Halloween Knight. Tori Phillips

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СКАЧАТЬ observed, Mark knelt and lit the lantern candle with a spark from his tinderbox. In the flickering flame, his elongated shadow danced across the wall’s rough stones. Mark held the light close to the door then he whistled with surprise. A large iron key protruded from the lock. Mortimer was a fool to have complete confidence that no traitor lurked among his vile servants. After casting a final glance down the steep stairwell, Mark gently turned the key. The bolt protested with a teeth-gritting squeal. The noise was enough to wake the dead. The short hairs on the back of Mark’s neck stiffened.

      He lifted the handle and gave a little push. The door creaked open like the lid of a coffin. All the old tales of goblins and ghosties that Mistress Sondra Owens used to spin around Bodiam’s kitchen hearth flooded back into Mark’s memory. Lady Kat’s wise woman often sent the young maids into flights of hysteria with her bloodcurdling stories. Mark had taken those opportunities to soothe the girls’ fears with many a stolen kiss and cuddle. He grinned at the memory. Like a shadow, he slipped through the narrow opening, then closed the door behind him.

      A bundle of rags stirred in the corner of the privy alcove farthest from the open window. Mark gripped the lantern’s ring tighter. “Belle?” he whispered.

      Two golden eyes pierced the darkness like no earthly creature. Mark loosened his dagger. “In the name of Saint Michael, I command you to be gone, hobgoblin!”

      A wraith-like figure pulled herself into a sitting position on an untidy heap of foul straw. “How now, Mortimer?” she croaked in a mocking tone. “Methinks tis long past your bedtime. What churlish intent prompts this visit at such a late hour?”

      Mark could barely believe his eyes or ears. Twas Belle’s voice, exactly the same as the one that often taunted his dreams, but the creature before him looked more like her spirit than the merry gremlin who had made his last year at Bodiam such a misery. “Belle?” he whispered again. Drawing nearer, he held up the lantern.

      Her eyes blinked in the bright light. Beside her, a dark object disappeared under the straw. “Sweet Saint Anne!” she murmured, passing a hand across her forehead. “My hunger has conjured a nightmare.”

      Mark’s apprehension changed to exasperation. “My gracious thanks for your sterling opinion of me, Belle Cavendish. Methinks after such a long time the very least you could say would be ‘How nice to see you again, Mark’ especially since I have traveled many miles to rescue you.”

      Shielding her eyes from the lantern’s glare, she stared at him. “Mark Hayward?” she breathed at last.

      He executed a curt bow. “In the flesh and at your service—at least for the present time.”

      For one dazzling instant her face lit up with a radiant smile that banished every sensible thought in Mark’s head. The chill room grew perceptibly warmer. Then she shuttered her expression and replaced it with her more familiar one of amused contempt.

      “Ah ha! I see that you still crawl between heaven and earth,” Belle remarked.

      Her tart tongue made him itch to shake her but the sight of her wan face broke his heart instead. He knelt down beside her. “What has happened to you, chou-chou?” he asked, reverting to the pet name he had called her since she had been a toddler.

      Belle’s eyes narrowed. “Surely tis obvious even to you, Marcus,” she replied, not looking at him. “I have been lying about on goose down quilts all the livelong day and pleasuring myself with sweetmeats while singing roundelays.” Her lower lip trembled before she bit it.

      Mark stroked her sunken cheek. Her skin was dry and cold to his touch. “God’s teeth! I will kill Mortimer Fletcher by inches. Tis a good thing that your father cannot see you in this wretched state.”

      At the mention of Brandon, she attempted to rise. “Papa? Oh, where is he?”

      Mark caught her before she fell to the hard floor. Belle weighed nothing in his arms. With his free hand, he fumbled with the clasp that held his cloak around his neck. “Soft, Belle. Your father is still at Wolf Hall.”

      A faint sheen of tears filled her eyes, but she dashed them away with the back of her hand. “He did not come for me?” she whispered.

      Mark wrapped the cloak around her and held her close to his chest willing his warmth into her thin bones. “Tush, chou-chou. Do not think ill of him. He lies abed with a broken hip.”

      She gasped.

      “He will mend in time and with Lady Kat’s gentle care,” Mark soothed. “Tis fear for your safety that pains him more than his injury. He has sent me in his stead.”

      Belle arched one of her delicate eyebrows. “Then I suppose you will have to do. Beggars cannot be choosers. Where are your men-at-arms?”

      Mark smoothed a lock of her golden hair. “I fear I have none, only—”

      She bolted upright in his arms. “What!” she wailed. “Oh, Mark! I see your brains are still as thick as Tewksbury mustard!”

      He fumed in silence for a moment. His brilliant plan for Belle’s escape was not working as he had expected. Though she was as weak as a milksop, the chit showed no inclination to express her admiration or gratitude for all the trouble—not to mention the personal sacrifice—he had already endured on her behalf.

      “Do you take me for a fool, Belle?” he growled.

      She snapped her fingers. “Nay, sir! If I could, I would not take you at all!”

      Mark was torn between the urge to kiss her or to shake her. “You ungrateful little wretch! I have half a mind to leave you as I found you.” He attempted to gather her back into his embrace. He had liked that part of the rescue very much.

      Belle glowered at him. “Begone then! Methinks I have given you enough amusement for one night.”

      Mark glowered back. Their cold noses practically touched. “You will note that I am not laughing, Belle.”

      Her mouth, faintly pink, enticed him. Her lips hovered near to his—just as they had done at their last meeting. Just before Belle had pushed him out of the apple tree.

      She wrinkled her nose. “Cudgel your lusty thought, Mark. These lips are not yours for kissing and the time is out of joint. By my troth, I had rather be wooed by a snail than to be rescued by one.”

      “A snail?” he snarled. The minx had not changed one jot in the last eight years. She was still as impossible as ever. “So be it!” He rose, carrying her with him. “We have dallied here too long as it is.”

      Belle beat against his chest with her fists. Though her blows had none of their former strength, Mark was hurt by her lack of cooperation.

      She grimaced. “Unhand me, you purple-headed malt-worm!”

      He tucked the cloak under her chin. “Tut, tut. There is no need to thank me now, Belle. Later on, of course, you may shower me with your proper gratitude.”

      She bit his thumb.

      He almost dropped her.

      “Belle!” He shook her to gain her full attention. “As much as I have enjoyed this pleasant chitchat with you, do you not think it wise that we quit this dank cell and make a swift exit into yonder woods?”

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