Kitabı oku: «The Prisoner Bride», sayfa 3
“He means to find Caswallan before you do, eh?” Kieran FitzAllen asked. Again, Glenys was stunned.
“He told you of Caswallan?” she asked, utterly amazed. “God’s mercy, but Sir Anton Lagasse must be a greater fool than I had believed.” She looked at her captor more closely. “You are in league with him, aren’t you? You must be, to do his bidding in this fruitless matter.”
“I am only concerned with Sir Anton because he hired me to kidnap and hold you, mistress. There is nothing more. I have no interest in your Greth Stone, whether it exists or has magical powers.”
“Of a certainty it has no magical powers,” Glenys said, scoffing. “’Tis naught but a very old ring of little value. But I will not allow Sir Anton to hold aught that belongs to my family. He sees himself as a conjurer, possessed of great skill, and believes the Greth Stone will make him the more powerful.”
At this, the knave finally laughed, throwing his head back and showing teeth that were white and even. Glenys noted, much to her aggravation, that even in mirth he was almost too handsome to look at.
“Sir Anton!” he declared, grinning widely. “A skilled conjurer? I vow, ’tis too much to bear!” He laughed again, fully amused. “By the rood, he seemed more like a well-dressed mouse than so powerful a man.” He laughed all the harder.
Glenys frowned darkly. “It matters not what he may seem to be, but only that he has succeeded in keeping me from reaching Caswallan first. I tell you, Sir Anton must not be allowed to get the Greth Stone in his grasp. There will be no chance for my family to regain it if it falls to him. You must end this foolishness now and let us go!”
He sobered only slightly, enough to stop laughing and say, grinning, “Nay, that I cannot do.”
“But why?” she demanded. “Now that you know ’tis but a fool’s errand, you have no cause to continue! I have already said that I will pay you far more than Sir Anton promised. And surely you must realize that regardless of what he has already paid, there will be no more. He’ll not keep his word and come to fetch me. I’faith, ’twill be far more likely that we’ll be greeted by worse knaves than you and your accomplice at some point upon our journey, set upon killing us all.”
Kieran FitzAllen looked at her with pure disbelief. “How so? Sir Anton has no reason to want you dead, even if all you say is true, and a less likely murderer I’ve e’er set sight upon.”
“Then you are naught but a fool,” Glenys said. “Sir Anton knows that I will not cease in exposing him for the deceiver he is, and for that alone he would gladly have me dead. And he would care nothing for any other deaths that might occur for the sake of being rid of me, yours included.”
It was clear by the look on Kieran FitzAllen’s face that he didn’t believe a word she said. He merely sighed aloud and stated, “Sir Anton would find it difficult to kill me, I vow, and you as well, while you are beneath my care. I am not a knight of the realm, but I’ve matched a goodly share of them in singular battle before now and come away the winner. I have no fear of any man, and most assuredly not of one the likes of Sir Anton Lagasse.”
Though she wished it were not so, Glenys had to admit that the man sitting opposite her looked fully capable of besting any number of skilled fighting men; he was well-muscled and moved with a certain ease and grace that might give him an advantage over lesser men.
“Perhaps not of Sir Anton,” she said, “but you would be foolish not to consider that among my relatives are those who would fill you with fear. My brother being foremost. He is Sir Daman Seymour, and I think it unlikely that you have not heard of him, or of his skills. But if you have not, I tell you now that he is a famed knight of the realm who is well able to mete out justice to such a one as you.”
The charming smile was back on Kieran FitzAllen’s face. Glenys longed to wipe it away.
“I am aware of who your brother is, Mistress Glenys.”
“Then you must likewise be aware that he and his men will come after me the moment he hears of what you have done. No matter how secret your hiding place may be, Daman will find me, and he will deal out a punishment to you and your friend that will have you praying for salvation.”
Kieran FitzAllen uttered a bark of laughter. “You speak out of love and honor, mistress,” he said, “but surely such words sound as foolish to your ears as they do to mine. In truth, ’tis my prayer that Sir Daman Seymour follows our track and finds us. Soon. I cherish the thought of meeting him face-to-face.”
Glenys’s mouth dropped open again.
“You cannot mean what you say,” she murmured. “My brother will kill you when he finds you. I do not speak falsely. He will kill you.”
“He may try.”
Glenys shook her head. “This has naught to do with Sir Anton, then, just as you said. ’Tis because of Daman that you have done this thing. But why? Have you some quarrel with my brother? But, nay, you cannot. Daman has no enemies, save those that are also the enemies of my family, such as Sir Anton and Caswallan. But you are not in league with them, or so you have said. Why, then, should you wish to draw Daman’s certain wrath down upon yourself?”
“My reasons are my own, mistress, and will remain so. Now you understand at least in part why I will not let you go, and ’twould be best if you accept and reconcile yourself to it. My servant, Jean-Marc, who drives the coach, and I will bring you no harm, nor your maid. ’Tis only our intention to hold you until either Sir Anton or your brother—or perhaps both—have come to fetch you. Until that time, be pleased to give me no trouble, I pray, for you’ll not escape me. As it may be that we shall be in company for some few weeks, I believe that we should all try to be as merry and comfortable as possible.”
“Sir,” said Glenys, sitting back with complete exasperation, “you are a lackwit if you believe that my maid or I shall do any like thing. You have taken us as prisoners, and as such we cannot be merry and comfortable.”
He gave her a certain look out of his blue eyes, so filled with blatant sensuality that it made her skin tingle. ’Twas clearly well practiced, and she wasn’t sure whether he answered out of truth or simply out of habit when he replied, in a low, seductive tone, “Even the most unpleasant situation can be made merry and comfortable, Mistress Glenys. I have had the experience many times, I vow.”
His meaning was so clear that Glenys’s face flamed hot. If she hadn’t already known full well that he was merely teasing—for such a man would never truly be attracted to a woman like her—she had no doubt that she would have melted into a puddle at his feet. God’s mercy, he was most clearly a practiced seducer as well as a thief and blackguard. She had no fears for herself, but her maid was another matter. Dina was young and pretty, with the kind of blond hair and blue eyes that men favored among women. She would very likely be a target for Kieran FitzAllen, though he’d yet to look at her more than twice. Glenys would have to take extra care that no harm came to the girl, who was as dear as a sister to her.
For her part, Dina seemed not yet to have taken much note of their captor, much to Glenys’s relief. The very last thing she needed was for Dina to fall in love with the man, which was doubtless what most other females did upon setting sight on him. Dina merely sniffled and wiped her nose and murmured, with her head lowered, “Master Aonghus and Master Culain, and your aunts. What will become of them when you don’t return to Metolius? There’s no one there to watch over them.”
Glenys had been thinking much the same thing, now that it was clear her captor could not be reasoned with. She looked him fully in the face, asking, “Aye, what of my elderly relatives? They are not used to being alone, without someone to care for them.”
He gave a thoughtful frown. “But were you not going to leave them soon, when you went on your quest to search out the Greth Stone?”
“Nay, I should never do so. I had already arranged that my cousin, Helen, would come and stay with them while I was gone, but she’ll not be arriving for three weeks more, at the very least. Now they will be alone, with little idea of how to go on.”
“Hmm.” He placed a long, beautifully shaped finger against his chin and was silent for a moment, clearly thinking this through. Glenys was surprised that he even cared enough to consider the matter. At last, he lowered his hand and said, “If I can devise a way to send this cousin of yours a missive so that you can ask her to come to Metolius at once, will you give me your vow not to secret some message into it about who has taken you and in what direction we are journeying?”
“Nay,” Glenys said before she could think, too angry to do otherwise, “I make you no promises.”
“But, mistress!” Dina cried. “You must do so, lest some harm come to your aunts and uncles. There is no other way.”
Glenys knew it was so, and felt unfathomably foolish. “Very well, aye,” she said tightly, flinging off the comforting hand Dina attempted to set upon her arm. “I give you my vow. If you can arrange such a missive, though I doubt you can do so.”
His handsome face held that infuriatingly amused look once more. “I have many friends, mistress,” he said, “as you will soon discover.”
Glenys looked at him sharply. “So faithful that they would lower themselves to lend you their aid in this heinous crime?”
He nodded. “Aye.”
“Very fine,” she replied angrily, crossing her arms over her chest and looking out the window. It was dark now, and a soft rain had begun to fall, splattering lightly through the arched opening. If it fell much harder, they would be forced to use the window coverings, and would be shut in together in darkness. That was an unhappy thought. But it couldn’t be helped. None of this could be helped. She could only do as he had suggested and accept what had befallen her, and pray that the small white stone in her pocket didn’t begin glowing. After all that had just passed, Glenys was in no mood to explain it, or anything about her family, to her wretched captor.
Chapter Four
Kieran knew that he shouldn’t have used his well-honed wiles on his captive, especially after he’d vowed not to seduce her. He’d done so more out of habit than anything else, but that gave him little excuse. He shouldn’t have spoken to her in so dallying a manner, and would strive not to do so again.
But Mistress Glenys made it hard.
Her face was, indeed, just as he’d thought earlier, quite angular. Perhaps not as square as he’d believed, but possessed of the same intriguing angles and fine lines that a perfectly cut diamond might possess. Not beautiful, nay, but utterly fascinating. He couldn’t stop looking at her. Emotions played themselves out along her long, straight cheekbones and in her intelligent, wide-set gray eyes and high, arching eyebrows. And such emotions they were! Anger, frustration, rage—even outright dislike, which Kieran wasn’t used to seeing directed at himself. Aye, Mistress Glenys Seymour was a woman worth looking at. Far more interesting in expression and manner, and most certainly in speech, than most women he met. It was a pity that the maid, Dina, was so commonly pretty in her looks, else he might have been able to set his interest upon her. But she looked very like the hundreds of other blond, blue-eyed maidens he’d flirted with in the past dozen years, so much so that Kieran doubted he could pick one from the other if they’d all been lined up in a row.
A man would never have that problem with Mistress Glenys. Even now, as she was gazing out the window, aggravation stamped on every feature, the dwindling light, being rapidly swallowed by the imminent storm, teased the curves and angles of her face, bringing ephemeral shadows to life and causing her gray eyes to appear almost black. Her generous mouth—perhaps her only soft feature—was pressed together in a tight line, and a few strands of her sunset-colored hair had come loose from the braids atop her head, feathering lightly against her cheeks.
“’Twill not be long now before we stop,” he said, wishing that he might be able to tell her something else. The rain, which had begun to fall softly now, would make their journey far more unpleasant this night than he’d hoped. In a more positive light, it would also help to cover their trail.
“Good,” she replied tightly, not looking at him. “It appears that we will be obliged to lower the window covers soon. That will give us opportunity to do so.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “’Twould be wisest to do so before returning the carriage to London. I should hate to see such finery ruined by wet.” He ran one hand appreciatively over the red velvet covering the heavily cushioned seat. For a town carriage that wasn’t meant for travel of any great distance, ’twas both fine and comfortable. True, there wasn’t any glass in the windows, but the heavily waxed window coverings would do just as well for keeping occupants dry in a storm.
“Return the carriage?” Mistress Glenys asked, looking at him in the singular manner she’d displayed over the past half hour, which said, quite clearly, that she thought him mad. “What can you mean?”
Even as she spoke, Jean-Marc began to draw the carriage to one side of the road, bouncing them over small rocks and bumps as he drove into a copse of trees. Leaning toward the window, Kieran whistled in greeting to a man who appeared there, already leading a pair of horses from their hiding place.
Jean-Marc brought the carriage to an unsteady halt. Even before it had fully stopped Kieran opened the door and alighted, looking up first to where Jean-Marc sat to make certain all was well.
“No one followed,” Jean-Marc called down to him, tying the leads to the carriage post. “Had a bit of company, but that’s what comes from being on a main road.” He lightly hopped down from the driver’s seat. “Better hurry if we want to reach Bostwick’s before many more hours.”
“Aye, and without being found out,” Kieran agreed. Overhead, a loud rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, and the next moment the rain began to fall harder. It wasn’t a deluge yet, but that would happen soon enough. He stretched a hand into the carriage and said, “Hurry, now. We must be on our way.”
Mistress Glenys gave him a look filled with furious disbelief. “You can’t mean to…to ride on horseback in this rain?”
“’Tis just what I mean,” he told her, impatiently holding his hand more firmly out to her. “Come, mistress. We’ve a distance to cover before we’re safe away. Set your headcover about you, if you have one, and your maid as well.”
“We have none!” she cried angrily. “We had no plan to travel far beyond Metolius this day.”
“Then you must brave the rain as best you can. Thank a merciful God you had the sense to bring your heavy cloaks.” Behind him, he could hear Jean-Marc and Tom Postleheth readying the steeds for riding. Kieran cast one glance at them, saying, “Give Tom his gold, Jean-Marc, and let him be on his way.” Turning back to Glenys, he stated, “Come of your own will, mistress, or I will drag you from this carriage. I vow it before God.”
Suiting action to word, he leaned in to grasp her arm. She shoved him violently away before he could make his grip firm.
“Do not touch me or my maid,” she commanded in a tone so regal that Kieran could not countermand it, not even with one of his famous smiles. “Ever,” she added stiffly. Gathering her skirts, she spoke with equal sharpness to her maid, who had begun to weep again. “Come, Dina. I suppose we must make the best of this wretchedness, even if we take chill from the rain and die of it.” She descended from the carriage, head held high, refusing to accept Kieran’s steadying hand, right into the rain. Kieran didn’t realize that he was staring at her as she stepped away until the maid, Dina, cleared her throat and set her tiny hand upon his arm. Coming to himself, Kieran helped her descend.
It took but a few brief moments to fix the window coverings on the carriage and settle matters with Tom—good, proper thief that he was. Kieran made certain that he knew where to leave the carriage along the road, near London, hopefully before being discovered. The two menservants, John and Willem, would have been found in the alley where they’d been left and safely delivered back to Metolius by now, and the Seymour family would have alerted the London sheriff. An entire party of rescuers might already be on their trail, but Kieran believed they’d be able to evade them, and once they made Bostwick’s, they’d be well and safe.
“There are only two horses,” Mistress Glenys stated amid the rumblings of more thunder, pulling her heavy cape more closely about her. She had no hood, and the rain had begun to soak her hair, so that the wayward tendrils he’d admired earlier clung to her cheeks. The maid was faring somewhat better, for Jean-Marc had lifted his own cloak to cover her. Kieran would have done the same for Mistress Glenys—knowing full well that she wouldn’t have allowed it—but she was a tall female, coming up past his shoulders, and the attempt would have proved fruitless.
“Aye, just two,” he told her, taking her shoulder in a firm grasp that she couldn’t shake off. “You will ride with me, mistress. Come.”
She gave no fight, clearly realizing that it would do her no good now, but let him lead her to where his great destrier stood waiting.
“’Tis a very large, fine horse for so sorry a knave,” she stated, setting her hand upon the wet pommel as if she could possibly lift herself up into the saddle without aid.
“Aye, but he is mine, nonetheless.” Kieran bent, folding his hands together to give her a boost up. “His name is Nimrod,” he said, easily tossing Mistress Glenys upward and moving so that she could swing her legs about to sit in the saddle. As he wiped his wet hands against his leggings, he added, “My father named him that apurpose before giving him to me, which you will doubtless believe wise.” He swung up into the saddle behind her, reaching forward at once to take hold of the reins. He was glad that she hadn’t attempted an escape. It would have been fruitless, of course, but also unpleasant and a waste of time.
“Your father recognizes you, then?” she asked, her tone more one of disdain than curiosity. She had taken note of the “Fitz” in his name, knowing that it branded him as either bastard-born or descended of a bastard, and was purposefully stating the fact out loud in order to give him insult. Or so it seemed to Kieran, but the matter of his birth and family had ever been his sorest spot. She could hardly have aimed any arrow more accurately.
“I am well recognized,” he told her tautly, waiting for Dina and Jean-Marc to mount their steed before setting Nimrod into motion, “by all my family. It can be more of a burden, at times, than a blessing.”
She gave a mirthless laugh and muttered, “Aye, ’tis so.”
Kieran set one arm firmly about her, holding the reins with the other, and gently prodded Nimrod forward, away from the road and farther into the trees. Water dripped from the leaves, soaking them, and the wind began to blow even more coldly.
“Where do we go?” Mistress Glenys asked, holding herself as stiffly as a statue within the circle of his arm. Despite that, and despite the heavy cloak and clothing she wore, she was unmistakably female, warm against the front of him and clean-scented and far more soft—delightfully so—than he’d initially believed. He tightened his hold with gentle pressure, and felt her draw in a breath.
“To a place some miles away.”
A low, wet branch brushed against her face, and with a sound of aggravation she thrust it aside.
“Are there no decent roads leading to it, or must you take us only to such dens of iniquity as exist far out of the reach of civil establishment?”
That tone of hers, so proper and rigid and filled with disapproval, made him smile. It reminded him greatly of his mother during one of the many lectures she’d given Kieran over the past years.
“’Tis warm and dry, and that is what will concern us most once we reach it. And, nay, we will take no roads for some while. The rain will cover our tracks well enough, but I’ll take no chances till we’re well away.”
Another branch slapped at them, and another clap of thunder sounded overhead. The rain began to pour heavily, and the late afternoon grew dark as night. It was altogether a miserable time to be out in the elements, and Kieran couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt at dragging two innocent females far from shelter. When Mistress Glenys pushed her wet, straggly hair off her even wetter face, that guilt increased.
“We’re going to a tavern where the innkeeper, a fellow by the name of Bostwick, is a friend of mine,” he said, not certain why he offered the information. “’Tis not a particularly fine place, but there will be a fire to keep you warm and a roof to keep you dry. If fortune favors us, there may even be a private chamber where you and your maid can find a few hours of peace in which to sleep, though I will admit…”
She turned her head slightly toward him. “What?” she asked, her voice filled with suspicion.
“Well, ’tis merely that Bostwick’s is often filled with much merrymakng. ’Tis far more likely to be loud and cheerful rather than given to any peace, though we must pray ’tis not so this night.”
“Merciful God,” she said dismally, rubbing a hand over her eyes. “It could not become worse than it already is. Please God. It cannot.”
It was worse. Much, much worse. Glenys stood in the midst of the hovel that Kieran FitzAllen had brought them to and stared about her with utter dismay. It was a filthy, crude, poorly built dwelling that looked as if it might collapse beneath the weight of the ongoing storm at any moment. The large chamber they stood in was filled with heavy smoke, foul odors and so many loud, coarse, drunken people that there was scarce room to move, and certainly nowhere among the many tables to sit. Glenys had never seen—or smelled—anything to compare. In the farthest, dimly lit corner she could make out, beyond the thick, stale smoke, the figures of two people engaging in an act of intimacy that Glenys knew full well the church demanded should be undertaken only in private and by a lawfully wedded man and wife. That the pair drew very little attention made it quite clear that this particular crowd was well used to such public displays. In truth, the sudden arrival of Kieran FitzAllen and his accomplice drew far more attention and reaction.
They had but just arrived, and the tavern came to life with shouts of greeting and drunken, earsplitting cheers of glad tidings. A sea of arms and smiling faces surged upon them, sweeping Glenys and Dina aside in order to embrace the two knaves who stood just behind them. The body smells and fumes of ale and bitter wine that followed nearly made Glenys swoon. She looked down at Dina, who had gripped her hand, and saw that the girl was deathly white. Glenys set an arm about her shoulders and drew her closer, striving to protect her from the jostling crowd.
In the midst of it all, she could hear Kieran FitzAllen’s voice booming merrily, returning each greeting as if these filthy creatures were his dearest friends, each and every one. Women, especially, were rushing at him—crude, ill-dressed females with unbound hair and the look of harlots, which was, Glenys knew, most likely what they were. She didn’t have to watch to know how happily he received their particular greetings.
“Now,” a great, loud voice boomed over the din, causing the entire dwelling to shake, “here are my lads, come at last! Make way! Make way!”
“God save us,” Dina murmured, her voice quavering. “’Tis a giant.”
“Nay,” Glenys said, but it was a lie. The man coming toward them was a giant. A great, black-headed, swarthy giant, whose substantial girth was almost equal to his tremendous height. His arms were so long and heavily muscled that he looked as if he could squeeze a great tree and split it into tiny, crumbling bits.
“Bostwick!” Kieran FitzAllen greeted in return, pushing his way through the swarm of dirty bodies surrounding him and embracing the giant just as warmly and heartily as the giant embraced him. “Well met! God above, ’tis good to see you again!”
“Aye, and ye, ye great rogue!” Bostwick pounded him on the shoulder until Kieran nearly doubled over from the force. “And Jean-Marc, as well, ye damned rascal!” He picked the smaller, towheaded man up off the floor and shook him playfully. Jean-Marc flopped like a child’s doll. “How are ye, lad?” He set Jean-Marc down so suddenly that he collapsed upon the rushes. “And here are the lovely captives, brought to me for safekeeping, eh?” He turned to grin down at Glenys and Dina.
“Oh, m-m-mistress!” Dina sputtered, shrinking against Glenys and trembling mightily.
“Hush, Dina.” Glenys held her more closely and glared up at the giant. “I’ll not let him so much as set a finger to you, I vow.” She meant it, too, though she was just as afeard of the huge man. He was approaching them with open arms, as if he intended to scoop the both of them up into a ferocious embrace.
“Gently, Bostwick,” Kieran FitzAllen said, stepping forward to stop the giant before he reached them. “These are indeed the prisoners I sent word of, and I pray you’ve readied a suitable chamber for them. They are ladies of good family, as you can see, and not used to such rough peasants as we are. If you greet them too closely, they are like to swoon, merely from the foul smell of you, by the rood.” He laughed aloud at his own jest, and all those surrounding him laughed, too, Bostwick louder than the rest.
“Aye, ye speak well, Kieran, ye great rogue. And what good would these pretty prisoners be to us if they faint away, eh?” All present laughed again.
It was a fine jest, Glenys thought bitterly, knowing full well just what she and Dina looked like. They were sopping wet from crown to sole, their hair and clothing limp and bedraggled after more than three hours riding upon horseback through a raging storm. They were weary and hungry and chilled to the bone. All in all, they probably looked as uncomely and unappealing as two wet mongrels. If not Dina, then certainly herself.
“Well, they do look as if a tiny breath might knock them down, wet and weary as they’re like to be,” Bostwick said thoughtfully, surveying Glenys and Dina with a knowing gaze. “’Tis a pity they must be fine ladies, for they will give ye much trouble on your journey, my friend.”
“Doubtless, this is so,” Kieran agreed with a sigh.
“But naught can be done about it, I suppose,” said Bostwick. “We must all take what fortune falls our way, is that not so, my friends?”
The surrounding crowd cheered the words drunkenly. Two of the more attractive women among them had attached themselves to either side of Kieran FitzAllen, Glenys noted, and another had draped herself lovingly about Jean-Marc’s smaller person. Neither man appeared to be distressed by such brazen possession. In truth, they appeared well pleased.
“Bring them over to the fire, then, and let us have a better look at such fine, rich prisoners,” Bostwick commanded in his booming voice. “Mayhap they’ll be more seemly once their color has returned, and they have some ale and bread in their bellies. Gently now, lads,” he instructed sharply as Glenys and Dina were poked and pushed and prodded toward the huge, heavily smoking hearth. “They don’t want such rough handling as you’ll give them. Margie, girl, leave Kieran aside a moment and fetch our guests some ale and victuals.”
Despite Bostwick’s words, rough hands grabbed at them, and Glenys felt a sharp tug at the small leather pouch Uncle Aonghus had given her, which was yet tied on her girdle. Without thinking, she turned about and soundly slapped the man who’d dared to touch her. He reeled back, a hand held to his reddened cheek, and stared at her in momentary shock. Then he growled in fury and charged forward. Glenys scarce had time to blink before Kieran FitzAllen was in front of her, shoving the man back.
“Calm yourself, Hiram, and give me no trouble,” he said in a warning tone as the noise of the tavern began to die away. “These women have no gold upon them, nor anything of value. All of you, listen to me well.” He lifted his voice and looked about. “They’re not to be touched, nor robbed. They are in my care and I’ll not suffer them to be harmed in any way. If I should hear aught—even the smallest complaint—I vow I will deal with the culprit myself.” He turned abruptly and pointed to another man, shorter and stouter than the first, who had begun to move to the back of the crowd. “Coll of Chester, come you back. Now.”
The smaller man shuffled slowly back, already putting his hand in the pocket of the coarse tunic he wore. When Kieran FitzAllen held out his hand, the man placed what he’d stolen into it—the small white, glowing stone. Seeing it, Glenys gasped and pressed her hand into her inner pocket, feeling, with intense relief, that the valuable chess piece was yet safely within.
“’Twas only a rock,” the man said sullenly. “Naught more.”
“A rock, by the rood!” Bostwick exclaimed, laughing as he gazed down at the small, smooth white stone in Kieran’s palm. “’Tis the truth you speak, Kieran, my friend. They’ve naught of value upon them if the flame-haired wench carries rocks about. A tiny little rock, by God!” He laughed again, and the crowd laughed, as well, regaining their loud merriment.
Kieran turned to Glenys and set the stone in her trembling hand. She was faint with gladness that it hadn’t begun to glow, and quickly shoved it back into her pocket to join the druid queen. God help her, but what would have happened if anyone had seen the stone glowing, or the ancient chess piece, with its lively eyes? How could she ever have explained to these thieves—aye, most especially to Kieran FitzAllen—what they were and why they seemed to possess such magic?
