Free The YIELDING by Tamara Leigh Page A

the breach, but that did not mean he was hale.
    Where was he? Though sunlight lit the area beyond that which shafted the floor, it did so hesitantly. Beatrix squinted and swept her gaze to the shadows. He had to be among them. As the old passage into the crypt was choked with the debris of its collapse, he could not have gotten out. But where—?
    There. She strained to pick out the still shadow and decided it was D’Arci propped against a column. With uncertain relief, she said, “Good morn, Lord D’Arci.”
    No answer. No movement. And yet… Did she only imagine his hating gaze?
    “Lord D’Arci?”
    What if he is dead? her conscience demanded.
    What if ‘tis deceit he works? she countered.
    What if he yet lives, but this moment is dying?
    I do not care.
    You lie.
    She looked to the rope, then over her shoulder at the fallen column to which she had anchored the opposite end. Its path, crypt to column, was concealed beneath dirt and stone to assure no one discovered her sanctuary. But D’Arci had, to his detriment. To her detriment, she must use the rope again.
    She tried to convince herself it was a risk she need not take, but he had not splinted his leg. Though she had named him a fool, Michael D’Arci was not. Never would he sacrifice the ability to walk on the chance his unsplinted leg would bring her within reach.
    She removed the mantle, gathered the rope, and dropped it into the breach. With one last look to assure D’Arci had not come out of the shadows, she lowered herself into the crypt. As she worked her calloused hands down the rope, she remembered how difficult a feat it had been when she had first taken refuge here. However, once she had gotten beyond the blisters and bleeding, it had become easier. It also helped that she did not weigh much.
    She returned her attention to the shadow of D’Arci. Still no movement. Upon meeting the ground, she said, “Lord D’Arci?”
    No response, as if his dark figure was but written in ink.
    She pulled the dagger—D’Arci’s—from her boot and retrieved the splints. “How do you fare?”
    If he were halfway hale, he had to have heard her. Was he dire ill? Worse?
    Clutching the splints, she advanced and was grateful when her eyes adjusted to the dim beyond the breach and picked out his pale tunic. Try though she did to catch the glitter of eyes that would show him capable of responding, she could not, but at ten feet, the sword alongside his leg took form, as did bands of pale cloth that crossed his lower leg and turned around what looked to be a scabbard. Then by his sword he was splinted—
    She nearly ran, but foolishness prevailed at the thought he might yet be ailing.
    Or lying in wait.
    “Lord D’Arci, I…”
    Words, Beatrix! First think them through.
    “Is there…something you require?” She almost wished he were unconscious that she might be spared the humiliation of the stumbling speech that bothered her most in his presence. Was it because his learned mind grasped the knowledge of healing that should have been hers? In the long, cool days of abbey life she would have grown and studied herbs, concocted preparations and medicinals, tended the ill and prayed for their relief. If she did not regain her facility with speech and thought, what was left to her? How she loathed the prison walls her mind could not scale!
    She took another step forward, and it was then she caught the narrow gleam of D’Arci’s eyes. She dropped the splints and spun around.
    “I had hoped you would draw nearer,” his voice resounded around the crypt.
    Beatrix turned. “I am not the fool you…think I am.”
    “This time you are not, but there shall be other times.”
    Why could she not abandon him? He sounded well, and surely someone would come. Perhaps if she left the rope down the breach he could pull himself out. But with his injury, did he possess enough strength? And what if he further injured himself?
    Once more berating her conscience, she stepped into the