through the destroyed door and down the winding stairs. When they came to the ground floor chamber, he pulled her to the side of the open doorway.
“Wait here. And dinnae look, lass,” he said gently, releasing her hand. He crossed through the door and moved carefully past the bodies to where he’d seen Bertram last. As he scanned the yard, the moon caught on the copper-gray of the old guard’s hair.
Ansel fell to one knee, his hand flying to Bertram’s chest. Though weak, a heartbeat still thumped there. Ansel exhaled slowly through his teeth, then re-sheathed his sword to free both of his hands.
His wounds screamed in protest, but he lifted Bertram with a grunt. Bertram groaned as well when Ansel hoisted him over his shoulder and picked his way back to the tower. When he entered the tower and lowered Bertram carefully to the floor, Isolda covered a cry of distress with her hands.
“He lives,” Ansel said. “But he needs all the help we can give him.”
Isolda’s eyes darted up to his as realization flooded her features. “Oh God. Mary!”
Before he could stop her, she rushed past him and streaked up the stairs. He could hear Isolda calling to Mary abovestairs. Mary’s panic-stricken voice replied in a barrage of terrified questions.
“I’ll explain later, Mary,” Isolda said, her voice growing more distinct as she once again descended the stairs. “But right now, Bertram needs us.”
As Mary stepped into the main chamber, her eyes rounded with the scene before her. Ansel stood over Bertram, both men bloodied and Bertram lying prone and unconscious.
Before Mary could dissolve into hysteria, Isolda took her firmly by the shoulders.
“The castle was attacked. Bertram has been wounded. We must see to him.”
Admiration for Isolda swelled in Ansel’s chest. What sort of lady could put aside her own fear, confusion, and physical pain to take charge of the situation as she just had? Behind her normally cool, regal exterior lay a greater well of strength than he’d realized.
“Get water boiling. And see if you can find some linen to use as bandages. I’ll check his wounds.”
As Isolda spoke to Mary, a flicker of movement outside had Ansel’s head snapping around.
Suddenly tense once more, Ansel eased back out into the yard. A wet cough drew his gaze to the middle of the grassy expanse, where a tuft of pale hair ruffled in the moonlight.
He approached the man who lay on his side in the yard, a weak cough making his shoulders shudder. It was the last man who’d stood against him, the blond-headed one whom Ansel had taken down so swiftly.
The man had somehow managed to roll from his stomach to his side. As Ansel crouched next to him, he flipped him onto his bloody, sliced back. The man groaned and panted in pain, his face contorted into a grimace.
Something clicked into place as Ansel looked down at the man’s face.
“I’ve seen ye before,” he breathed, dread sinking like a stone in his stomach. “Ye are one of the laborers from the village. Henry.”
Blood tinged the young man’s lips as he drew his mouth into a vicious smile.
“Aye.”
Icy hatred replaced surprise as he stared at the dying man. “Why?” he ground out between clenched teeth. “Why would ye attack Lady Isolda?”
“Coin—more of it that a Scottish bastard like you will ever lay eyes on,” Henry sneered.
“Who paid ye? Answer me!”
Henry coughed again, and this time, his mouth filled with blood. “Someone far more powerful that you. Someone…who will never…stop…”
Ansel shook the man’s shoulder, but he had already slipped from this world. With a curse, Ansel straightened. Unease that had nothing to do with his aching, bloodied body spread through him.
Systematically, he went over each body strewn in the yard, checking to make sure they were dead, and then squinting in the moonlight to see if any of the others were from the village. Besides Henry, though, he didn’t recognize any of the twelve men
“Wait here. And dinnae look, lass,” he said gently, releasing her hand. He crossed through the door and moved carefully past the bodies to where he’d seen Bertram last. As he scanned the yard, the moon caught on the copper-gray of the old guard’s hair.
Ansel fell to one knee, his hand flying to Bertram’s chest. Though weak, a heartbeat still thumped there. Ansel exhaled slowly through his teeth, then re-sheathed his sword to free both of his hands.
His wounds screamed in protest, but he lifted Bertram with a grunt. Bertram groaned as well when Ansel hoisted him over his shoulder and picked his way back to the tower. When he entered the tower and lowered Bertram carefully to the floor, Isolda covered a cry of distress with her hands.
“He lives,” Ansel said. “But he needs all the help we can give him.”
Isolda’s eyes darted up to his as realization flooded her features. “Oh God. Mary!”
Before he could stop her, she rushed past him and streaked up the stairs. He could hear Isolda calling to Mary abovestairs. Mary’s panic-stricken voice replied in a barrage of terrified questions.
“I’ll explain later, Mary,” Isolda said, her voice growing more distinct as she once again descended the stairs. “But right now, Bertram needs us.”
As Mary stepped into the main chamber, her eyes rounded with the scene before her. Ansel stood over Bertram, both men bloodied and Bertram lying prone and unconscious.
Before Mary could dissolve into hysteria, Isolda took her firmly by the shoulders.
“The castle was attacked. Bertram has been wounded. We must see to him.”
Admiration for Isolda swelled in Ansel’s chest. What sort of lady could put aside her own fear, confusion, and physical pain to take charge of the situation as she just had? Behind her normally cool, regal exterior lay a greater well of strength than he’d realized.
“Get water boiling. And see if you can find some linen to use as bandages. I’ll check his wounds.”
As Isolda spoke to Mary, a flicker of movement outside had Ansel’s head snapping around.
Suddenly tense once more, Ansel eased back out into the yard. A wet cough drew his gaze to the middle of the grassy expanse, where a tuft of pale hair ruffled in the moonlight.
He approached the man who lay on his side in the yard, a weak cough making his shoulders shudder. It was the last man who’d stood against him, the blond-headed one whom Ansel had taken down so swiftly.
The man had somehow managed to roll from his stomach to his side. As Ansel crouched next to him, he flipped him onto his bloody, sliced back. The man groaned and panted in pain, his face contorted into a grimace.
Something clicked into place as Ansel looked down at the man’s face.
“I’ve seen ye before,” he breathed, dread sinking like a stone in his stomach. “Ye are one of the laborers from the village. Henry.”
Blood tinged the young man’s lips as he drew his mouth into a vicious smile.
“Aye.”
Icy hatred replaced surprise as he stared at the dying man. “Why?” he ground out between clenched teeth. “Why would ye attack Lady Isolda?”
“Coin—more of it that a Scottish bastard like you will ever lay eyes on,” Henry sneered.
“Who paid ye? Answer me!”
Henry coughed again, and this time, his mouth filled with blood. “Someone far more powerful that you. Someone…who will never…stop…”
Ansel shook the man’s shoulder, but he had already slipped from this world. With a curse, Ansel straightened. Unease that had nothing to do with his aching, bloodied body spread through him.
Systematically, he went over each body strewn in the yard, checking to make sure they were dead, and then squinting in the moonlight to see if any of the others were from the village. Besides Henry, though, he didn’t recognize any of the twelve men
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