My Heart Stood Still Lynn Kurland (some good books to read TXT) 📖

"Show me the girl, and I'll tell you where the gold is."

Malcolm waved to one of his men, who headed toward the stairs. Thomas suppressed the urge to reach inside his plaid and touch the bag of gold hiding there. He had consulted long and hard with Jamie as to a price Malcolm wouldn't be able to refuse, and how best to pay that price. He'd settled for struck coins that, even though they weren't authentic, were close enough to resemble things Malcolm would be familiar with.

Thomas waited until he heard the vociferous complaints of a woman being dragged down the stairs before he pulled out the bag he'd attached to his belly with duct tape.

And then he realized his mistake.

"Father, what is this madness?"

That wasn't Iolanthe. Damn Malcolm MacLeod to hell, that was Grudach! Thomas glared at the man and received a smirk in return before half a dozen clansmen fell on him and ripped the bag out of his hands. He fought off the blows that followed, but even with as buff as his time in Jamie's boot camp had left him, he had to admit he wasn't a match for that many men.

"Toss him back in the pit," Malcolm said with a negligent wave of his hand. He hefted the bag of gold as he turned to the English-man. "Now, Lord Charles, let us speak of our business. You want my eldest?"

"Your son assures me she is the most desirable."

Thomas started to protest, then found a fist in his mouth. He tried to avoid the hands that clutched at him. The only thing the unholy ruckus he raised earned him was another round of debilitating blows. One thing he knew, though, was that he couldn't find himself thrown back in that pit. There was still time to somehow get Iolanthe and get the hell out of there.

And then he saw Duncan.

The man was looking at him like he'd just seen a ghost.

"Duncan," Thomas croaked. "You've got to help me."

Duncan looked startled. "How do ye know me?" he asked, crossing himself.

"I—" Thomas gasped at the fist in his belly. He found himself completely without wind, or his feet underneath him. But as he was dragged off, he looked at Duncan and wheezed out the two things he was sure would get the man's attention.

"Greek," he gasped. "Violet."

Duncan blinked, and his hand fell to his side. He continued to stare at Thomas until Thomas couldn't see him any longer.

His next trip down into the pit was accomplished with even less ceremony than the first. He tried to land on his feet but wound up doing the better part of a belly flop into the muck. It winded him so thoroughly, he wondered if he'd ever again regain his breath.

It occurred to him, as he felt consciousness begin to fade, that he really should have spent more time brawling in bars. It would have been much better preparation for medieval Scotland even than Jamie's crash course in swordplay.

Hrmph. A helluva lot of good his sword did him upstairs.

Maybe they'd cut off his head and end his misery with his own blade.

Damn it anyway.

He woke to the sound of a footfall above him. He shook his head and heaved himself up to his knees. His world spun violently, and he wondered if he was going to puke. He probably would have, if he'd had anything to eat in recent memory.

He breathed as silently as he could and listened for the sound that had woken him. There were the snores of the guardsmen above him and the irritating drip, drip, drip of something draining into the pit.

No, there it was again.

The sound of a footstep.

Thomas squinted against the faint torchlight coming from above, then felt his nerves stretch uncomfortably taut as the trapdoor was opened very slowly. A ladder was let down into the pit.

A hand was extended as well.

Thomas needed no further invitation. He clambered up, took the hand, and found himself soundlessly aided onto the solid floor, which was a vast improvement from the shifting vermin he'd been loitering in for who knew how long. A day? Two days? An eternity? He looked at his rescuer and couldn't stop his smile.

"Thank you," he mouthed.

Duncan handed Thomas his sword, pulled the ladder back up, and shut the trapdoor, all with a silence that was absolute.

"The guards are drunk," Duncan whispered, as if he were either unsurprised at their laxity or as if he'd engineered the whole thing himself. "Follow me."

Thomas stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Is she still here?"

Duncan looked at him again as if he just couldn't quite believe what he was either seeing or hearing, then shook his head.

"Left this afternoon. We've a hard ride before us. Make haste."

"Gladly."

It was touch and go in the hall, but apparently the men who were awake were properly intimidated by Duncan's sharp hisses and meaningful hand motions. Thomas followed the older man from the keep and through the village. There were two horses being held by a man Thomas didn't know. Along with a horse came fresh clothes.

"Well done, Stephen," Duncan whispered. He looked at Thomas. "One of the lady's cousins."

Thomas pulled the clean clothing on, then looked at Stephen and nodded briefly. "You're doing the right thing."

"She was beguiled and betrayed," the young man said. "I'll throw the laird off the scent while ye go after her."

Duncan shook his head. "Don't endanger yourself, lad. Malcolm will know I'm behind this. Put the blame onto my shoulders and let that be enough."

Stephen nodded, then looked at Thomas. "I dinna ken who ye are, but ye canna be worse than the English."

Thomas wanted to thank him for the vote of confidence, but instead he merely nodded and considered that enough.

"I fear he'll kill her," Stephen continued. "He'll want what she will not give."

"I won't let anything happen to her," Thomas promised.

Stephen then handed over the reins. "May God keep ye."

Thomas strapped his sword to his saddle