David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

“Kindren?” she said.

“Yes?”

“This is the answer to our prayers. Now when we walk into Stonewood, we won’t be unarmed.” She laughed aloud. “My love, we’re going home.”

The door to Matthew’s bedroom burst open, and he sat up with a start. His wife, Catherine, yelped, gathering the blankets about her neck. The torches had gone out, and in the light from the doorway he could see a hulking black shadow. Matthew snatched his dagger from the table beside his featherbed and got up on his knees. He was vulnerable in his nakedness, and he cursed himself for letting his guard down.

Those bastards, he thought. I knew the Conningtons wouldn’t stay true to their word.

“Hey, boss,” the shadow said. “You awake?”

Matthew sighed, his heart still rocking like a skiff in a violent windstorm. He placed a soothing hand on Catherine’s shoulder. At least their children were in their own rooms this night and wouldn’t be frightened.

“I am now,” he grumbled. “What are you doing here, Bren?”

“It’s happening.”

“What’s happening?”

“You know. That thing we weren’t supposed to talk about.”

Matthew groaned, rubbed his eyes.

“Now?” he asked.

The shadow nodded.

“Shit.”

“Matthew, what is he talking about?” asked Catherine, her voice still husky from sleep.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” He turned to his bodyguard. “And Moira? Is she awake?”

Bren lit a tinderstick and touched it to the torch on the wall. He shook his head.

“Hasn’t come out of her room. Hopefully it stays that way.”

Under different circumstances, Matthew might have found Bren’s fear of the waifish Moira humorous. Now it just filled him with dread. The woman was a brilliant fighter and had been his willing captive for nearly three months now. Though they had grown close, he didn’t know how she would react if she found out he’d been lying to her the entire time. The thought petrified him.

Matthew rose from bed, not bothering to hide his nakedness from his bodyguard as he threw on a clean tunic and breeches from the bureau on the far side of the room. A half-full carafe of brandy sat on the desk beside the bureau, and he took a long pull from it before he dressed. The liquid burned going down, swelling his tongue and making him cough, but at least it took the edge off his nerves.

“Well, let’s not delay the inevitable,” he said with a sigh. He turned to Catherine. “Dear, sleep in Ryan’s bed for the night. I’ll see you when you wake in the morning.”

“Matthew, you’re scaring me,” Catherine said, letting the blankets fall, exposing her body from the waist up. Even after birthing five children, she was a resplendent woman. Her chestnut hair was wavy and as smooth as satin, her flesh almost flawless, her gray eyes hauntingly beautiful. The only parts of her that bore the signs of childbirth were her sagging breasts and long, slender nipples; five children sucking vehemently on them for sustenance had taken its inevitable toll. Matthew hummed quietly as he looked down at her.

“Worry not, my dear,” he said, tying his belt tightly around his waist. “All will be well. I simply have business to attend to.”

“You always have business to attend to.”

Bren chuckled behind him.

“The price of marrying a merchant,” Matthew said with a grin. He waved his hand at Bren, and the bodyguard left the chamber. Matthew followed closely behind him, his fingers dancing over the hilt of the dagger wedged into his belt. He knew the blade would be useless to him-his true talents resided in other areas-but the feel of its cold steel helped reassure him nonetheless.

The sound of wailing reached his ears the moment they began to descend the stairwell. By the time they reached the ground level of the estate, three floors down, the sound was akin to the shrieks of a feral cat defending its alley.

Bren led him around the corner and into the foyer. His six personal guards stood before the great bookcase on the northern wall, their faces awash with confusion. They kept peering at the bookcase cloaking the secret passage. Down here in the foyer, the wailing was so loud that it was as if the wailer were in the next room. He silently cursed himself for not packing cotton around the hidden entrance to the Brennan Estate’s underground refuge.

“What’s happening, sir?” asked one of the guards, a young, blond man named Curtis. “What’s behind the bookcase?”

“None of your damn business,” snapped Bren.

Matthew placed a hand on his bodyguard’s shoulder.

“Calm down, Bren.” He turned to face the other guards. “I cannot tell you,” he said, “and you have not heard a sound. All went as usual, there were no disturbances, and you heard no pained cries. Understood?”

All six nodded, though they still appeared confused.

“Uh, boss?” said Bren.

“The foyer is to be the last stop each of you make. Do not return for an hour. I want the rookery thoroughly examined, and I want my bedchambers ransacked for potential threats. And please make sure to hang heavy drapes over all the windows to ensure that any possible sounds are dampened for those outside.”

“Boss!”

Matthew turned on Bren.

“What?” he barked.

Bren gestured with his chin, and Matthew followed his gaze. He froze at the sight of a spent-looking Moira dressed in wrinkled nightclothes, her dyed hair matted on one side and sticking up on the other. Penetta, one of Matthew’s maids, lingered behind her, looking just as sleepy-eyed as the former Lady Crestwell did. Penetta’s sheer gown was crumpled and damp, her auburn hair disheveled. Matthew wondered what they were doing together at this time of night, but discarded the question nearly as soon as he thought it. That Moira was standing in the foyer while the screeching issued from behind the bookcase made any other consideration moot.

No one said a word, and Moira’s eyes narrowed. Her gaze shifted from Matthew to Bren, to the guards, and then settled on the bookcase. She took a deep breath, puffing out her chest.

“Go upstairs,” she whispered. Penetta shuffled from side to side as if she hadn’t heard. Moira turned to her, grabbed her by the front of her threadbare nightclothes, and pulled her close.

“Go…upstairs.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the petite young woman replied. She curtseyed, though the pleasantry looked ridiculous given her outfit, and then disappeared around the corner. Her soft footfalls could barely be heard beneath the wails, which were now coming in shorter spurts.

Matthew held Moira’s gaze.

“You all have your instructions,” he told his guards. “Now get to it.”

The guards hustled from the room, heading in opposite directions. Bren remained where he was. Matthew could hear the clink of the guards’ chainmail, but he dared not take his eyes off Moira. When all fell silent save for the tormented cries, he finally blinked.

“What…is that?” asked Moira as yet another wail echoed off the thick stone walls.

Matthew swallowed hard, trying to remain strong. “It is nothing for you to concern yourself with, Moira. Go back to your room with Penetta. Do whatever it is you do with her.”

“No.” She breezed past him and Bren, heading straight for the bookcase. He made no move to stop her. The woman might be small and unarmed, but the way she carried herself made her seem deadlier than a lion’s jaws. Even Bren, big and rough as he was, gave her a wide berth.

Moira stopped before the bookcase, running her fingers over the tomes stacked within. She then stepped to the side and rapped on the wall. A dull thud sounded each time her knuckles struck the wood.