"If we survive this," she finally whispered, "what then?"
"Then I take ye home," he said simply. "To Todlaw."
She turned to look at him, her face half in shadow. "And if we don't?"
He took her right hand in his left and pulled her closer beneath his arm. "Then I'm glad to have found ye…if only for a day."
She leaned her head against his chest and eventually relaxed. Perhaps she even slept while, above them, that sliver of moon passed from one side of the pit to the other. He listened to the soft breathing of the women around him, to the occasional whisper or quiet sob. He thought of Robert and prayed the lad was safe. He thought of Todlaw, of the people waiting for their return. He thought of their unseen allies.
All their hopes hinged on the love those men had for their women. And if he could only judge by how he felt for Brigid, by how determined he was to see her to safety, to take her home and make her his for the rest of his days, he liked their chances.
13
DANGLING BY A STURDY THREAD
* * *
Flanders fought sleep like the enemy it was. He'd never been one to nod off during his turn at watch, and that was precisely what this was. Watching for a miracle with death looming at dawn. But the warmth of Brigid against his side, the steady rhythm of her breathing, and the exhaustion of the past two days without sleep conspired against him.
His eyelids fell like heavy stones and he struggled to lift them again. He blinked rapidly, then pinched his thigh and rolled his shoulders. Anything to stay alert.
The stars above the pit shifted slowly, marking the passage of time and causing his eyes to lose focus. He counted them, named them, tried to remember the stories James had told him about the clusters and patterns. Anything to keep his mind working.
But in the end, sleep ambushed him from behind.
He woke with a start, disoriented. How long had he been unconscious?
The pit was alive with silent movement—shadowy figures shifted in the darkness. For a moment, he thought they might be under attack, but then he saw the women were moving with purpose, not panic.
Brigid’s heat still lingered beneath his arm, but he couldn’t see her. He reached out and caught the feel of her hair, wrapped his hand around her arm.
She started. "What's happening?"
He finally made out her precious face. "Our friends have returned."
A wooden pole, sawn lengthwise, had been lowered into the pit, its surface wrapped with rope at intervals to provide handholds. Above, silhouetted against the night sky, he could make out several heads peering down.
"They're getting us out.”
One by one, the women approached the pole. The youngest lass shimmied up with surprising speed. Another woman followed. Then another. A steady stream, like ants marching up a stick.
These weren't pampered ladies but working women, their bodies strong and capable.
He positioned himself beneath the pole, ready to catch anyone who might fall, but none did. They climbed with the agility of squirrels, disappearing over the edge of the pit where helping hands pulled them to safety.
Soon, only Gerts and Brigid remained.
Brigid stepped aside. "Yer turn.”
The older woman shook her head, her face pale even in the darkness. "I cannot."
Flanders smiled kindly. "But ye must."
"I shall fall. I ken I will!"
"Then I shall catch ye."
She shook her head again, more firmly this time. "I cannot balance on something so narrow. High places turn my legs to water."
