not escape. Martin’s face turned purple and then began to take on a blue tinge. Before her very eyes, Lord James was squeezing the life out of the man she loved. The crowd around them went silent, and several turned away with looks of disgust. But no one dared intervene and challenge their liege lord.
She had to act. She couldn’t lose Martin now, not when they were so close to escaping this place to live a happy life she had hardly dared imagine. There had to be something she could do to save her husband. As long as Martin lived, there was hope.
And then it came to her. She knew what she had to do, even if the thought sickened her.
“Stop,” Isabella cried out. “I’ll give you what you want. Just spare him.”
The earl squeezed harder. “Once I end him, there’s nothing to stop me from taking what I want.”
No. This can’t be happening. I won’t let it.“If you kill him, I’ll never tell you what you want to know. I’ll take my secrets to the grave.”
Lord James laughed. “I have ways of making you talk.”
She was sure he did, but nothing he could threaten her with compared to the abject terror of watching the breath squeezed out of the man who had won her heart.
“Maybe so,” she said. “But you’d never know if I was lying. What if I feed you a secret that makes The Duke of Normandy kill you on the spot?”
A long moment passed as she and the earl stared each other down, a collision of steel wills. Martin’s movement was slowing. He was going to lose consciousness if this didn’t end. This had to work. She could not face a world without Martin in it, even if it meant sacrificing herself.
At last, the earl loosened his grip, and Martin gasped in deep, ragged breaths.
“You had better keep your word, my lady. You will both remain here until the annulment goes through. I’m not taking any chances. Guards,” he said to his men, “Take Lord Martin away and lock him in the dungeon.”
“Isabella, no,” Martin wheezed. “Don’t do this.”
Tears filled her eyes as she watched Lord James’s men take her husband away, red marks clearly visible on his neck. The look of betrayal and horror on Martin’s face nearly undid her, but she had to be strong for his sake. If he died, she would never recover, especially not if she was forced to marry his murderer.
She stood frozen until Martin was out of sight. Then she turned to the loathsome man to whom she had just promised her life.
A slow grin spread across Lord James’s face. “Now, you’re mine,” he said, grasping her arm with fearsome strength.
That, I will never be, she thought to herself as he hauled her inside. She would find a way out of Yarmouth with Martin and Adelaide if it was the last thing she did.
Chapter Twenty-Five
This wasn’t bad…fora dungeon. At least that was what Martin tried to tell himself, sitting in near-total darkness with his back against the stone wall, gingerly touching his fingers to the bruises on his neck. A meager shaft of light came through the bars from a tiny window in the hall—just enough to make out the shadows of things but not enough to truly see.
At least the dirt floor was dry, and Martin hadn’t heard any scurrying.Yet.It was like sitting in a harmless cave in the forest. With excruciating, throbbing pain in his left foot. And a very sore throat. And with his wife in danger.
Isabella wouldn’t really go through with the annulment, would she? What if he didn’t consent? He had sworn to let her be free if she didn’t want to be with him, but he had never said he would let her go under duress. And wouldn’t the Church require him to consent to dissolve the marriage? There was nothing that Lord James could threaten him with that would convince him to cooperate as long as Isabella still cared for him.
Martin tried shifting to a more comfortable position but hissed as pain from his foot spiked through him. The guard had been none too gentle when he had yanked the dagger out. Would they send him a healer? If the wound wasn’t cleaned and dressed, there was a high risk of infection. Maybe that was what Lord James was hoping for, that cheating bastard.
The earl had lost that fight. Martin’s sword had been at the man’s throat. Maybe he should have taken the earl’s head off and not given him a chance to yield. It certainly would have been satisfying. But instead, he’d been honorable and chivalrous about it, and the blackguard had taken full advantage.
It wouldn’t do any good to rehash what had gone wrong. He had to figure out a way out of this. Somehow, he had to escape this dungeon, rescue Isabella and Adelaide, and get them all on a ship to Winchelsea, whetherThe Wind Songwas ready or not.
But to do any of that, he had to stand and walk. Using his hands to brace himself, he tried to pull himself up. His ruined foot dragged along the floor, and he yelped. It was too much! But he forced himself to breathe. He had to walk, or he’d be completely helpless. Digging deep, he kept going, every movement excruciating. After what felt like an eternity, he was standing.
Sweat poured down his neck, despite the chill of the dungeon as he attempted to catch his breath. That wasn’t so bad, was it? He grimaced and ground his teeth, trying to ignore the shooting pain that seemed to engulf his entire leg. Now all he had to do was walk. Easy, right? Just one foot in front of another. He’d been doing it his whole life.
