Free The YIELDING by Tamara Leigh Page B

shaft of light that shone through the breach and returned the dagger to her boot.
    “Why have you not fled?” he called.
    She gripped the rope. “Even you, Lord D’Arci, do not…deserve to die.”
    “I shall take comfort in that, Lady Beatrix.” Were his voice of barb, she would be torn asunder. “A pity you did not show my brother the same consideration.”
    She pulled her denial back, for of what use was it? “A hundred times I would do again what I did,” she said, anger ordering her words such that they flowed without falter.
    “That I believe.”
    “You should.” Regardless of the outcome, she would guard her virtue and life as she had done with his brother, though exactly how she had defended herself she still could not recall. “Now, have you need of anything?”
    “The use of my leg and a hangman’s noose.”
    That dampened her anger. “The one you shall have, but not the…other. As soon as someone happens upon you, I shall be gone.”
    “To Stern?”
    Immediately, she rebuked herself for her surprise. Of course he knew her destination.
    “Water,” D’Arci said.
    Beatrix frowned.
    “I am in need of water,” he snapped.
    “The…well is foul. Will you take drink from the stream?” At this distance it ran cleaner than at the upper end where it passed near the village. One unaccustomed to the dross could suffer cramping and nausea as Beatrix had first done.
    “’Twill suffice.”
    “Toss your…wineskin that I might bring it.”
    “I know not what has become of it.”
    Trickery? She glanced into the shadows where she had made her bed this past month. All she possessed was there—not only the skin used to gather water but, more importantly, her psalter.
    Once more pulling her dagger, she stepped toward the pallet. Though D’Arci did not move, his pale eyes amid the shadows followed her.
    Holding his gaze, she bent and felt for the skin. It came to hand, as did her psalter. The latter providing comfort she had missed on the night past, she pushed it and the skin beneath her belt and hastened to the rope.
    Anything to return her to the crypt, Michael mused as he watched her slide his dagger into her boot. Anything to draw the flaxen-haired witch near.
    As she climbed hand over hand, he was struck by the strength required to do so. True, she was light of weight—much lighter than when she had been at Broehne Castle—but one’s upper body must still be in good form to pull along the lower.
    When would she return? He glanced at the skin at his side. The wine would quench his thirst far better than the tainted water for which he had sent her. And when she delivered that, he would send her for something else if he could not tempt her near. He need only be patient. Unfortunately, he bored quickly, preferring all and everyone to move with utmost speed and resenting time wasted on waiting.
    With a soft grunt, Lady Beatrix transferred her hands to the edge of the breach and levered herself out of the crypt.
    Michael stared at the swaying rope that promised escape. Hearing her retreating footfalls, he began to smile. However, as he started to move from the column, she returned and reeled the rope out.
    Curse her! He clenched his hands to counter the burn that shot up his leg. Though the long night had reduced the pain to a dull throb, even slight movement set him afire.
    He reached for the nearest pack, removed the box of flint and tinder, and opened it to find only a half dozen pieces of tinder. Hoping fuel was to be had somewhere in the pit, as smoke might bring his or Baron Lavonne’s men sooner, he removed the flint. On the first strike, the tinder caught and jumped light around the walls.
    “God’s eyes!” He clenched his hands into fists. Stone was everywhere, most conspicuously the open stairway that had long ago granted passage to this hidden room. As the steps had collapsed and broken away from the wall, there was a distance of at least eight feet from the top of the debris to the door