Page 7 of The Knight's Pledge
“I don’t think he’s stirring. I think he’s dead.”
Lucan considered the words spoken by the watery-sounding voice beyond his eyelids. He had died and gone to hell, or he was having the worst nightmare humanly possible.
He lay upon some sort of slab, he supposed, feeling the rock-hard surface biting into his shoulder blades and skull. His foot felt as though it were actively on fire, the flames penetrating to his very bones, charring them within his blazing flesh. He was so nauseated that he fancied he could feel the tip of his stomach tickling his Adam’s apple, the noxious contents within sloshing up his esophagus with each careful, shallow breath that failed to deliver enough air. He felt sticky and soaked with his own malodorous stench, a combination of sulphur and rotting meat.
He dared crack open his eyelids. The ceiling above him was black, rippled with the wild light of flames. And then there was a shadowed face blocking out the light—elfin, pale, with a blonde plait hanging down toward him.
Effie Annesley.
Not a nightmare, then. Definitely hell.
“You,” he rasped.
Then her detestable visage was gone, replaced with the concerned countenance of Gorman, the bandit he remembered from the fire at Darlyrede House—the man who had risked his own life, and his freedom, to help Padraig Boyd free the trapped occupants from the flaming hall.
“Sir Lucan,” Gorman said. “How fare thee?”
“Where am I?” Lucan demanded, his voice sounding weak and raspy, to his great dismay. Although he did suppose one wouldn’t sound exactly gay having been plunged into the bowels of hell. “What of my horse? Where is Agrios?”
“Your gallant mount is well and enjoying a hearty meal after performing such a fine service for his master,” the bandit assured him. “Rolf saw to it himself, after he was certain you were beinglooked after.”
Lucan felt the little knot of worry in his chest loosen. “Where am I?”Lucan repeated.
Thenshewas back. “The Warren,” she said. “Rolf brought you here after you fainted. You owe him a debt for it—you could have lost your foot, letting those butchers have at you.”
“Yes, let’s do blame those who tried to help me rather thanthe woman who shot me,” he said throughgritted teeth.
Gorman eased back into Lucan’s line of sight. “Your foot should heal now. Winnie has drained it and covered it with a poultice to drawout the fever.”
“It burns like the devil,” Lucan sighed and let his eyes drift closed again. He was so tired. Too tired even to argue at finding himself in the very den of the thieves whom he should have already placed under arrest. He didn’t even care at this point if he died. He was tired of chasing criminals, tired of chasing ghosts, tired of chasing an elusive future—he justwanted to rest.
“Wake up,”shedemanded.
Lucan opened his eyes to glare at her with all the anger he could muster. “Do you mind? As much as I resent admitting it, it appears as though I am quite unwell. And I’ve obviously been kidnapped. I should like to recover somewhat before you attempt to harangue me to death.”
“Trust me, it won’t be your foot next time,”Effie promised.
“Enough,” Gorman interrupted. “Sir Lucan, I am sorry to bother you when you are indeed in need of rest. But I fear that we have no time to waste. We would tell you what has happened now, so that you might formulate a plan to aid us. If you are willing, of course.”
Lucan frowned. He remembered now—Rolf coming to his chamber…the boy.
George Thomas Annesley,how do you do?
He looked to the woman, whose expression was as unmovable and enigmatic as the stones around them.
“Your son,” Lucan said.
“Our son,” Gorman corrected.
Lucan tried to conceal his surprise as the beardedman continued.
“He sneaked out of the Warren late in the day of the wedding to follow Effie when she went to survey the damage to Darlyrede. He was taken before she realized he’d followed her. We didn’t know by whom until yesterday.”
“Ransom?”Lucan ventured.
“Not quite.” Gorman turned and held out his hand towards the woman, still watching him with what appeared to be barely concealed disgust. She withdrew a crumpled sheet of parchment from her belt and handed it to Gorman, who unfurled it, but then paused, glancing at Lucan.
“Shall I? Or would you rather?”
