Page 39 of Rebellion's Fire

“Tomorrow will be too late.”

Sigurd, the shepherd’s son, came in with an armful of blankets, enough to make their night’s captivity almost comfortable. Cailean found himself longing just to give in to that comfort, just for tonight. Just to see the lady again. He liked her in her own hall, in her own home, managing her pig of a husband and her people with dignity. Once her husband was dead, she would be considered a pretty suitable wife for a man of Cailean’s birth and position. Much more suitable for him than for Adam mac Malcolm…

Cailean watched Adam exchanging hurried speech with Sigurd as they arranged the blankets. The sons of Malcolm MacHeth, Cailean knew, would look for wives among the great families of the land. It was pointless being jealous of Adam. God knew what his “liking” her meant anyway. He never behaved like other men, probably didn’tfeellike other men, either…

“Are you listening, Cailean?” The young lord’s impatient voice cut through his stupid, rambling thoughts, dragging him back to the reality of huddling in chains and blankets with the friendly shepherd’s son taking Adam’s orders for their escape.

“Sorry,” Cailean muttered. Lanson’s soldiers, having completed their last duties, were drifting back into the hall where they would sleep. One or two were helping the servants move tables and benches to make space. Cailean gave himself a little shake. “I was drifting off. How are we to manage this?”

*

No one sleptnear the prisoners. No one guarded the hall door on either the inside or the outside—why should they when the men on watch in the castle tower could see that, too? Adam quietly rubbed his chafed ankles, and with the key Sigurd had wrapped in one of the blankets, unlocked the chains. Loegaire, ever resourceful, must always have had a copy of the one on Henry’s belt.

It would take several supposedly sleeping movements to draw their limbs free without rousing suspicion in anyone who might be awake. But he had to time this right, and it was damned hard when his mind roamed all over the place, into dark corners and massive open fields of light, and he was terrified of slipping completely out of reality.

It was the damned poppy juice. It wasn’t good for him, although, at least, it dulled the pain. And, at least, he was aware that if anyone but Cailean spoke to him, and that in no more than a low whisper, then it wasn’t real.

By the time the owl called, they were free of the chains and could both slither silently through the darkness to the hall door. From there, Adam rose openly as if he was a soldier stumbling outside to relieve himself in the darkness. Which, in fact, was what he did, in the densest shadows, waiting for Cailean to follow, focusing desperately on the silence of night, straining for the sound he needed to hear: Sigurd’s voice.

It came a little quicker than he expected, before Cailean had even emerged from the hall. But as the door began to open and a voice from the castle answered Sigurd’s, Adam slipped through the shadows of the hall, using those of the outer buildings, too, as he gradually made his silent way around the enclosure toward the closed gates. Only, when he looked back, someone who wasn’t Cailean was pissing against the wall of the hall.

Damnation. From outside the enclosure, Sigurd would run out of things to say. The guards would let him in the back gate and return to their posts, the distraction over before he and Cailean were even out the front gates, let alone in the cover of the forest.

Trees filled his mind as he flew over their branches in bright sunlight, soaring, flapping…No, no, stay here, feet on the ground…

Without warning, the door behind him opened. Adam reacted quickly, spinning himself into the emerging figure to launch them both back inside the building. There he kicked the door shut and pushed his victim against it so that he could slam his hand over the mouth already open and ready to shout.

Only, his fingers found linen as well as soft, warm lips. The body he pressed into the door was small and fragile and smelled of Cairistiona.

Real or not real? He could still be in the yard waiting for the bloody soldier to stop pissing and go back inside so Cailean could slip out to join him. His mind preferred to be with her, gazing down at her wide beautiful eyes in the dim glow of the tiny lamp she still held clamped in one hand. A nice detail, pointing at reality. He took the lamp from her clutching fingers, placing it on the table beside the door before he risked loosening his hand on her lips.

She stared at him, her eyes shining with startled anxiety. No fear, no anger, which surely meant unreality. Unless she couldn’t see who he was by the dim glow from the little lamp.

Focus on the sound of Sigurd’s voice—faint but still audible—on the door of the hall…No chance. Not while her heart galloped against him, not while her body was so soft and his so hard as he held her against the door. Not while she looked at him likethat.

He slid his hand fully away from her mouth and kissed her, because he wanted to, and because if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to think of anything else.

Stupid reasoning. Stupid. Because all he could think of now was the feel of her crushed lips, parting in shock or to shout at him, which he couldn’t allow, so he deepened the kiss, opening her mouth wider, sweeping his tongue greedily inside.

Her hands clutched his forearms, his good shoulder.Don’t hurt her, don’t hurt her.Even in dreams, he could never let himself do that. But before he could force himself back, her fingers touched his cheek. Not to scratch and fight. It felt like a caress, a kind of wonder.

Surely not real, then, but sweet, so sweet. He let himself prolong it, absorbing her yielding softness, losing himself in his need, heavy and urgent…

Urgent. He forced his lips to stillness. All his urgency should be focused on escaping, not abusing the kindness of his hostess and ruining the only plan they’d have in this mess. Cailean. Sigurd. The gate. Bloody poppy. The pain wasn’t in his shoulder. But he wasn’t dreaming either.

Slowly, softly, hoping she’d understand that as an apology, he released her mouth and her person. Her breasts rose and fell as if she couldn’t breathe without difficulty. But her glowing eyes still showed no fear. In spite of everything, he smiled at that as he reached for the door latch. She stepped aside as if from instinct, letting him slide outside into the cold, dark shadows. He hoped she wouldn’t scream.

A quick glance at the looming tower showed him the back of two heads at the far side. They were still calling to Sigurd in low voices, half in annoyance, half in ridicule.

For the smallest instant, Adam rested the back of his head against her door. He wanted to go back inside, see where she lived apart from her husband, where she slept, alone, all the little details and comforts that made up her life. When he opened his eyes, a shadow was flitting toward him. He clenched his hand, ready to fight if his numb shoulder would let him.

But it was Cailean, at last. A short burst of laughter came from the castle. Only one head was visible now. The other guard had gone down to open the back gate while the first one watched.

As one, Adam and Cailean ran silently toward the front gate. From nowhere, another man materialized in the darkness, pulling back the bolts.

“I’ll fasten it behind you,” breathed Loegaire.

Chapter Eleven

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