Page 4 of The Herald's Heart
He rose silently and followed it down the hallway. The intruder paused near the passage’s end. Talon wished now he had explored the entire keep earlier. The mock ghost had the advantage of knowing the territory. Allowing an opponent an advantage was never a good idea. However, Talon had surprise on his side, and weight as well from the rail-thin look of the intruder.
The figure paused, stooped, then straightened. Talon halted. Steel snicked on flint. A light flared. The ghost lifted a lantern, opened a door, and disappeared. A faint glow from the lantern spilled into the hall, telling Talon the door remained ajar. Cat-footed, he sped to the opening and peered around the edge.
The intruder stood before the far wall. The lantern rested on a small table. A pale arm lifted and fell. A small chink sounded.
Prying with some tool at the wall stones? Were there secrets within the keep’s walls? Talon moved over the threshold, hoping to get close enough to see what the false spirit was about. His raised sword clanked against some object.
The figure turned, threw an object at Talon, and leaped at him in the same instant. Talon dodged the missile and braced for impact. His movement opened a narrow space. With robe lifted, the intruder sped past him, flying down the corridor.
“Nay,” Talon roared his frustration. He pursued.
Halfway to the stairs, he caught the robe’s hem and jerked. The cloth parted just above the ghostly knees. The intruder stumbled but regained balance and ran on, long, white legs aflash. Talon launched himself at the retreating form, desperate to get the upper hand and stop the invader’s escape.
• • •
Larkin swung the small mason’s hammer and hit the chisel she’d positioned in the cracked mortar. She’d left the bucket of offal just outside the door. She heartily disliked the stuff, but it was an essential part of the disguise that kept everyone away from the keep. The hammer swung again, and a chunk of mortar flew past her shoulder. She was making progress and had every hope she would soon find her family’s marriage box. Satisfaction settled the nerves that had churned in her stomach from the instant the fog had parted to show a man’s face.
It had been a close call.
She’d held her breath, listening to the clop of hooves sounding ever closer behind her. She heard nothing save that cursed squeaky axle. Were it not for the ill-fitted beam’s grinding wail, she and her unshod pony might have passed by the stranger and never seen him, nor he her. Now the lack of grease might lead the man straight to her. She hadn’t dared to breathe until she knew she’d escaped him. No pursuit sounded in the mist.
“Hell and blast the devil, that hurt,” from out of the miasma, a deep masculine voice had sworn.
What happened? She had shifted, trying to see behind her. The fog shrouded everything, except for the string of curses that faded even as they echoed from every direction, but she saw nothing and no one. She smiled then sobered. Whatever occupied the man, she was safe—for the time being.
A full year carting for the abbey in the area around Hawksedge Keep had told her where she was without having to see. The grassy verge she had followed paralleled the keep’s walls, until the mortared stones cornered and the path went on toward the cliffs. ’Twas those cliffs that were her immediate, though not ultimate, goal this night.
No this night, as she had every night for the past month, she donned a concealing white cloak and entered Hawksedge Keep through one of many caves in the cliff side that arced along the coast. That particular cave led to the keep’s secret passage and allowed her to enter unwatched so she could search the building for her family’s marriage box. Because she was the oldest—and only—married female in her mother’s family, the box belonged to her now. The large box, almost the size of a chest, contained in one compartment locks of hair, cut from each bride on her wedding day, tied with ribbons from each wedding dress. In a second compartment were stored copies of all the marriage documents for the past hundred years. The box was handed down from mother to daughter and held the proof that Larkin was who she claimed to be. With the box in her possession, she could reclaim the Rosham home and title, then seek justice for her family’s murder. The villagers would cease calling her Liar Larkin. The evil, conniving Earl of Hawksedge would be forced to acknowledge her and admit he had ordered the murder of her entire family. All she had to do was find the marriage box that had to be hidden somewhere in the vast levels, rooms, and hallways of Hawksedge Keep. Unless the earl had destroyed it.
She shook her head and continued to chisel mortar from a section of stone that was obviously more recently laid than the rest of the walls in the room. She refused to believe the box and its contents would be destroyed. The earl needed the marriage box as much as she did, for it was proof that, through his supposedly dead wife, he owned her childhood home, Rosewood Castle, and all its lands.
Thank the Madonna that the marriage to the earl was by proxy and had never been consummated. Larkin moved the chisel. Once she had the box and proved her identity, she would reclaim her birthright. Then she could petition for an annulment and plead her case for justice to the king. Finally, she would be free to live the peaceful, independent life she’d longed for since the day she’d sat vigil in the dirt and bushes mere steps from her mother’s dead body.
She forced all thought of her mother and father from her head. The time would come when she would need the fury those horrifying memories created, but not now. Now she needed to remain cool and aware of her surroundings. The earl could reappear as easily as he disappeared. Then his servants would fill the keep, and she would have to restrict her searches to occasions when she knew she would not be discovered. Heavens, visitors unaware of the earl’s absence could arrive at any time. Was that what had brought the stranger to the area? If so, he’d been going the wrong way. She chuckled to herself. Hawksedge Keep had been less than a yard behind him. He was probably still wandering lost in the fog. With luck, he’d find the village and take shelter there. Otherwise, he was in for a long, cold, wet night.
The sound of metal on stone clanked behind her. She whirled and threw the hammer at the tall, broad man advancing from the doorway. Whoever it was dodged the hammer, leaving her an opening to the hallway.
Lifting her robe, she leapt forward, tumbling the lamp to the floor as she sped past him and flew down the corridor.
He pursued, shouting his denial.
She ran faster. She would escape him.
A jerk on her robe made her stumble. The cloth tore, and she was able to recover her balance. The stairs were in sight. She could lose him in the gloom at the bottom. She lengthened her stride.
A tremendous blow knocked the breath from her lungs and the chisel from her grasp, then brought her to her knees. The weight behind the blow laid her flat. Her brain rattled on impact with the floor, and pain burst in her left cheek.
Her hood fell over her head. Despite the ache in her pate, she struggled to rise, to breathe, but the weight on her back pressed her down. She kicked without effect at the solid limbs that surrounded her legs. Her hands scrabbled. If only she could find purchase in the exposed skin of the face that she knew rose just above her head.
Luck was with her. One hand filled with a hank of hair. The nails of her other hand sank into his neck. She would not succumb to her mother’s fate. She would slit his throat by hand, if she must.
“Arrgh!” Iron fingers closed around each of her wrists. A satisfying clump of golden locks flashed by in one of her hands as he jerked them away from his face. The relentless pressure on her back increased, forcing her to exhale what little air she had left.
Then her back was free of the weight, but more of it settled on her rump at the point where her bottom met her thighs. She sucked in huge gasps of air. Despite the grip on her arms, she twisted wildly, trying to dislodge her attacker and break the hold.
“Stop,” a vaguely familiar voice ground out as tight and hard as his grasp. “Or you’ll get more than the beating you deserve.”
She ignored him, pitching herself from side to side and bucking as much as she could.
