Page 142 of Bride of Mist
“Hey!” he called over his shoulder to Fergus. “I think there’s a tunnel back here.”
“What?” Fergus barked over the sound of Gaufrid’s wails.
Antagonized by the laird’s caterwauling, Fergus wrenched thebishouroughly and suddenly out of his side. Gaufrid screamed and clutched his hands over the oozing wound. Fergus dropped the weapon, having successfully reduced Gaufrid to whimpers of disbelief.
“What kind o’ tunnel?” Fergus asked.
Before Morris could answer, Feiyan took advantage of his inattention. With her left foot, she kicked his right arm aside. Then she seized his left hand between both of hers, digging her thumbs into his tender wrist.
He yelped and reflexively dropped the dagger.
But he still wielded the second blade. When he came round with it, she ducked back. The point swished past, a hair’s breadth from her face. Before he could make another slash, she caught his wrist. Giving it a hard twist, she pinioned his arm behind his back.
“Let him go,” Fergus warned.
Feiyan held fast. She had Morris subdued for the moment. She could use him for leverage and force Fergus to let them all go.
Then she glanced over at Fergus. He held the tip of hershoudaoagainst Dougal’s neck. One tiny slip, and his life would be over.
“Nay,” she gasped.
“Let him go,” Fergus threatened, “or I’ll send this one to the devil.”
They were at an impasse. She had Fergus’s brother—his companion-in-arms, his partner in crime—at her mercy. But Fergus held hostage the man who meant everything—the sun, the moon, the stars, the world—to her.
“Well, well,” he gloated at her hesitation. “It looks like I’ve found the chink in your armor as well, haven’t I?”
She sighed. He had.
And now she had no choice.
She couldn’t let Dougal die. She had to surrender.
Her shoulders slumped in frustration and defeat as she released Morris, who stumbled away from her, aggravated and humiliated.
Fergus pulled his blade back an inch, but he could still slay Dougal in a heartbeat. “Where does the passage lead?”
It was tempting to lie. But it would do no good. Closing her hands into fists of impotent rage, she muttered, “To the beach.”
Fergus pinned her with wolfish eyes. “That’s how Rivenloch got in,” he realized. “And ’tis the way ye planned to escape.”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
Fergus slapped Dougal, trying to wake him. At Dougal’s groggy mumble, Fergus cracked him hard across the face. Dougal sat up at once, disoriented yet aware of the blade at his throat.
Meanwhile, Fergus called out to the laird, “Come along, Gaufrid. Stop groanin’ o’er your wee cut. We’ve got to go.” To Morris, he said, “Help me. He’s goin’ with us.”
“Why?” Feiyan demanded, her heart in her throat. “He’s of no use to you.”
“Maybe not, but he’s o’ use toye,”Fergus said, “so if ye want to keep him alive, ye’d better not follow us.”
Feiyan didn’t trust him. Once they were safe, Fergus would most likely kill Dougal. After all, he was Gaufrid’s rival. But she was helpless to do anything except stand by and watch as they dragged Dougal down the steps.
When they faded from sight, descending into the darkness, she whipped around and rushed to the slumbering maidservant.
“Merraid,” she whispered, patting lightly at the lass’s cheeks. “Merraid. Wake up.”
When the maidservant roused, it was with a soft moan of pain. The lass touched her damaged nose, which looked slightly askew, then withdrew shaking fingers stained with blood.
