It took her a moment to find the keyhole in the darkness, and it took her another to get the key properly inserted. She half expected McCaim to call out thinking she was the guard, demanding to be released, but when she heard no sound at all, dread seized her heart.
Please, God, let him nae be dead.
When the door finally swung open with a creak, she was met with utter blackness. She stepped into the cell, opening her mouth to whisper to McCaim, but before she could speak, something swished behind her and then a hard knock to her head sent her to her knees. And suddenly, the darkness around her became a darkness within her mind.
Chapter Six
Choices never easy to make,
Fog seems to cloud your way.
You fear making a mistake,
of gambling and losing the day.
~ Jojoba Mansell, “Hard Choices”
Admittedly, Rhys was having a hard time thinking and moving, given his lumbering performance of hitting the guard over the head with the rock he’d found in a corner of the cell. But he could’ve sworn—no, he’d bet his damn life—that he’d heard a woman’s moan when the rock had met the mark. A disturbing thought struck him. What if Margaret had come to help him?
Shit.
Several other equally alarming facts hit him at once, like a dozen punches from the toughest opponent he’d ever faced in the ring. The cell was open. No guard was coming. He needed to flee. He didn’t have the first damn clue what direction to go in. And if this was Margaret at his feet…
He crouched, swaying slightly with dizziness from the fever. He reached out a hand and was met with soft flesh—a woman’s flesh. Well, a woman’s breast to be exact. He jerked his hand back, though the memory of how she felt was searing his fingertips. Or maybe that was the fever, too?
Jesus. What now?
He blindly groped around, feeling her head for blood and praying she was okay, but all he could feel was a rather large lump the size of an egg on the side of her head. He’d knocked her out. He’d hit a woman and knocked her out cold.
Damn it.He’d never forgive himself. She’d never forgive him, either, once she woke up. She was going to feel as if she’d been run over by a freight train. And shewouldwake up. She had to. Not only could he not bear the thought that he’d permanently damaged her fragile skull but he needed her. He had to admit it. He needed her help to find his mom.
Fumbling in the dark, his own head pounding and sweat pouring off him, he found her legs and slipped a hand under them. Then he patted around some more to slip a hand under her back, catching a strap on his fingers as he did. Some quick exploration told him she was carrying some medieval version of a purse. He knew women and their purses, and this one could contain an entire arsenal of things that could help him. Rhys hooked it on his shoulder, the movement causing excruciating pain to his abdomen now that the adrenaline from attacking the guard—or rather, Margaret—was wearing off, but Rhys clenched his jaw and picked her up.
His legs and arms were much weaker than usual, and for half a second, he thought he might drop her. But the prospect of death was a funny thing and a renewed strength came to him. He stumbled up the stairs, unsure what he’d find, but what he did not expect, what stopped him in his tracks, was the sight of a guard slumped over against a wall, just visible in the slash of moonlight that managed to make its way into the little alcove.
Rhys looked down at the woman in his arms—Margaret, just as he’d thought—and then over to the guard. What the hell had she done? A grin spread across his face, splitting his lip and making him curse. Margaret didn’t even stir in his arms. He glanced at her again, her loveliness inviting him to stare and lose himself, but there was no time. Instead, he stood there for a moment, trying to order his thoughts. He had to get out of the castle, but how the hell did he do that? His brain was muddled and slow, but as he moved out of the alcove, he could see that the dungeon was located in the inner courtyard, which seemed to be empty. Across the way, was what looked like a chapel, and the kitchens were always to the right of the chapel, if his memory of the Harvard history texts on medieval castles was correct.
The stables would be to the left of the chapel. Could he steal a horse? He blinked, his vision blurry and spotty. He didn’t think he could even stay mounted and keep his charge on the horse, given how he felt. Thanks, once again, to his mother and her insistent ways when he was younger, he did know how to ride a horse passably well. He squinted at the building to the left of the stables. It looked like a gatehouse. If he could stay in the shadows, around the outer perimeter of the courtyard, and manage not to drop Margaret, maybe he could get out that gate. Where that led to, he had no idea, but it was out and away from the dungeon.
Another quick scan of the perimeter revealed a guard tower behind the courtyard in an outer area. He wasn’t as concerned with who manned that tower at the moment. He was more concerned with getting past the guard at the gate.
No time like the present—or the past,he thought wryly. He stepped over the fallen guard, then paused as he noticed the gleaming metal of the man’s sword. He had zero clue how to wield a sword, but he was certain that on a healthier day when he had the strength, and with his training in boxing, he could manage. Crouching down, he rested Margaret’s bottom on his thighs while releasing her legs and then attempted to pick up the sword.
That was a no go. Rethinking his plan, he gently laid her down, picked up the sword, and feeling its weight, he realized right away that he could not carry both her and the weapon. After a moment’s hesitation, he eyed the sleeping—not dead, based on his snores—warrior and decided to take his sheath. Then the way he could walk right past the guard and out of the castle hit him: if a jealous man’s attitude transcended the boundaries of time, so would a lustful man’s.
After longer than he wanted but less time than he expected given his sluggish state, Rhys’s had stripped himself of his torn jeans and was fully clothed as a medieval warrior. It felt unreal, but his screaming pain remind him of just how real this all was. He picked up the still-sleeping beauty, who he prayed to God would not awaken and refute the tale he planned to offer the guard at the gate that he was taking his drunken lass to the water to swim. He also prayed the water was to the south. As he thought it was, given the smell of salt on the breeze coming from that direction, but he sure as hell wasn’t certain, and in thirteenth-century Scotland, he was positive uncertainty could be the death of him.
Maggie startled awake and blinked her eyes open, seeing shadows dancing in slashes of light around her. Her chest tightened with momentary fright. Something scratchy and slightly damp touched her hands and face, and her fear grew tenfold as she realized someone’s arm was slung over her waist. A big someone. A solid someone. A searing-hot someone. Amalesomeone.
She pushed the heavy arm off her, and the only response from the man was a deep grunt. She scrambled away from him and onto her knees, drawing in a shallow, quick gasp. Her head ached with the movement.
In the early-morning light, she could see McCaim’s face, but most of him was covered with leaves and limbs. As her thoughts spun in her head, she raised a hand to her face, feeling something sticking to her cheek. She peeled it off her skin—a leaf. Further inspection uncovered leaves and twigs tangled in her hair, which was a knotted mess, and a quick glance down showed more wet leaves stuck to her now thoroughly soiled skirts. Her sister would kill her for her appearance.
Maggie groaned and circled her arms around her waist, then frowned at the odd lump she felt there. Then she remembered she’d stolen Father George’s habit.
Forgive me, dear Lord.
She pushed herself to her knees. While keeping a watchful eye on McCaim for any sign of movement, she lifted her skirts, gritting her teeth against the cold air that licked her bare legs. Gooseflesh immediately rose on her legs as she untied the priest’s habit. Once it was loose, she flung it to the side and sank back to her knees.
