Page 8 of Bride of the Beastly Laird

Dahlia watched him closely as he spoke. Finally, she nodded slowly. “I am inclined tae accept what ye say as truth, Black-Mask. If ye were indeed one of Mackinnon’s men ye would have turned yer ire on me and slapped me down fer the blow I laid on ye.”

His blood boiled at her words. How many times had Mackinnon or his men beaten the lass for her defiance?

“Come, we must be gone.” He reached a hand and this time his gesture was met not with a blow but with her own small hand taking his.

Together they raced out of the dungeon, Arran guiding her along the passageway that led directly out of the keep. He prayed that in the darkness they could avoid the guards he knew would be stationed at the entrance.

His heart sank when they arrived at the end of the passageway. Despite his desperate prayer the entry was well lit by flaming torches in sconces placed on the wall on either side of the arched portal. He raised a hand and they paused

“Why are we waiting here,” Dahlia whispered. It was clear that with every passing second, she was becoming more anxious and fearful of discovery.

“I wish tae see the position of the guards. I dinnae think we can make our way across the cobbles without pursuit. Our only way out of here is to stay in the shadows and make our way along the outside of the castle until we reach the wall. We must climb it. There’s nay other way out.

She gripped his arm and squeezed it tight. For a moment he placed his hand on hers and returned the gesture of reassurance. In the torchlight he could clearly see the fear in her eyes but she held herself steady and he marveled again at her beauty and her strength.

He tiptoed forward to peek into the courtyard to ascertain the position of the guards. To his dismay he saw two guards standing on either side of the entrance. Passing them without being noticed would be impossible. As he watched, one of the guards turned away and walked in the direction of the kitchen, loosening his britches.

Turning to Dahlia he said in a rushed whisper, “We’re in luck. One of the guards is away relieving himself so if we move fast, we have a chance. Once we are out of here, I will tackle the other guard. Ye must run fast tae reach the wall, climb it, and make for the woods. Me horse is tethered there and will take ye tae safety. Dinnae wait fer me if I am nae close behind ye.”

“Give me yer dirk. I’ll fight with ye.”

“But ye’re a lass, ye cannae fight.”

“I trained in the yard with the men who showed me braithers how tae fight. I can wield a sharp dirk as well as ye can wield yer longsword.”

“How dae I ken ye’re nae planning tae skewer me with the blade?”

She pshawed softly. “Fool! As if I’d spoil me chances of escape by ending yer life when it’s the guards we have tae face.”

Reaching for the dirk at his belt he chuckled. “Aye lass, take it.” He handed it to her and she flung him the faintest hint of a grin.

He pressed her behind him as they exited from the passageway into the lighted courtyard. “Now run,” he hissed and she took off at a run just as the guard swung sharply around, drawing his sword.

Arran had time to land one blow and the man went down, blood spurting from his shoulder and neck. But as he collapsed, he sliced his sword across Arran’s chest and the wound went deep, bringing Arran to his knees.

All of a sudden Dahlia was beside him.

He sucked in a sharp breath, fighting the pain. “Ye should have left me here. Ye must get away.”

She reached a hand to grip his and assist him to his feet, the blood was flowing freely now from his chest, soaking his shirt and dripping through his hauberk. He gritted his teeth.

“I kent that tae leave ye would mean yer death. I couldnae take me freedom at the price of yer life.”

There was a distant shout from the remaining guard.

Together they stumbled toward the wall, the guard’s shouts following close behind. The wall was well over the height of a tall man such as Arran. It was built of rough stone and in some places, there were spaces where a foothold could be claimed.

Panting, Dahlia gazed at the wall. The moon was out, lending an eerie light to their flight.

“I cannae reach so high, Black-Mask,” she gave a heartfelt moan.

Arran raised an arm. “I can reach. I’ll haul mesel’ up and put a hand fer ye tae make the climb.”

Before she could protest, he’d snatched at the top of the wall and was clawing himself up using all his fading strength, willing himself up, foothold by foothold. Once he at last reached the top he clung to the stones, leaning low with his arm outstretched to help Dahlia.

She grabbed his hand and found her first toehold, scrabbling to pull herself higher without losing her balance. One more step and she’d be high enough to evade the clutches of the guard who was now advancing toward her at full speed.

“Quick, lass,” Arran held her hand tight in his, but his strength was failing and he was unable to pull her high enough, while she struggled to find another footing.

---