Page 36 of Dark Side of the Laird
Had they seen the rider? Did they know something was going on?
I prayed they did, tried to listen to see if I could hear shouting, but I all I was aware of was the pounding of my heart and the way the wind had shifted and picked up speed.
“Rider!” I called, certain no one would hear me.
The riding warrior raised his arm in the air and waved it. Was there an answering call? A wave? I leaned over the stone, trying to catch a view of the courtyard and the gate tower. Dammit! I could hardly see anything with my hair whipping into my face.
And I heard nothing, besides the wind.
Shoving away from the stone, I ran to the wooden door that led to the narrow stairwell. I had to get to the courtyard, had to find out what was happening. I tugged at the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Oh, my God, had someone locked me up here? Anticipated me freezing to death?
I wrapped both hands around the iron. Twisted, yanked, nearly pulled my shoulders from the sockets. This couldn’t be happening. Then, I remembered the door pushed open, allowing anyone from inside to get out in bad weather when snow blocked the door from moving if it was opened the opposite way.
I shoved it open, the black of the stairwell making me stop short. I stepped inside, allowing only a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the sudden dimness of light. Dear God, please let Logan be okay.
I took a tentative step forward, lifting my skirts with one hand to free my feet from the hem, and pressed my other hand to the stones to steady myself. No railings…
Round and round I went, passing tiny alcoves every six stairs or so where guards would sit with their arrows pointed toward the enemy. The last one I passed, I swore a shadow moved. Like the shadows of the darkened stair that led to the secret chamber. The shadows that always stayed just on the peripheral of my vision, not wanting me to see. Haunting me. When I turned to look, I lost my footing, or was that a hand on my back? A gentle shove. Its result was anything but soothing.
I cried out, hands shooting out to grab onto something, anything. But there were no handrails, not even a rope strung up with iron hooks against the wall, and my skirts… They were so long, my feet tangled up in them. I pitched forward, my knee slamming into the edge of step and then my shoulder bashed against the wall. I cried out, rolling down the stairs, body parts hitting, head smacking, and nothing to stop me from falling the rest of the way.
When the movements stopped, I was so dizzy, head swimming and every inch of me crying out in pain. I had to have broken something, had to be dying. Then again, I felt pain so I couldn’t have broken my neck.
I stared up at the swirling dark ceiling. Jerked my gaze to the left where the stairwell curved. There was the shadow, coming closer. Not imaginary. But very much real.
And then I remembered nothing.
* * *
Idon’t knowhow much time had passed, but when I opened my eyes, I was lying on the softness of my mattress, vision blurred and body screaming out in agony. I blinked my eyes rapidly, taking in the orange glow of candles and a fire in the hearth. Gray blobs resembled bodies—standing, sitting, talking. People were in my room.
My entire head roared with pain, thumping in a mean way inside my skull.
But I was alive.
“…only a dozen stairs or so, she was lucky.” The sound was a male voice, and I blinked trying to bring to memory who it was.
I knew it from somewhere. Knew him. But I couldn’t place it. Couldn’t place any name, except… Emma. That was me. And Logan. That was my…
I opened my mouth tried to speak but no sound came. I lifted a hand, trying to reach out, but I couldn’t make my fingers work.
“She’s awake.” A grayish blob of human form hovered over me.
“What—” I started to say, my voice sounded foreign and distant, echoing in my own head.
“Hush, darling.” It was an older woman’s voice, and for a moment, I thought for sure it had to be my mother. Sounded so much like her. A hand brushed over my forehead, soothing as it pushed the matted, sweaty hair from my temples. Reminded me of when I’d had the flu as a young girl and my mother had sat vigil at my bedside, wiping my forehead with cold cloths and holding a cup of lemon-honey tea to my lips.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. My mother was dead. Gone. This was not home. This was Gealach. The vision of the rider flying like the wind over the moors pressed in on me. “Logan… where is he? What happened?”
“Shh…” the woman said again.
I blinked open my eyes, trying to adjust them to the light in the room, but it felt so bright and made pain sear across my forehead. From what I could tell, it was Agatha sitting beside me.
“No, I won’t. Stop shushing me,” I whispered, the frantic words taking away a lot of my energy. “Tell me, have I broken anything?”
Agatha leaned forward, wiping at my brow again. “Not that we can tell, lass. You’re badly bruised all over from your fall, but it looks like the worst of it is just sprains. Ye were verra lucky. Verra lucky indeed.”
I sighed, swallowing, suddenly feeling so hot, then cold again.
